“Second, the thought of Getz continuing to live was for some reason so repugnant to him as to be intolerable.
“Third, he knew the purpose of Koven’s visit here Saturday evening, and of Goodwin’s errand at the Koven house on Monday, and he knew the details of the procedure planned by Koven and Goodwin. Only with—”
“I don’t know them even yet,” Hildebrand squeaked.
“Neither do I,” Pete Jordan declared.
“The innocent can afford ignorance,” Wolfe told them. “Enjoy it if you have it. Only with that knowledge could he have devised his intricate scheme and carried it out.
“Fourth, his mental processes are devious but defective. His deliberate and spectacular plan to make it appear that Goodwin had killed Getz, while ingenious in some respects, was in others witless. Going to Koven’s office to get Goodwin’s gun from the drawer and placing Koven’s gun there, transferring the cartridges from Koven’s gun to Goodwin’s, proceeding to the room below to find Getz asleep, shooting him in the head, using a pillow to muffle the sound—all that was well enough, competently conceived and daringly executed, but then what? Wanting to make sure that the gun would be quickly found on the spot, a quite unnecessary precaution, he slipped it into the monkey’s cage. That was probably improvisation and utterly brainless. Mr. Goodwin couldn’t possibly be such a vapid fool.
“Fifth, he hated the monkey deeply and bitterly, either on its own account or because of its association with Getz. Having just killed a man, and needing to leave the spot with all possible speed, he went and opened a window, from only one conceivable motive. That took a peculiar, indeed an unexampled, malevolence. I admit it was effective. Miss Lowell tells me the monkey is dying.
“Sixth, he placed Koven’s gun in the drawer Sunday morning and, after it had been seen there, took it out again. That was the most remarkable stratagem of all. Since there was no point in putting it there unless it was to be seen, he arranged that it should be seen. Why? It could only have been that he already knew what was to happen on Monday when Mr. Goodwin came, he had already conceived his scheme for framing Goodwin for the homicide, and he thought he was arranging in advance to discredit Goodwin’s story. So he not only put the gun in the drawer Sunday morning, he also made sure its presence would be noted—and not, of course, by Mr. Koven.”
Wolfe focused on one of them. “You saw the gun in the drawer Sunday morning, Mr. Hildebrand?”
“Yes.” The squeak was off pitch. “But I didn’t put it there!”
“I didn’t say you did. Your claim to innocence has not yet been challenged. You were in the workroom, went up to consult Mr. Koven, encountered Mrs. Koven one flight up, were told by her that Mr. Koven was still in bed, ascended to the office, found Miss Lowell there, and you pulled the drawer open and both of you saw the gun there. Is that correct?”
“I didn’t go up there to look in that drawer. We just—”
“Stop meeting accusations that haven’t been made. It’s a bad habit. Had you been upstairs earlier that morning?”
“No!”
“Had he, Miss Lowell?”
“Not that I know of.” She spoke slowly, with a drag, as if she had only so many words and had to count them. “Our looking into the drawer was only incidental.”
“Had he, Mrs. Koven?”
The wife jerked her head up. “Had what?” she demanded.
“Had Mr. Hildebrand been upstairs earlier that morning?”
She looked bewildered. “Earlier than what?”
“You met him in the second-floor hall and told him that your husband was still in bed and that Miss Lowell was up in the office. Had he been upstairs before that? That morning?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Then you don’t say that he had been?”
“I know nothing about it.”
“There’s nothing as safe as ignorance—or as dangerous.” Wolfe spread his gaze again. “To complete the list of what we know about the murderer. Seventh and last, his repugnance to Getz was so extreme that he even scorned the risk that by killing Getz he might be killing Dazzle Dan. How essential Getz was to Dazzle Dan—”
“I make Dazzle Dan!” Harry Koven roared. “Dazzle Dan is mine!” He was glaring at everybody. “I am Dazzle Dan!”
“For God’s sake shut up, Harry!” Pat Lowell said sharply.
Koven’s chin was quivering. He needed three drinks.
“I was saying,” Wolfe went on, “that I do not know how essential Getz was to Dazzle Dan. The testimony conflicts. In any case the murderer wanted him dead. I’ve identified the murderer for you by now, surely?”
“You have not,” Pat Lowell said aggressively.
“Then I’ll specify.” Wolfe leaned forward at them. “But first let me say a word for the police, particularly Mr. Cramer. He is quite capable of unraveling a tangle like this, with its superficial complexities. What flummoxed him was Mr. Koven’s elaborate lie, apparently corroborated by Miss Lowell and Mr. Hildebrand. If he had had the gumption to proceed on the assumption that Mr. Goodwin and I were telling the truth and all of it, he would have found it simple. This should be a lesson to him.”
Wolfe considered a moment. “It might be better to specify by elimination. If you recall my list of seven facts about the murderer, that is child’s play. Mr. Jordan, for instance, is eliminated by Number Six; he wasn’t there Sunday morning. Mr. Hildebrand is eliminated by three or four of them, especially Number Six again; he had made no earlier trip upstairs. Miss Lowell is eliminated, for me, by Numbers Four and Five; and I am convinced that none of the three I have named can meet the requirements of Number Three. I do not believe that Mr. Koven would have confided in any of them so intimately. Nor do I—”
“Hold it!” The gruff voice came from the doorway.
Heads jerked around. Cramer advanced and stopped at Koven’s left, between him and his wife. There was dead silence. Koven had his neck twisted to stare up at Cramer, then suddenly he fell apart and buried his face in his hands.
Cramer, scowling at Wolfe, boiling with rage, spoke. “Damn you, if you had given it to us! You and your numbers game!”
“I can’t give you what you won’t take,” Wolfe said bitingly. “You can have her now. Do you want more help? Mr. Koven was still in bed Sunday morning when two of them saw the gun in the drawer. More? Spend the night with Mr. Hildebrand. I’ll stake my license against your badge that he’ll remember that when he spoke with Mrs. Koven in the hall she said something that caused him to open the drawer and look at the gun. Still more? Take all the contents of her room to your laboratory. She must have hid the gun among her intimate things, and you should find evidence. You can’t put him on the stand and ask him if and when he told her what he was doing; he can’t testify against his wife; but surely—”
Mrs. Koven stood up. She was pale but under control, perfectly steady. She looked down at the back of her husband’s bent head.
“Take me home, Harry,” she said.
Cramer, in one short step, was at her elbow.
“Harry!” she said, softly insistent. “Take me home.”
His head lifted and turned to look at her. I couldn’t see his face. “Sit down, Marcy,” he said. “I’ll handle this.” He looked at Wolfe. “If you’ve got a record of what I said here Saturday, all right. I lied to the cops. So what? I didn’t want—”
“Be quiet, Harry,” Pat Lowell blurted at him. “Get a lawyer and let him talk. Don’t say anything.”
Wolfe nodded. “That’s good advice. Especially, Mr. Koven, since I hadn’t quite finished. It is a matter of record that Mr. Getz not only owned the house you live in but also that he owned Dazzle Dan and permitted you to take only ten per cent of the proceeds.”
Mrs. Koven dropped back into the chair and froze, staring at him. Wolfe spoke to her. “I suppose, madam, that after you killed him you went to his room to look for documents and possibly found some and destroyed them. That must have been part of your plan las
t week when you first took the gun from the drawer—to destroy all evidence of his ownership of Dazzle Dan after killing him. That was foolish, since a man like Mr. Getz would surely not leave invaluable papers in so accessible a spot, and they will certainly be found; we can leave that to Mr. Cramer. When I said it is a matter of record I meant a record that I have inspected and have in my possession.”
Wolfe pointed. “That stack of stuff on that table is Dazzle Dan for the past three years. In one episode, repeated annually with variations, he buys peaches from two characters named Aggie Ghool and Haggie Krool, and Aggie Ghool, saying that she owns the tree, gives Haggie Krool ten per cent of the amount received and pockets the rest. A.G. are the initials of Adrian Getz; H.K. are the initials of Harry Koven. It is not credible that that is coincidence or merely a prank, especially since the episode was repeated annually. Mr. Getz must have had a singularly contorted psyche, taking delight as he did in hiding the fact of his ownership and control of that monster, but compelling the nominal owner to publish it each year in a childish allegory. For a meager ten per cent—”
“Not of the net,” Koven objected. “Ten per cent of the gross. Over four hundred a week clear, and I—”
He stopped. His wife had said, “You worm.” Leaving her chair, she stood looking down at him, stiff and towering, overwhelming, small as she was.
“You worm!” she said in bitter contempt. “Not even a worm. Worms have guts, don’t they?”
She whirled to face Wolfe. “All right, you’ve got him. The one time he ever acted like a man, and he didn’t have the guts to see it through. Getz owned Dazzle Dan, that’s right. When he got the idea and sold it, years ago, and took Harry in to draw it and front it, Harry should have insisted on an even split right then and didn’t. He never had it in him to insist on anything, and never would, and Getz knew it. When Dazzle Dan caught on, and the years went by and it kept getting bigger and bigger, Getz didn’t mind Harry having the name and the fame as long as he owned it and got the money. You said he had a contorted psyche, maybe that was it, only that’s not what I’d call it. Getz was a vampire.”
“I’ll accept that,” Wolfe murmured.
“That’s the way it was when I met Harry, but I didn’t know it until we were married, two years ago. I admit Getz might not have got killed if it hadn’t been for me. When I found out how it was I tried to talk sense into Harry. I told him his name had been connected with Dazzle Dan so long that Getz would have to give him a bigger share, at least half, if he demanded it. He claimed he tried, but he just wasn’t man enough. I told him his name was so well known that he could cut loose and start another one on his own, but he wasn’t man enough for that either. He’s not a man, he’s a worm. I didn’t let up. I kept after him, I admit that. I’ll admit it on the witness stand if I have to. And I admit I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. I didn’t know there was any danger of making him desperate enough to commit murder. I didn’t know he had it in him. Of course he’ll break down, but if he says I knew that he had decided to kill Getz I’ll have to deny it because it’s not true. I didn’t.”
Her husband was staring up at the back of her head, his mouth hanging open.
“I see.” Wolfe’s voice was hard and cold. “First you plan to put it on a stranger, Mr. Goodwin—indeed, two strangers, for I am in it too. That failing, you put it on your husband.” He shook his head. “No, madam. Your silliest mistake was opening the window to kill the monkey, but there were others, Mr. Cramer?”
Cramer had to take only one step to get her arm.
“Good God!” Koven groaned.
Pat Lowell said to Wolfe in a thin sharp voice, “So this is what you worked me for.”
She was a tough baby too, that girl.
This low-priced Bantam Book has been completely reset in a type face designed for easy reading, and was printed from new plates. It contains the complete text of the original hard-cover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
TRIPLE JEOPARDY
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with
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PRINTING HISTORY
Acknowledgment is made to the AMERICAN MAGAZINE, in which these short novels originally appeared in 1951–1952.
The magazine title for “The Squirt and the Monkey” was “See No Evil”; for “Home to Roost,” “Nero Wolfe and the Communist Killer.”
eISBN: 978-0-307-75630-5
All rights reserved.
Copyright 1951, 1952, by Rex Stout.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission in writing. For information address The Viking Press, Inc., 625 Madison Avenue, New York 22, N. Y.
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