by Rex Stout
“This is Peter Vaughn. I’m calling now because I knew Wolfe wouldn’t be there. I can’t take him.”
“Neither can I. Today. Are you up and dressed?”
“Sure. I slept seventeen hours. I wanted to know, have you seen her?”
“Yes, and so has Mr. Wolfe. She spent an hour here Yesterday afternoon. Relax. She admits it as you told it. Naturally you want to know if we have passed it on. We haven’t. For the present we’re saving it. I wouldn’t advise you to drop in on her for tea. She’d probably put vinegar in it, or something worse. By the way, I meant to ask you yesterday, have you ever heard her do imitations? People’s voices?”
“Yes, often. She’s good at it. She was on the stage, you know.”
“Oh, she was?”
“Yes, Dolly Drake. Not a star, nothing like that. I believe she quit when she married Kenneth, but of course I didn’t know them then. Why? Why do you ask?”
“Just checking a little point. Routine. I suppose she could do Susan’s voice, for instance.”
“Certainly, I’ve heard her. I’ve heard her do Susan making a speech on civil rights. Naturally I didn’t like it, but she’s good. Listen, something I wasn’t going to mention, but I guess I will. I may have something important to tell you a little later. Can I get you there this evening?”
“Yes, but I’m here now. Shoot”
“Well, I-No, I won’t. I wouldn’t want to-No. Maybe I just imagined it, but I’m going to find out. I may ring you this evening.”
“How are you going to find out?”
“Oh, ask a few questions. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. It’s probably nothing. I want to say I’m damned grateful to you and Wolfe, not telling the police. I was pretty sure you hadn’t; they would have been at me. I’m damned grateful.”
He hung up, and I was grateful to him. He had given me something to nibble at. Was there any chance he was going to produce an item we could work on, and if so, what would it be? It would have to be about Dolly Brooke, since she and Kenneth were his only connection, but it wouldn’t be about the item he had just supplied, that Dolly could imitate Susan’s voice, since he had asked why I asked. Yet it might. He might have asked why I asked to see if I knew something he knew or suspected. I should have hung on. I rang him. First Heron Manhattan; he hadn’t been in today. Then his home; he had just gone out and they didn’t know where.
When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms I reported. He listened with his eyes open, showing that he was hearing nothing that called for concentration. It was obvious that he had decided, for some reason too subtle for me to appreciate, possibly because he didn’t want to see her again if he could avoid it, that Dolly Brooke wasn’t it. When I suggested that it wouldn’t hurt to try to find Vaughn and pry it out of him, he said pfui, Mr. Vaughn was manifestly an ass, since he hadn’t even had enough gumption to slough his illusion about Miss Brooke. That was a fitting end to the day. I had enough gumption to go up to my room, ring Lucy Valdon, and invite her to dine at Rusterman’s. She suggested that we eat at her house instead. Sometimes that suggestion is welcome, and it was then. It was nice and quiet there and we could laugh louder and longer. I certainly needed someone to laugh with. If Vaughn phoned, Wolfe could tell him where to get me. I stripped and got under the shower.
My morning fog begins to let little streaks of light through as I sip orange juice, and with my second cup of coffee it’s all clear, so when I go to the office around nine-thirty I’m set for the day. But there are exceptions, and that Thursday morning was one. First, it was ten-thirty instead of nine-thirty. Second, I had got home at three o’clock and had had two hours’ less sleep than my regulation eight. Third, there was nothing to be set for. If there had been any word from Peter Vaughn it hadn’t been worth mentioning, since there had been no note on my desk when I got home. Evidently it was going to be more of the same. I had a notion to go up and get Wolfe’s toothbrush and put it on his desk, on top of the mail, but that would only make it worse. I would go for a walk and not be there when he came down. That appealed to me. My watch said 10:52. I went to the kitchen and told Fritz, and to the rack in the hall for my coat, and as I was reaching for it some object dimmed the light from the glass in the door, and I turned. The object was Inspector Cramer. Good. Anything and anybody was welcome, even him, even if he had somehow learned about Dolly Brooke and intended to take us for obstructing justice. I opened the door as he started his hand for the button, and said, “Greetings. I was standing here waiting for you.”
No comment. He was not only out of sorts, he was out of words. He took his coat off and put it on the bench, dropped his hat on it, marched to the office, looked at his watch, and stood facing the door to the hall. Going to my desk, I had a splendid view of his broad burly shoulders and his king-size fanny, motionless for a good three mmutes until Wolfe entered, stopped two steps in, and glared. Cramer wheeled and went to the red leather chair. Wolfe switched the glare to me, and as he went to his desk I said, “There wasn’t time to buzz you, he just came.” He put a raceme of Vanda suavis in the vase, sat, and started looking through the mail, no hurry.
“Take your time,” Cramer said, icy. “Take my time. We’ve got all day. You’re going to tell me every word anyone has said in this room, including you and Goodwin, about the murder of Susan Brooke. Start with Peter Vaughn. How often has he been here, and when, and what was said?”
So it was Dolly Brooke. Her statement, all three copies, was in the safe. A safe is safer than a locked drawer.
Wolfe pushed the mail aside and swiveled. “This is extraordinary,” he said, not a protest, merely an observation. “You have your murderer in custody. I have been, and am, acting in his interest as instructed by his legal attorney. Surely you don’t expect to get evidence that will help convict him from me. Even if I had any I should not and would not disclose it to you. Extraordinary. Could I be wrong about the legal position? Shall I get Mr. Oster here?”
It sounded impressive, but Cramer wasn’t impressed. “I know the legal position,” he said, still icy. “You’re not acting for Peter Vaughn, and Oster isn’t his attorney. I want to know when and where you and Goodwin have seen Vaughn and what was said.”
Wolfe shook his head. “Nonsense. You’re rattled, and that’s extraordinary too. We have seen Mr. Vaughn only in our capacity as agents for Mr. Whipple and his lawyer, and you are here in your capacity as Mr. Whipple’s legal nemesis.
“No.”
Wolfe’s brows went up. “No?”
“I’m here in my capacity as the head of Homicide South, but not about the murder of Susan Brooke. About the murder of Peter Vaughn.”
If he was after an effect he got it. My head jerked left, to Wolfe, and his jerked right, to me. From his look at me it might have been deduced that he thought I had killed Vaughn, and from my look at him it might have been deduced that I thought he had, so Cramer must have been confused.
Wolfe’s head turned back. “I presume this isn’t flummery; that would be fatuous. The particulars?”
“About three hours ago a passer-by looked in the window of a parked car on Second Avenue near Thirty-second Street and told a patrolman what he had seen, and the patrolman went to look. The body of a man was on the floor in front, doubled up, the head and shoulders shoved down to the floor. He had been shot on the right side, four inches below the armpit, one shot that went between his ribs and got his heart. If death had been quick, as it almost certainly had, the shot had been fired between nine o’clock and midnight. The body has been identified. Peter Vaughn. The car is the property of his father’s firm, Heron Manhattan, Inc. No weapon found. Yes, I know the legal position.”
I thought, Now he’ll never have to answer for lying to the police. I thought that, because at the moment there was no other thought worth thinking.
Wolfe’s eyes had closed. They opened. “And Dunbar Whipple was in custody from nine o’clock to midnight?”
“You know damn well he was.”
“
When will he be released?”
“Nuts.”
Wolfe nodded. “It’s embarrassing, certainly. You know the annals of homicide. It’s conceivable that another hand killed Peter Vaughn; it’s even conceivable that there was no connection between his death and Susan Brooke’s; but you don’t believe it, and neither do I. You don’t dare hold him. Confound it. This will make-”
Cramer smacked the chair arm. “Damn it, don’t sit there and smirk at me! Talk! When did you last see Vaughn?”
“You don’t mean ‘smirk.’ I am not doing what you think smirk means. I’m reacting not to your discomfiture but to my own vexation. Now you need a murderer, but so do I. Coming here with a startling piece of news and barking at me is futile, and you know it.” He leaned back, shut his eyes, and tightened his lips.
Cramer sat and regarded him and breathed.
Wolfe straightened up and cocked his head. “Mr. Cramer. I have no information for you. Don’t explode; let me explain. We-I am including Mr. Goodwin-have seen and spoken with Mr. Vaughn twice. Last Friday evening he was here for less than an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Brooke. None of them gave us any information that you did not already have. Day before yesterday, Tuesday morning, he came alone and spoke with Mr. Goodwin, again for less than an hour. I wasn’t present, but Mr. Goodwin has reported to me. Mr. Vaughn had disclosed certain facts you don’t know about, but it is my considered opinion that they have no bearing on his death. There are-”
“That’s for me to say.”
“It is not. There are two points. First, in our talks with Mr. Vaughn, Mr. Goodwin and I were the agents of Mr. Oster, and therefore the communications were privileged. Second, even if they weren’t privileged we would reserve them, because we have reason to believe that they have no connection with his death. If the event should prove us wrong we would of course be called to account. However-”
“I’m calling you to account here and now.”
“Pfui. You know you can’t. However, we’ll give you one bit of information, privileged or not, which probably is connected with his death. He called on the telephone shortly after five o’clock yesterday and spoke with Mr. Goodwin. Archie, the possibly relevant portion of the conversation, beginning with his saying that he might have something to tell you later.”
I told it, to Cramer. “He said, ‘Listen, something I wasn’t going to mention, but I guess I will. I may have something important to tell you a little later. Can I get you there this evening?’ I said, ‘Yes, but I’m here now. Shoot.’ He said, ‘Well, I-No, I won’t. I wouldn’t want to-No. Maybe I just imagined it, but I’m going to find out. I may ring you this evening.’ I said, ‘How are you going to find out?’ He said, ‘Oh, ask a few questions. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. It’s probably nothing.’”
“Who was he-”
“No,” Wolfe snapped. “Mr. Goodwin is my agent. Archie, did he give you any hint of whom he was going to question or about what?”
“No.”
“Have you any notion about it?”
It was obvious he wanted another no, so I supplied it. He turned to Cramer. “Nor have I; but I suspect that his contemplated action led to his death, and so we report the conversation. If you can learn whom he expected to question before I do, you’ll get the murderer.”
“Damn you,” Cramer said, icy again. “Damn you. You already know.”
“I do not. I haven’t even a conjecture. I have some information you don’t have, but I am convinced that it has no bearing on the identity of the murderer. I have no conjecture on that either. That was our last word from Mr. Vaughn; he didn’t call again. Before, I had an advantage: you thought Dunbar Whipple was the culprit, and I didn’t. Now I have no advantage whatever. We’re up the same stump.”
“You don’t say your word of honor.”
“I use that phrase only when I must, to satisfy you. This time I wouldn’t crook a finger to satisfy you. I wish you would leave. I need to discuss the situation with Mr. Goodwin.”
“Go right ahead. I won’t interrupt.”
“Indeed you won’t. What effect do you think automation will have on Homo sapiens?”
“Go to hell,” Cramer said and got up and walked out. I went to the door but didn’t stick my head into the hall until the front door slammed, and then only to see that he was outside. I returned to my desk, sat, and said, “All right, discuss.”
He said, “Ggrrrrhh.”
“Then I’ll discuss. You told him that what Vaughn told me Tuesday had no bearing on his death. You got me to say that I had no notion about whom Vaughn was going to question or what about, when you know darned well I had. Yesterday you weren’t interested in what Vaughn told me on the phone, that Mrs. Brooke could imitate Susan’s voice. If it turns out that she killed Susan and Vaughn how will you react to my discomfiture?”
“I have assumed she didn’t.”
“I know you have. I haven’t. There has been no sign whatever that Vaughn ever had any contact with anyone involved, except the Brookes. Who else could he possibly have been going to ask a few questions?”
“I don’t know. But as for Mrs. Brooke, in addition to the lack of acceptable motive, she couldn’t have made that telephone call, mimicking Miss Brooke, unless she knew of the eight-o’clock rendezvous, and that’s unlikely; and if she didn’t make the call, who did? Possibly, of course, Miss Brooke; but by no means certainly; I still question it. But the chief point about Mrs. Brooke: returning home, she told Mr. Vaughn that she had seen Mr. Whipple entering the building. Consider it. She is in the apartment, having wiped her fingerprints from the club with which she has just killed her sister-in-law; any idiot would do that. She scoots; any idiot would do that too. Outside, on the street, does she stand there until she sees Mr. Whipple arrive and enter? Nonsense. Then does she catch a glimpse of him, arriving, as she flees? Possibly; but if so, would she tell Mr. Vaughn that she saw him arrive? I don’t believe it.”
I looked at it for five seconds. “What else?”
“Nothing ponderable.”
“Okay.” I stood up. “I’m taking a leave of absence without pay. Two hours or two days, I don’t know.”
He nodded. “With luck it will be two hours. Your time would be better spent on Mr. Vaughn, even with Mr. Cramer’s legion underfoot.” He reached for the little stack of mail.
I blew.
I never, in these reports, skimp any step that counts, forward or backward. If I score a point, or if I get my nose pushed in, I like to cover it. But it would be a waste of time and space to tell you, for instance, how the Park Avenue hallman reacted to the fact that this time I could talk, or how Dolly Brooke took the news, news to her, that Peter Vaughn was dead. What matters is that it wasn’t a step in either direction, except for me personally, since Wolfe had already crossed her off. In less than two hours I got the kind of alibi you do get sometimes, the kind you file under finished business. At seven-forty Wednesday evening Kenneth and Dolly Brooke had sat down to dinner at the table of another couple in the same apartment house; a little before nine two other couples had joined them for an evening of bridge; and they had quit around one o’clock. I checked it with all three of the women, two in person and one on the phone, and with two of the men. When I got back to the old brownstone, Wolfe was in the dining room, halfway through lunch, and one glance at my face told him how it stood. I took my seat, and Fritz came, and I helped myself to a healthy portion of broiled shad that had been marinated in oil and lemon juice seasoned with bay leaf, thyme, and oregano, and three ladles of pureed sorrel. I took only three ladles because at bedtime I would go to the kitchen, heat the leftover sorrel, spread it on a couple of slices of Fritz’s bread, and sprinkle it with nutmeg. Serve with a glass of milk. Have a spoon handy to salvage the puree that dribbles onto the plate when you bite.
When we went to the office neither of us mentioned Dolly Brooke. I merely said, as I sat, “I’ll deduct twenty-two dollars for the two hours.”
He grunted. “I pr
efer not to share the cost of this performance. I’m paying a debt.” He flipped a hand to dismiss it. “Presumably Mr. Vaughn telephoned from his home.”
“Only presumably. When I rang his home about half an hour later I was told he had just gone out, by a maid, on a guess.”
“Where does he live?”
“East Seventy-seventh Street, between Fifth and Madison. Presumably with his parents; it’s listed as Mrs. Samuel Vaughn.”
“We need to know his movements yesterday, both before and after he telephoned.”
“We sure do.”
“How do you propose to proceed?”
“Ask people questions. Routine. If you want to speed it up at a price, Saul and Fred and Orrie could help. One advantage, everybody would have the answers ready because they would already have told the cops.”
He growled. “Intolerable.”
“Yes, sir. The dust would make it harder. It might be better if we just sat here and tried to guess who, or at least what kind of who, Vaughn was going to ask questions of. I had a try at it in the taxi on the way home.”
“And?”
“The shape he was in when he left here Tuesday morning, he must have gone straight home and flopped. He was surely flat by one o’clock. He told me on the phone he had slept seventeen hours, and that has him awake at six a.m., so he had all day, and unquestionably he had seen somebody before he phoned me. He said he might have something important to tell me a little later. He wouldn’t have said that, especially the ‘important,’ if he merely had some wild idea. He was going to follow up something he had seen or heard. Satisfactory?”
“Yes, but you haven’t moved.”
“I move now. What or who is the point. What would be eating him when he caught up on sleep? He had got Dolly Brooke off his conscience, and now two questions were nagging him: who killed Susan, and had she been emotionally involved-his words-with Dunbar Whipple, or hadn’t she? As for who killed her, he thought it possible, maybe probable, that Dolly Brooke had, but that was merely an unanswered question that other people were working on. It was the second question that really hurt, and he wanted to know.”