by Rex Stout
“I thought you had an engagement.”
“It’s for one o’clock, and I may skip it. The lunch will be all right, but then a man is going to read poetry.”
“Whose poetry?”
“His.”
“Pfui.”
“Sure. I think Miss Rowan knew he was hungry and merely wanted to feed him, but then he said he would do her and her friends a big favor and she was stuck. He calls it an epithon because it’s an epic and it takes hours.”
A corner of his mouth was up an eight of an inch. “Serves you right.”
“Yeah. What she did in the car that night was in the line of duty, but you’ll never forgive her. I may not go.”
He flipped a hand. “You will.” He went at his copy of the Sunday Times. We get three, a total of twenty pounds – one for him, one for me, and one for Fritz.
When the noon news still had nothing new about murder, I decided it would be silly to sit around all afternoon rassling with the Times, holding my breath for the radio every half-hour, and mounted the two flights to my room. Having already shaved, I had only to change to a clean shirt and one of my four best suits. Downstairs again, I looked in at the kitchen and the office to say I was going. Outside, I headed for the garage on Tenth Avenue where we keep the Heron which Wolfe owns and I drive. On Sundays it is often possible to find a spot to put a car.
At twenty minutes past four I was in a big roomy chair in the living room of Lily Rowan’s penthouse on top of a building on 63rd Street, leaning back with my eyes closed, trying to decide which one I would rather have, Willie Mays or Sandy Koufax, on my team. The poet, a long-faced specimen with whiskers, who didn’t look hungry, but of course had recently had a good meal, was still going strong, but I had stopped hearing him an hour back. It was just a background noise. At a poke on my shoulder I opened my eyes, and Mimi, the maid, was there. She moved her lips to say “Telephone” without saying it. I pulled myself up and to my feet, went to a door at the corner of the room and on through, crossed to the desk where Lily makes out checks for causes which may be worthy, picked up the phone, and told it, “This is Archie Goodwin.”
Wolfe’s voice said, “I presume you read about the murder of a woman named Isabel Kerr.”
I said yes.
“So did I. Mr. Parker is here. He received a telephone call from Orrie Cather, asking him to come to the police station on Twentieth Street, and he went. Orrie is in custody as a material witness. He gave Mr. Parker some information, not much, and told him to consult you. Why?”
“Because. Parker’s still there?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hung up, went to the kitchen and told Mimi to tell Lily, went to the foyer for my coat and hat, let myself out, and summoned the elevator. The car was around the corner on Madison Avenue. When I was in it and going, turning to head west, I told my mind it might as well go right on with Willie Mays and Sandy Koufax. There was absolutely nothing else for it to do, and wouldn’t be until I had heard Parker. As I turned into the garage I decided definitely for Willie Mays. Koufax’s arm was too much of a gamble. So I felt I had accomplished something as I walked to the old brownstone, mounted the stoop, let myself in, ditched my coat and hat, and went to the office.
Nathaniel Parker, the lawyer Wolfe uses when he has to, was in the red leather chair with a bottle of scotch, one of soda, a bowl of ice, and a glass on the stand at his elbow. Wolfe was at his desk, with beer. Since he skips his afternoon session in the plant rooms on Sundays, that is his biggest beer day. I hadn’t seen Parker for a couple of months, and he rose to shake hands. I told Wolfe, “This is going to be worse than listening to poetry,” went to my desk, whirled my chair around, sat, and told Parker, “If you’re going to spring him I’d rather wait till I see him.”
“It would be a long wait,” Parker said. “I think they’ll keep him. The way they look and talk.”
“A murder charge?”
“Not yet, but I think it soon will be. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Wolfe growled at me, “Did he kill that woman? Was that your personal errand yesterday?”
“Let’s keep it cool,” I suggested. “If he said to consult me, I have to know exactly how he said it.” To Parker: “If you don’t mind?”
“Certainly.” The lawyer took a sip and put the glass down. “He didn’t say much. He had refused to answer any questions, any at all, until he saw me. Of course he knows the rules. But also he wouldn’t open up with me. He wouldn’t even tell me if he had known the woman or had any connection with her. He told me just three things. One, he hadn’t killed her and hadn’t been near her or her apartment at any time yesterday. Two, where he had been yesterday. Three, I should see you, and you should decide what to tell me. When I left, it was understood that he would tell them of his whereabouts and movements yesterday and stand mute on everything else, and that I would see him tomorrow, after I had talked with you.”
“You’re acting for him?”
“I agreed to, yes. Provisionally until I had seen you.”
“It’s up to me?”
“Yes. He said to tell you that he wants you to decide how to handle it.”
“That’s just dandy. To be trusted like that, I do appreciate it. Excuse me while I rub my nose.” I rubbed it with a fingertip, my eyes focused on the big globe over by the bookshelves but not seeing it. It didn’t take long because it was really quite simple; it was all or nothing, and it didn’t matter if Parker got it now or tomorrow.
I stood up. “I thought you played bridge on winter Sundays.”
“I do. The call from Cather intruded.”
“Then I suggest that you go back and resume. I have decided how to handle it. I’m going to report to Mr. Wolfe. I’d rather have him glare at me while I’m telling him than while I’m telling you. I’ll tell you later, or he will, say tomorrow morning. If you prefer, you can wait in the front room, but it will take a while.”
Wolfe, his lips pressed so tight he didn’t have any mouth, reached for a bottle and poured beer. Parker looked at him, picked up his glass and emptied it, put the glass down, rose, looked at me, and said, “You might tell me one thing, to be regarded as a privileged communication, did he kill her?”
“Even granting that I know,” I said, “it wouldn’t be privileged. I’m not your client.”
I headed for the hall, but out by the rack I stood and held his coat for a couple of minutes while he exchanged words with Wolfe. Finally he came, took his time getting his scarf adjusted, his overcoat buttoned, and his gloves on, and pulled his shoulders in as a gust hit him when he crossed the sill. When I re-entered the office Wolfe had opened his current book, Invitation to an Inquest, by Walter and Miriam Schneir. That was childish. He was rubbing it in that his Sunday-afternoon reading had been ruined, first by Orrie and now by me. I said as I sat, “If you’re in the middle of a chapter there’s no rush.”
He made a noise, put the book down, and glared.
“Friday afternoon,” I said, “day before yesterday, Orrie phoned and asked me to meet him that evening. You may remember that I wasn’t here to help with the capon Souvaroff, which I regretted. I met Orrie at seven o’clock at Giordano’s, a restaurant on West Thirty-ninth Street. I now -”
“Don’t cram it,” he snapped.
“I won’t. I now report what he told me. He was up a stump. He was going to marry a girl named Jill Hardy, an airline stewardess. He showed me a picture of her. They had set a date early in May, when she would have a vacation coming. But it had hit a snag. Another girl, by name Isabel Kerr, was objecting. She had the idea of marrying Orrie herself, and also the idea that he was, or would be, the father of the baby she expected to have in about seven months. She intended to make an issue of it, in public if necessary. She said she had in her possession, presumably in a locked drawer in her apartment, or possibly stashed somewhere, certain objects she could use. One of the objects was his private investigator’s license,
which she had lifted from his pocket one night about a month ago. Also some pictures and letters, and perhaps other items that Orrie didn’t know about. The big point wasn’t that she could hook him, but that she could queer him with Jill Hardy.”
Wolfe grunted. “She couldn’t force him to marry her. Why marry at all?”
“Sure. That’s your slant, but it wasn’t Orrie’s. He wanted the objects, and he was pretty sure they were in the apartment. He knew she spent two or three afternoons a week at the movies, and nearly always Saturday afternoons. He had keys. The idea was that I was to go there the next day, Saturday, now yesterday, at a quarter past four, ring the bell, get no response, go in and up, and look around. I didn’t care for it much. Such a chore for Saul or Fred, of course, but while I have nothing against Orrie, I wouldn’t borrow his socks. He pointed out that I wouldn’t be out on a limb, no matter what. If she was there and answered the bell I would bow out. Almost certainly she wouldn’t come before I left, but if she or anyone did I could just be polite; I hadn’t broken and entered, I had used keys which she had given him.”
“So you went,” Wolfe growled.
“Don’t rush me. I told him nothing doing unless I had the whole picture. It took a while and a lot of questions, but I had to know if Isabel Kerr was something hot, like the runaway daughter of an ambassador. No. She had formerly been a showgirl, but three years ago had been rescued and installed in the nest she was still occupying. The toughest detail to get was the name of the rescuer. Orrie claimed he didn’t know, but of course he did, and I insisted. His name is Avery Ballou, president of the Federal Holding Corporation. Apparently Isabel had some quality that he enjoyed, for he was still paying the rent and the grocery bill and was paying her visits two or three times a week, evenings. But she knew that kind of setup never lasts forever, and anyway she wanted Orrie. They had met somewhere, that’s irrelevant and immaterial, about a year ago, and she had been – well, feeding him some of Avery Ballou’s groceries, and she had decided she had to have him for keeps. I accepted that. Women don’t fall for Orrie quite as fast and furious as he thinks they do, but he is no baboon, and female eyes do sometimes fasten on him.”
“So you went.”
“Yes. I am not dodging, but I mention that it seemed advisable. While he is no Saul Panzer, for years he has come in very handy for you – okay, for us. He has done a lot of pretty good chores and has never skunked as far as we know. So I went, yesterday afternoon, with gloves and an assortment of keys, arriving at exactly four-fifteen. There was no answer to my ring, and I went in and up. It’s one of those remodeled four-story houses, self-service elevator, no doorman or hallman, and I wasn’t seen. Since you have read the piece in the Times, you know what I found. I didn’t stay to use the gloves or keys; I don’t think Orrie rated that. Anyway, even if I found some objects, granting they were there, it was a cinch they would find his prints, since he had been there for hours only three days ago. So I left.”
“Seen?”
“No. I phoned you not to expect me for dinner, and -”
“That was at five o’clock.”
Just like him. He never seems to notice but he knows. I nodded. “Yeah. I had walked for nearly half an hour, to Orrie’s address, or near it. I waited around until he came, saw him in his apartment and told him, and returned his keys. I asked him if he killed her, and he said no. He was on a tailing job for Bascom all day but can’t prove it. For the important time, eight o’clock to noon, he’s wide open. He wanted to know why I didn’t stay for a look. I poked him a little, not much, and came home and ate two helpings of creme Genoise. Of course I knew he would be tagged – if nothing else, his prints. That was the urgency on the radio this morning.”
“You should have told me.”
“What good would it have done? It would only have spoiled the day for you.”
“So you went to hear a man read poetry.”
I cocked my head. “Look,” I said, “you might as well forget me. You’re sore and want a target, but I’m not it. Of course, if you forget Orrie too, there is no target and you can go back to your book.”
He looked at the book, picked it up, and put it down again. He picked up his glass, frowned at it because the head was gone, drank it anyway, to the bottom, returned the glass to the tray, and pushed the tray aside. “Orrie,” he said. “Confound him. The question is, did he kill her? If he did, the problem is Mr. Parker’s and can be left to him. If he didn’t, we are -”
The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s resi -”
“Lon, Archie. I’m surprised you’re there.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Of course not. With your sidekick in the jug?”
“You’re ahead of me. I spent the afternoon at a poetry reading and just got here.”
“You’re saying you didn’t know that Orrie Cather has been pulled in on the Isabel Kerr murder?”
“Really?”
“Yep, really. If it would help to have something in print, I’m always available. I don’t expect you to show me Wolfe’s hole card, but if there’s some little item…”
“Sure. Certainly. Of course. The minute I have something hot, or even warm, I’ll ring you. Right now I’m busy. I’m telling Mr. Wolfe about a beautiful poem a man read.”
“I’ll bet you are. Just enough for a paragraph?”
“At the moment, no. Not on Sunday. Thanks for calling.”
I hung up, swiveled, and told Wolfe, “Lon Cohen fishing, probably from home, since it’s Sunday. An item in the Gazette tomorrow will start: ‘Orrie Cather, a private detective, trusted assistant of Nero Wolfe, is being held as a material witness in connection with the murder of Isabel Kerr. Mr. Cather, a free-lance operative, has been an important factor in the spectacular success of many of Nero Wolfe’s famous cases. Archie Goodwin, who is merely Nero Wolfe’s errand boy, told -’”
“Shut up!”
I hunched my shoulders and raised my hands, palms up.
He slapped his desk blotter so hard the bottle trembled, and bellowed, “Did he kill her?”
I said firmly, “I pass.”
“That won’t do. When you were with him Friday evening was he planning murder? When you saw him yesterday was he bearing guilt?”
“I still pass. As for Friday evening, he may not have planned it. He may have gone there yesterday morning, no telling why, and flapped. As for yesterday afternoon, what do you mean, bearing guilt? Murderers have sat here in this room and looked you in the eye and answered your questions, and when they left you were still guessing. Now I’m guessing. Of course you want a verdict, but I haven’t got it.”
“You like to give odds. What are the odds?”
“For a bet, even money, and I’ll take either end. That’s ignoring my personal preference. I would prefer it that he didn’t. I would rather not see a headline Nero Wolfe’s assistant convicted of homicide – and so would you. People who read only headlines might think it was me.”
“You refuse to resolve it.”
“I do.”
“Then get Saul and Fred here as soon as possible.”
Chapter 3
At a quarter to ten Wolfe was making a speech. Saul Panzer, five feet seven, 145 pounds, big nose and flat ears, hair the color of rust but not rusty, was in the red leather chair with a bottle of Montrachet 1958 on the stand and a glass with a stem in his hand. Fred Durkin, five feet ten, 190 pounds, bald and burly, was on one of the yellow chairs facing Wolfe’s desk, with a bottle of Canadian and a pitcher of water handy. He hadn’t touched the water. I had no refreshment. Fritz had been gone since early afternoon on his own affairs, and Wolfe and I had helped ourselves around seven o’clock, concentrating mainly on a block of headcheese. I have spent a total of at least ten hours watching Fritz make headcheese, trying to find out why it is so much better than any other I have ever tasted, including what my mother used to make out in Ohio, but finally I gave up. It could be the way he holds the spoon when he skim
s.
Saul and Fred had been thoroughly briefed on the situation, except for one item, the name of the man who had rescued Isabel Kerr from show business. Orrie wouldn’t have liked that, but he had told Parker that he wanted me to decide how to handle it, and if they were going to vote they had to know the facts. The name of the fairy godfather didn’t matter. When they had asked a few questions and had been answered, Wolfe started his speech.
“It is not merely a question,” he said, “of devising an effective defense. If Orrie killed that woman to prevent her from interfering with his private plans, I am not obliged to thwart the agents of justice and neither are you. Sympathy with misfortune, certainly, but not contravention of Nemesis. Mr. Parker is a competent lawyer, and it can be left to him. But if he didn’t kill her I have an obligation I can’t ignore. I am constrained not only by his long association with me but also by my self-esteem. You must know that I have no affection for him; he has frequently vexed me; he has not the dignity of a man who has found his place and occupies it, as you have, Fred; nor the integrity of one who knows his superiority but restricts it to areas that are acceptable to him, as you have, Saul. But if he didn’t kill that woman, I intend to deliver him.”
He turned a palm up. “The question is, did he? Having no firm opinion of my own, and no basis for one, I asked Archie. I thought he would at least have odds, one way or the other. He always has odds, but he failed me. He said that for a bet it was even money. Archie? That was four hours ago. Now?”
I shook my head. “I still pass. Damn it, go ahead and start something and see what we get!”
“No. We would be committed and make mistakes. Fred. You have known Orrie longer than I have. The situation has been fully described to you. What do you say?”
“Jesus,” Fred said.
“That doesn’t help. He would merely tell him to go and sin no more. Did he kill her?”
Fred put his glass down and shifted in his chair. He looked at Saul, then at me, and back at Wolfe. “It’s too tough,” he said. “Have I got it straight? If we decide he killed her you lay off and it’s up to Parker. If we decide he didn’t, you try to prove it, and of course the only way to prove it would be to find out who did and nail him. Is that it?”