Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 42

by Death of a Doxy

  There was no taxi problem when the three of us made our exit into the windy winter night, because Julie had a standing arrangement with a hackie for a quarter past one. During the ride uptown she and Fred resumed a discussion they had started on the ride downtown; they had agreed it would be a good idea for her to rent one of his four children for the summer and were considering which one and the price. Knowing him, I hoped she didn’t think he meant it, and knowing her, I hoped he didn’t think she did.

  When we stopped at the curb at the Maidstone, the doorman was right there to open the door, and we piled out and the cab rolled on. I wasn’t going in; I was to relieve Fred up in the hall at ten o’clock and should have been in bed two hours ago. We were grouped on the sidewalk, Julie in the middle, when the first shot was fired. I reacted to the sound, a loud, sharp crack, and Fred reacted to the bullet, though I didn’t know that immediately. He went down. I’m not certain whether the second shot was fired before, or after, or while, I was flattening Julie. If you think it would have been better manners just to cover her, I agree, but to do that properly you have to know which direction the bullets are coming from. I did cover her when I had her down. I twisted around to look up, and the damn fool doorman was standing there with his mouth open, staring across the street. No more shots. I ordered Julie, “Stay flat, don’t move,” and got to my feet, and as I did so Fred said, “The bastard hit me.” He was on one knee, with his other leg stretched out, propping himself with a hand. I asked him where, and he said his leg. The doorman said, “Over there by the wall, I saw it.” Julie said nothing. Good for her. I looked around. A bellboy was coming out of the hotel. A man and woman had stopped at the corner and were gawking. In the other direction, uptown, a bull was coming on the trot. I told Julie again to stay flat, and hopped. He just might be crazy enough to stick, thinking she might get up and he could try again. I had to scramble to see over the wall. There was practically no light behind it, but there was enough snow to spot anything as big as a man, and he wasn’t there. When I got back across, the cop was bending over Fred and telling the bellboy to phone for an ambulance. Julie hadn’t moved. I helped her up, told Fred I would be back, and started for the entrance with her. The cop said wait, he wanted names, and I told him he had heard me say I would be back, and went on. The desk clerk and the elevator man were there, and the clerk went and got the key and the elevator man came and took us up. Julie was trying not to tremble, and succeeding, and I decided she didn’t want my hand on her arm as she walked from the elevator to her door.

  Inside, in the sitting room, she said, “I’ll bet my coat’s a mess,” and slid it off before I could move to help her.

  “Yeah, rub it in,” I said. “Someday I’ll tell you what a fine brave plucky game girl you are, not a single squawk, but now I’m busy. If it had been two feet to the left and a foot higher, you would now be meat. Luck, that’s all, just pure luck, and I’m supposed to know what I’m doing. I’ll go down and see about Fred. When I come back up you will be packed.”

  “Packed?”

  “Right. What we call the South Room in Nero Wolfe’s house, the one above his, has three windows facing south. Very nice in winter. You’ll like it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t—I don’t want to hide.”

  “Listen, snugglebunny. Kitten. Lamb. I have lost the right to give orders. Have I got to beg, for God’s sake?” I went.

  On the sidewalk a small audience had collected, a dozen or so. Fred was flat on his back, and the bellboy was putting a cushion under his head. A woman was saying he’d get pneumonia. The cop and the doorman were across the street by the stone wall. I went and squatted by Fred and asked him which leg and where, and he said the left one a little above the knee and it probably got the bone, the way it felt. I asked what about blood, and he said there wasn’t much, he had put his hand in and felt it, and he asked, “Is she all right?”

  I said yes. “When I get back from the hospital I’m going to take her home with me. I don’t want—”

  “You’re not going to any hospital. Take her now. The cop asked questions, but I don’t know anything. Do I?”

  “Sure you do. You know Nero Wolfe hired you to help me bodyguard her, and that’s all.”

  “It’s enough. Ouch. Take her now. I’ve been in hospitals before. Don’t leave her alone. The sonofabitch nearly got her with us right here. I only wish—”

  He stopped because the cop had come. He wanted names, and I gave him some, Fred’s and Julie’s and mine, and nothing else. All I knew was that someone had shot a gun. He thought he would get tough but decided not to, and the ambulance came. I watched them load Fred and then went into the Maidstone and up to the ninth floor.

  When I knocked on the door, Julie’s voice came. “Is it you, Archie?”

  “No. It’s a Boy Scout.”

  She opened the door wide, and I stepped in. There on the floor were a big suitcase and a big bag. “I didn’t send for a boy to take them down,” she said, “because I thought you might change your mind.”

  I picked them up.

  Chapter 13

  At nine o’clock Sunday morning I entered the kitchen, told Fritz good morning, got orange juice from the refrigerator, sat at my breakfast table, yawned, sneered at The New York Times, and rubbed my eyes. Fritz came with a piece of paper in his hand and demanded, “Were you drunk when you wrote this?”

  I blinked at him. “No, just pooped. I’ve forgotten what I said. Please read it.”

  He cleared his throat. “‘Three-twenty A.M. There’s a guest in the South Room. Tell him. I’ll cook her breakfast. AG.’” He dropped it on the table. “I told him, and he asked who, and what could I say? And you will cook her breakfast in my kitchen?”

  I took an economy-size swallow of orange juice. “Let’s see if I can talk straight,” I suggested. “I had four hours’ sleep, exactly half what I need. As for telling him who she is, that is my function. I admit it’s your function to cook breakfast, but she likes fried eggs and you don’t fry eggs. Let’s get to the real issue. There is one man who is more allergic to a woman in this house than he is, and you are it. By God, I am talking straight.” I drank orange juice. “Don’t worry, this woman is allergic to a man in her house. As for the eggs, poach them—you know, in red wine and bouillon—”

  “Burgundian.”

  “That’s it. With Canadian back bacon. That will show her what men are for. Her usual hour for breakfast is half past twelve. I’m still willing to cook it if—”

  He uttered a French sound, loud, maybe it was a word. He was at the range, with sausage. I reached for the Times.

  Since Wolfe goes up to the plant rooms on Sunday morning only for a brief look, if at all, I supposed he would be down around ten o’clock. But it was still ten minutes short of ten when the sound of the elevator came, then his footsteps in the hall. I hadn’t seen him since bedtime Friday evening, nearly forty hours ago. Instead of stopping at the office, the footsteps kept coming, and the swing door opened and he appeared.

  “Indeed,” he said. “You’re alive.”

  I conceded it. “Just barely. Don’t count on me for much.”

  “Who is the guest?”

  “Miss Jaquette. Miss Jackson to you, Julie to me. She’s alive too, but it’s not my fault. She was shot at this morning, at half past one, in front of her hotel, from behind the Central Park wall. The sniper was not seen. Fred got it in the leg and is in Roosevelt Hospital. He was asleep when I phoned this morning. I phoned his wife when I got home last night. I also phoned Saul and told him to stand by. I brought Julie home with me because, with Orrie in the coop and Fred in the hospital, we’re short-handed, and anyway I got tired of hearing bullets go by. She eats breakfast in bed, and Fritz will cook it and I’ll take it up around half past twelve. That seems to cover it.”

  “The sniper was not seen.”

  “No, sir, but it was Barry Fleming. He reacted to the letter by coming to see her yesterday afternoon. That tagged him fo
r blackmail, and the gunplay tagged him for murder. So all we need now is a little evidence. But I suppose you want a full report.”

  He said yes, and we went to the office. The Saturday mail was on my desk, unopened. I don’t know why he does that, but I suspect that it’s because he wants to show me that he won’t butt in on my routine if I won’t butt in on his. Fritz hadn’t butted in either; my desk top was dustier than it gets in one day. I put my copy of the Sunday Times on it and sat, and proceeded to report. I gave it verbatim only in spots, the few that might have a bearing, thinking it unnecessary for him to know that she had asked me if I realized it was a bed, or that I had called her snugglebunny. Usually he opens his eyes and sits up when I finish, but that time he held it a full minute, and finally I spoke.

  “If you’re waiting for a comment, I have nothing to offer. I could say we know but can’t prove we do, but that’s obvious. As for last night, did he own a rifle, or did he get one, and if so where? Saul and I could dig up the answers, and then what? The first bullet either hit Fred’s leg bone or went on through and hit the building, which is stone, and the second one presumably hit the building. Identifying them as coming from his rifle would take six experts, three on each side. If he had hit her and killed her that would be—”

  “Pfui.” He came erect. “That’s mere futility. We have what we wanted, support for our surmise that he’s a murderer. Is there any doubt now that we are going to extricate Orrie?”

  “No.”

  “Then that is no longer of concern. Supposing that we could proceed to get proof, conclusive evidence, that Fleming killed Isabel Kerr, do we want to? If we get it, and give it to Mr. Cramer, what will happen?”

  “Three things. One, they’ll drop Orrie fast. Two, Fleming will be arrested, tried, and probably convicted. Three, they’ll try to keep Ballou’s name out of it but can’t. Make it four. Four, you won’t get another look at that package.”

  He nodded. “What did I tell him?”

  “If you can serve his purpose without damage to yours, you will.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, you can try. It’s February sixth, with nothing coming in yet this year, and nothing in sight, and I know how much goes out, since I draw the checks. Do you want my opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t see how we can possibly pull it. If we’re going to spring Orrie, and we are, we’re going to have to give them Fleming, with or without evidence, and he’ll give them Ballou, and they’ll have to see him. That’s the trouble. Even if they play it tight and his name is kept out of the papers during the buildup, it’s bound to get spilled in the courtroom, and he won’t think he owes you anything. Neither will you. As you know, I am strongly in favor of income. I would hate to have my paycheck bounce. But you wanted my opinion.”

  “You misunderstood. I want your opinion on the risk, not on the feasibility. Could we conceivably jeopardize our purpose?”

  “No. Orrie’s as good as out now.”

  “Then there’s no risk at all. The problem is to expose the murderer without—”

  The doorbell rang, and I went to the hall, took a look, and stepped back in. “Cramer. Get Fritz. I’ll go up and tell her not to sing ‘Big Man Go-go’ with the door open.” I headed for the stairs.

  By go-go, the door was open, though it had been shut when I passed by at nine o’clock. I lifted a hand to tap, but it wasn’t necessary. She said, “My God, you’re up and dressed.” She was in a chair by a window. Her pajamas were light green with dark green stripes, and her feet were bare. Her hair was in all directions. I closed the door.

  “I opened it,” she said, “just to enjoy it. It’s been years since I had a bedroom where I could leave the door open. I’m up because I woke up. I never stay in bed awake unless I’m reading or eating.”

  I had approached. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while on the eating. Inspector Cramer is here. He probably thinks you’re here, since that cop saw you leave with me, but it’s possible that we’re not going to concede it. If we do, and if he insists on seeing you, we can say he’ll have to postpone it because you’re in a state of shock after last night, or I’ll bring him up and you can get it over with. As you prefer. I thought I’d better ask you.”

  She took a swipe at the hair. “An inspector, huh?”

  “Yeah. An old pal of ours. In reverse.”

  “I like to get things over with.”

  “Okay. He’ll probably want to see you alone, and not in the office because he knows we have a hole to see and hear through. What do you want to keep you until breakfast? Will orange juice and coffee do?”

  “Not if you have grapefruit juice.”

  “Certainly. Fritz will bring it up, and I’ll bring Cramer up later. He may—”

  “Here?”

  “Sure. This room is bugged, he doesn’t know that, and we’ll be listening in. He may invite you down to the District Attorney’s office, but you’re not going. To take you with law he’d have to have a warrant, and he hasn’t got one. Now the—”

  “How do you know he hasn’t?”

  “I know everything except how to bodyguard a girl right. Now the main question. Do you remember the script? What we said last night?”

  “What you said. Yes.”

  “Should we check it?”

  “No. ZYXWVU—”

  “Of course. I keep forgetting. Fritz will be up with the juice and coffee. Bolt the door. There’s just a chance Mr. Wolfe will decide you’re not here, to gain time, and Cramer will come hopping up to barge in. Once a cop’s inside, he can move around and you don’t touch him, but he can’t bust doors in, or he’d better not. Don’t answer knocks.”

  “Damn it,” she said, “I ought to be sound asleep.”

  I said she could sleep all afternoon, and left.

  Three paces inside the office I stopped to take in an unexpected scene, homey and very appealing. I couldn’t see Wolfe, at his desk, because the review-of-the-week section of the Sunday Times, spread wide, was hiding him. Cramer, in the red leather chair, had the sports section, spread just as wide. Having checked that Cramer had been admitted and was still there, I went to the kitchen, told Fritz the guest’s name, asked him to take up grapefruit juice and coffee, and told him not to knock but give his name. Back in the office, Wolfe was still hidden. I crossed to my desk, sat and enjoyed the pleasant scene a couple of minutes, and then coughed. In a moment Wolfe folded the paper, put it on his desk, and spoke. To me.

  “Mr. Cramer wishes to ask about that incident last night. Since you were there and I wasn’t, I insisted on waiting for you.” He turned. “Yes, Mr. Cramer?”

  Cramer, having folded the sports section, put it on the stand. His eyes went to Wolfe. “I told you. I want to know why you had them guarding that girl, and who they were guarding her from. If you knew she was in danger, you know who fired those shots at her. Durkin says he doesn’t know, but you do. I don’t need Goodwin to tell me that. It’s even possible he doesn’t know, but you do. Assault with intent to kill is a felony, and you know who committed it, and I’m an officer of the law. Is that plain?”

  Wolfe nodded. “Quite plain. It’s also quite plain that your true interest is not assault with intent to kill, but an assault that did kill. Have you released Mr. Cather?”

  “No. And I don’t—”

  “Are you prepared to release him?”

  “No! I want an answer. Who fired those shots at that girl?”

  Wolfe turned. “Do you know, Archie?”

  “No, sir, I don’t know. I could offer guesses, but not in the hearing of an officer of the law. Slander. I might guess Orrie Cather, but that’s out because he’s in the can, and unless—”

  Cramer said a word, loud, which I omit because I suspect that some of the readers of these reports are people like retired schoolteachers and den mothers.

  “Nor do I know,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Cramer. Why not be forthright? You came here last Monday in the pretense that you hoped to
get information that would strengthen your case against Mr. Cather, though you knew you would get none. Not from Mr. Goodwin. What you really wanted was to learn if my support of Mr. Cather was more than a gesture. What you want now is to learn if I have collected any evidence that will weaken your case against Mr. Cather. Why not be straightforward and ask me?”

  “All right, I ask you. Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What evidence?”

  “I’m not prepared to divulge it.”

  “By God, you admit it. You admit you have evidence in a murder case and you withhold it.”

  Wolfe nodded. “It’s a nice point. If I withhold evidence that would help to convict a man of murder I am obstructing justice, yes. But if I withhold evidence that would help to acquit a man, is that obstructing justice? I doubt if the point has ever arisen juridically. We could ask some—”

  “Ask my ass. If you’ve got evidence that would help to clear Cather, it will help to convict someone else. I want it.”

  “That’s nonsense. Thousands of men have been cleared by alibis, with no bearing on another’s guilt. I have no evidence, none whatever, that would help to convict anyone of the murder of Isabel Kerr. I have a suspicion, a surmise, but that isn’t evidence. As for the guarding of Miss Jaquette and the shots fired at her, how does that concern your effort to indict Mr. Cather? As Mr. Goodwin said, they couldn’t have been fired by him, he’s in custody. Under suspicion of murder.”

  “He hasn’t been charged with homicide.”

  “You’re holding him without bail. Consider a hypothesis. Suppose that Miss Jaquette had a private reason to fear that someone might try to do her violence, a reason she would not reveal, and arranged for protection, and got shot at. Do you think you could force her to disclose her secret, or could force me to?”

  “Balls.” Cramer was getting hoarse. He always did, with Wolfe. “You try being forthright. Will you give me your word of honor that your guarding her and the shots fired at her had no connection with the murder of Isabel Kerr?”