Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 42

by Death of a Doxy

  I said, “Golly.”

  It was close to eleven o’clock when Fred arrived. I took him to the kitchen, because Wolfe was still consulting the encyclopedia, though he must have finished with Thales long ago. When Saul came, I sent him to join Fred in the kitchen and told Wolfe to let us know when he was ready for company, and he glared at me because he was in the middle of an interesting article. The way I know it was interesting is that there isn’t a single page in the whole twenty-four volumes that he wouldn’t think was interesting. I went to the kitchen and brought them, and Saul took the red leather chair and Fred one of the yellow ones.

  That was the shortest session with the help on record. “I apologize,” Wolfe said, “for getting you out so late on a winter night, but I need you. There has been a development. The man who maintained that apartment for Miss Kerr—call him X—is in the front room. He came to tell me something that he should have told me two days ago. Last September a man telephoned him and demanded money. The man knew of his visits to that apartment and threatened to make them impossible unless the money was paid, a thousand dollars at once and a thousand dollars a month, in cash, to be mailed to him at general delivery—an assumed name, of course. The money has been paid, a total of five thousand dollars. X is convinced, for reasons he considers valid, that the blackmailer is Orrie Cather. Sunday evening I asked your opinion as to whether Orrie had killed Miss Kerr. I now ask your opinion as to whether he is a blackmailer. Did he blackmail X? Fred?”

  Fred was frowning, concentrating. “Just like you said?” he asked. “Just straight open-and-shut blackmail?”

  “Yes.”

  Fred shook his head. “No, sir. Impossible.”

  “Saul?”

  “To be sure I have it right,” Saul said, “this was at the time when Orrie was seeing her himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no. As Fred said, impossible. That would take a real snake.”

  “Satisfactory,” Wolfe said. “Archie and I had made our conclusion, and I know, barely short of certainty, who the blackmailer is, but I wanted your opinions. I didn’t get you here just for that; there will be instructions for tomorrow. Archie, may they wait in your room?”

  Not the kitchen. He was taking no chances. What if a man-eating tiger bounded in through the kitchen window and they scooted down the hall and saw Ballou? I told them they were welcome to my room as long as they didn’t rummage, and they headed for the stairs. Wolfe gave them a full minute to get up the two flights and then told me to bring Ballou. He was still on the sofa, but when I entered he sat up and started talking. I told him to save it for Wolfe, and he got to his feet and came. I swear his first glance, as he crossed to the red leather chair, was at the package on Wolfe’s desk. A habit is a habit, even when you’re up a tree.

  As he sat, he spoke. “I’ve been going over it. I have answered your questions, and I have made you a liberal offer, more than liberal. Either you accept it or you don’t. The other day you told me Cather wasn’t a murderer. Don’t try to tell me now that he’s not a blackmailer.”

  “You anticipate me,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Cather is not a blackmailer.”

  Ballou stared. “You actually—after what I …” He rose and picked up the package. “By God, you are committed.”

  “I am indeed. I can name the blackmailer. Sit down.”

  “I have already named him.”

  “No. You know only his noms de guerre, Robert Service Kipling and Milton Thales. His real name is Barry Fleming. The husband of Miss Kerr’s sister.”

  “That’s absurd. You didn’t even know I had been blackmailed until an hour ago.”

  Wolfe would have had to slant his head back to focus on his face, and he doesn’t like to, so he wasn’t focusing at all. “For a man of affairs,” he said, “you’re remarkably obtuse. You’re in a pickle, and I am your only hope. You must have help, and you can’t go to a lawyer, or to anyone, without disclosing your connection with Miss Kerr and a murder. But you talk and act as if you were in control. You spring to your feet and grab that package of money. Pfui. You probably have no further information for me. Either sit down and listen, or go.”

  You have to hand it to the president of the Federal Holding Corporation. He had pride and he had grit. If he had put the package back on Wolfe’s desk he would have been buckling under, so he didn’t. He put it on the little stand by the red leather chair, and there it was at his elbow when he sat, under his control.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “That’s better,” Wolfe said. “First, Mr. Cather. Knowledge of a man cannot alone exclude him as a murderer, but it can as a blackmailer. Murder can be merely a spasm, but not blackmail. Four of us who have known Mr. Cather well for years—the two men I sent for, and Mr. Goodwin and I—agree that it can’t possibly be Mr. Cather who blackmailed you. Now, the blackmailer. That name, Milton Thales—pronouncing it as you did and as almost any American would. But if I pronounce it Thā-lēz does it stir your memory?”

  “Should it?”

  “Yes.”

  He was frowning. “Thā-lēz—why, yes. An early Greek … eclipse of the sun … geometry …”

  Wolfe nodded. “That’s enough. A renowned name in the history of mathematics. Thā-lēz of Miletus. Milton Thales. Barry Fleming, Miss Kerr’s brother-in-law, teaches mathematics at a high school. Miss Kerr told her sister your name, and she told her husband. So I have named the blackmailer.”

  “Thā-lēz,” Ballou said. “Thales. Miletus. Milton. By God, I believe you have. And Isabel—Miss Kerr told me she had told my name to no one. She lied. I wonder how many more.”

  “Probably none. Those two were special to her. I think we may assume that only five people know of your connection with Miss Kern Mr. Cather, Mr. and Mrs. Fleming, Mr. Goodwin, and I. And only three know you were blackmailed, besides the blackmailer: Mr. Goodwin, you, and I. The two men upstairs, out of hearing, know of the blackmail, but not of you. I call your attention to a detail. My objective is to get Mr. Cather released and not charged with homicide. It’s likely that I could achieve it simply by telling the police about Mr. Fleming blackmailing you. At least that would divert them, but I don’t intend or desire to do it. I owe you some consideration, since I learned of the blackmailing only through you. I’m obliged to you.”

  Ballou reached a hand to tap the package. “And there’s this.”

  “Yours. I haven’t accepted it. Nor shall I, until I have concluded with finality that you did not kill that woman. A blackmailer is not ipso facto a murderer. I’m obliged to you because we have spent four futile days trying to find someone with a likely motive and have failed. The motive you suggested for Mr. Cather fits Mr. Fleming admirably. A question. How soon after the first phone call from the blackmailer did you tell Miss Kerr about it?”

  “Right away. A day or two later.”

  “Was it ever mentioned again? By you or her?”

  “Yes. She asked two or three times if it was continuing. I told her about the phone call in December. The last time she asked me was in January. Around the middle of January.”

  Wolfe nodded. “She knew it must be her brother-in-law, and she told him it must stop, and he—”

  “Better than that,” I cut in. “She was going to tell on him. Tell her sister. He might rather have called it off than kill her, but he would rather kill her than have his wife know. He may not be ipso facto a murderer, but ipso Archie Goodwin he is.”

  “Mr. Goodwin is sometimes a little precipitate,” Wolfe told Ballou. “He has seen and spoken with them—Mr. and Mrs. Fleming. At length.” He pointed to the package. “That money. If I earn it I want it, but you can’t engage me now. My purpose is to clear Mr. Cather; yours is to prevent disclosure of your name. If I can serve your purpose without damage to mine, I shall. When you go, take the package; here in my safe it might affect my mental processes. There is—”

  “What are you going to do?” Ballou demanded. Demanding again.

  “I don
’t know. Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Panzer, Mr. Durkin, and I are now going to confer.” He looked at the clock. “It’s nearly midnight. If you don’t want two more men in on your secret, go.”

  Chapter 11

  At one o’clock Friday afternoon I was on a chair in a hotel bedroom, at arm’s length from an attractive young woman in the bed.

  Various possible approaches had been discussed in the Thursday night conference that went on for more than two hours. Two of them—get a picture of him and show it to the General Delivery clerks at the Grand Central Station post office, and find out if he had been spending more money than he should have had—were discarded offhand because they could only confirm the blackmailing, and that was regarded as settled.

  An obvious one was where had he been Saturday morning, but we weren’t ready for that. If he was open, he was open. If he had an alibi, cracking it could and should wait until we had some kind of leverage on him.

  Get three pictures of him, somehow—one for Saul, one for Fred, and one for me—and do the neighborhood again, to dig up someone who had seen him Saturday morning. The cops had of course been at that for four days, with pictures of Orrie. Fred was for it, and Saul was willing to try, but Wolfe vetoed it. He said we had tolerated banality long enough.

  Give it to Cramer. Saul suggested it, and he had a case. We could give him the crop, all except Ballou’s name. It wouldn’t hurt us any, certainly it wouldn’t stop us, and it would give Cramer something to think about, and even work on, besides Orrie Cather. If they had a few of Fleming’s fingerprints in their collection from the apartment, or even one, it would open it up good. Wolfe wouldn’t buy it. He said it would be inept to have the police move in on Fleming before we did; for one thing, they would probably pry X’s name out of either Fleming or his wife, and we weren’t giving it even to Saul and Fred. The fifty grand wasn’t there in the safe to affect his mental processes, but he knew where it was.

  I made the suggestion that gave him a bright idea. There was nothing bright about the suggestion; it was simply that I would bring the Flemings to the office for some conversation with Wolfe. As we all knew, many people had said more to Wolfe than they had realized they were saying, and why not give them a chance? Saul and Fred could be at the peephole in the alcove, and then we would have another conference. I was the only one who had ever seen them. Saul and Fred were all for it, but Wolfe sat and scowled at me, which was natural, since it would mean another session with a woman. He sat and scowled, and we sat and looked at him. After half a minute of that he spoke to me. “Your notebook.”

  I swiveled and got it, and a pen.

  “A letter. The regular letterhead. To Mr. Milton Thales, care of Mr. Barry Fleming, and the address. Dear Mr. Thales. It is a truism that people who have a sudden substantial increase in income often spend it, comma, or part of it, comma, on luxuries which they have previously been unable to afford. Period. It is possible that you are an admirer of orchids, comma, and that you would like to buy a few orchid plants with part of the five thousand dollars of extra income you have received during the past four months. Period. If so, comma, I shall be glad to show you my collection if you will telephone for an appointment. Sincerely yours.”

  I tossed the notebook on the desk. “Wonderful,” I said. “It will bring him but not her. Maybe. If it goes to his home address and she’s there when it’s delivered but he isn’t, it may bring her but not him. Statistics show that seventy-four per cent of wives open letters, with or without a teakettle. Why not send it to the school?”

  “It’s two o’clock Friday morning,” Saul said. “He wouldn’t get it until Monday.”

  Wolfe growled. I said, “Damn it.”

  “It’s a beautiful idea,” Saul said. “It will get him sweating before he comes, and that will help, and he’ll have to come. Even if he didn’t kill her, he’d have to come. But may I offer an amendment?”

  “Yes.”

  “The letter might read something like this—your notebook, Archie? Dear Mr. Thales. As you know, comma, I was Isabel’s closest friend, comma, and we told each other many things. One thing she told me was how you got that five thousand dollars and how she felt about it. I haven’t told anyone else because she told me in confidence—no, change that. Change ‘because she told me in confidence’ to ‘because I promised her I wouldn’t.’ Then: You may want to show your appreciation by giving me part of the five thousand, comma, at least half of it. I will expect you to bring it not later than Sunday afternoon. I work evenings. My address is above, and my phone number is so-and-so. It will be signed by Julie Jaquette. I suppose she should write it; I doubt if she uses a typewriter.”

  Fred said, “And he croaks her and then we’ve got him.”

  Saul nodded. “He would if we let him, and if he killed Isabel Kerr. If he’s had practice.” To Wolfe: “I just think that might be quicker than coming from you. I couldn’t get her to do it, I’m a rat, but Archie could.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell her I’ll send orchids to her funeral.” I looked at Wolfe. “You wished her well.”

  “So you demur,” he said.

  “No, sir. I like it. I merely remark that selling her won’t be easy, and if she buys it we can’t let her out of our sight for one second, and what if she won’t cooperate on that? Nobody suggests anything to her. She said so.”

  “But you like it?”

  “Yes. If it misses we can blame it on Saul.”

  “Blaming is fatuous. The wording of the letter is important. Read it.”

  So that’s why, at one o’clock Friday afternoon, I was settled in a comfortable chair in a bedroom on the ninth floor of the Maidstone Hotel, on Central Park West in the Seventies. Julie Jaquette, in the bed, was not stretched out; she was propped up against three pillows, drinking her third cup of coffee, having cleaned up the toast and bacon and eggs and muffins and strawberry jam, while I explained about the blackmailing caper, including Thā-lēz of Miletus, but not including Ballou’s name. It was a nice big room, made even nicer by the clusters of Vanda rogersi which I had brought, in a vase on the over-the-bed table. She had stuck one of the flowers in the front V of what she had on, a light blue thing with sleeves and no frills. She had said she was no treat in bed in the morning, but actually she wasn’t at all hard to look at. Clear-eyed and fresh and kind of hard-boiled wholesome.

  “Poor Isabel,” she said. “You can’t beat that for lousy breaks, a blackmailer for a brother-in-law and a murderer for a pet. My God.”

  “And a heehaw for a friend,” I said.

  “She only had one real friend. Me.”

  “Right. I call you a mule only professionally. If I was being personal I would call you kitten or snugglebunny or lamb. Profess—”

  “Do you realize this is a bed? That I could reach out and grab you?”

  “Yeah, I’m watching every move. I call you a mule professionally because the minute you heard that your friend Isabel had been murdered you decided Orrie Cather had done it and you won’t budge, not even when the third smartest detective in New York gives you ten to one. It would—”

  “Who are the two smartest?”

  “Nero Wolfe and me, but don’t quote me. It would take an hour to explain why all three of us have crossed Orrie off, and even then you might not budge. But now we think we know who did kill her. The blackmailer. Barry Fleming. Her sister’s husband.”

  She put the coffee cup down. “Huh. You got reasons?”

  “If you mean evidence, no. But if there’s any other good candidate we can’t find him or her, and we have tried hard. Barry Fleming is perfect. Obviously Isabel told Stella who was keeping her—X, to you—and Stella had told Barry, since he couldn’t blackmail him unless—”

  “I may be a mule, but I can count up to two and I can say the alphabet backward.”

  “A mule would say it backward. When X told Isabel he was being blackmailed, she knew it must be Barry. She tried to make him stop, but he wouldn’t. Finally she told him she was go
ing to tell Stella; she had probably threatened to before. That was Saturday morning. She told him she had definitely decided to tell Stella when she saw her that evening, and he killed her. Count up to two.”

  “Don’t wear me out.” She shoved the table away, and the vase swayed, and I jumped to save it. She slid down in the bed, tossed one of the pillows on the floor, and propped her head on the other two. “You’re quick,” she said. “Graceful, too. You could make a chorus line easy. Leave your name with the girl at the desk. Have you explained all this to the cops?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I thought it unnecessary to tell her about the fifty grand. “Because they like Orrie and they’ve got him, and we have no evidence. Not one little scrap. The reason I’m telling you, we thought you might be willing to help. You do want the man that murdered her to get it, don’t you?”

  “You’re damn right I do.”

  “Then you might help. You could write Fleming a letter, calling him Thales, and telling him you want the five grand he got from X—or most of it. Tell him that Isabel told you everything, maybe even hint that you think he killed her and you know why. Of course he would have to see you, and also, if he killed Isabel, he would have to kill you, and it would be a cinch for us to arrange to have evidence of that. So we’d have him. Happy ending.”