by Rex Stout
“Oh, in a murder case they can’t crack they see everybody.” I waved it away. “What you say about being made the goat, that’s interesting. It might have some bearing on what we want to know, whether Althaus was in the habit of doctoring his stuff. Was he one of the friends who made you the goat?”
“My goodness, no. He wasn’t a friend. I only met him twice, while he was doing that piece, or getting ready to. He was looking for bigger fish. I was just a hustler, working for Bruner Realty.”
“Bruner Realty?” I wrinkled my brow. “I don’t remember that name in connection with the case. Of course I’m not any too familiar with it. Then it was your friends in Bruner Realty who made you the goat?”
He smiled. “You certainly are not familiar with it. It was some outside deals that I had a hand in. That all came out at the trial. The Bruner people were very nice about it, very nice. The vice-president even arranged for me to see Mrs. Bruner herself. That was the second time I saw Althaus, in her office at her house. She was nice too. She believed what I told her. She even paid my lawyer, part of it. You see, she realized that I had got mixed up in a shady deal, but I explained to her that I hadn’t known what I was getting into, and she didn’t want a man who was working for her company to get a bum deal. I call that nice.”
“So do I. I’m surprised you didn’t go back to Bruner Realty when you got—when you could.”
“They didn’t want me.”
“That wasn’t very nice, was it?”
“Well, it’s the philosophy of it. After all, I had been convicted. The president of the company is a pretty tough man. I could have gone to Mrs. Bruner, but I have a certain amount of pride, and I heard about this opening with Driscoll.” He smiled. “I’m not licked, far from it. There’s plenty of opportunity in this business, and I’m still young.” He opened a drawer. “You gave me a card, I’ll give you one.”
He gave me about a dozen, not one, and some information about the Driscoll Renting Agency. They had nine offices in three boroughs and handled over a hundred buildings, and they gave the finest service in the metropolitan area. I received a strong impression that Driscoll was nice. I listened to enough of it to be polite, and thanked him, and on the way out I took the liberty of exchanging glances with the beautiful young lady, and she smiled at me. That was certainly a nice place.
I strolled down the Grand Concourse in the winter sunshine, cooling off; I hadn’t been invited to remove my coat. I was listing the items of the coincidence:
1. Mrs. Bruner had distributed copies of that book.
2. Morris Althaus had been collecting material for a piece on the FBI.
3. G-men had killed Althaus, or at least had been in his apartment about the time he was killed.
4. Althaus had met Mrs. Bruner. He had been in her house.
5. A man who had worked for Mrs. Bruner’s firm had been jailed (made the goat?) as a result of a piece Althaus had written.
That was no coincidence; it was cause and effect in a hell of a mess. I started to sort it out but soon found that there were so many combinations and possibilities that you could even come up with the notion that Mrs. Bruner had shot Althaus, which wouldn’t do, since she was the client. The one conclusion was that there was a needle in this haystack, and it had to be found. Wolfe had stolen another base. He had merely asked Yarmack if the articles Althaus had written for Tick-Tock were innocuous, and had merely told me to find Odell because he couldn’t think of anything sensible for me, and here was this.
I couldn’t have called Wolfe even if he had been at home, and I decided not to ring him at Hewitt’s. Not only does a place like that have a dozen or more extensions, but also G-men had probably followed him there, since Saul had been told to ignore tails, and tapping a line in the country was a cinch for them. I happen to know that they once—But I’ll skip it.
But I was not going to go home and sit on it until he got back. I found a phone booth, dialed Mrs. Bruner’s number and got her, and asked if she could meet me at Rusterman’s at twelve-thirty for lunch. She said she could. I rang Rusterman’s and got Felix and asked if I could have the soundproofed room upstairs, the small one. He said I could. I went out and got a taxi.
Rusterman’s has lost some of the standing it had when Marko Vukcic was alive. Wolfe is no longer the trustee, but he still goes there about once a month and Felix comes to the old brownstone now and then for advice. When Wolfe goes, taking Fritz and me, we eat in the small room upstairs, and we always start with the queen of soups, Germiny à l’Oseille. So I knew that room well. Felix was there with me, being sociable, when Mrs. Bruner came, only ten minutes late.
She wanted a double dry martini with onion. You never know; I would have guessed hers would be sherry or Dubonnet, and certainly not the onion. When it came she took three healthy sips in a row, looked to see that the waiter had closed the door, and said, “Of course I didn’t ask you on the phone. Something has happened?”
I had a martini to keep her company, without the onion. I took a sip and said, “Nothing big. Mr. Wolfe has broken two rules today. He skipped his morning session in the plant rooms, and he left the house on business—your business. He is out on Long Island seeing a man. That could develop into something, but don’t hold your breath. As for me, I just made a trip to the Bronx to see a man named Frank Odell. He used to work for you—Bruner Realty. Didn’t he?”
“Odell?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “I don’t—Oh, of course. Odell, that’s the little man who had all that trouble. But he—isn’t he in prison?”
“He was. He was paroled out a few months ago.”
She was still frowning. “But why on earth were you seeing him?”
“It’s a long story, Mrs. Bruner.” I took a sip. “Mr. Wolfe decided to try getting a start by checking a little on FBI activities in and around New York. Among other things, we learned that last fall a man named Morris Althaus had been gathering material for a piece on the FBI for a magazine, and seven weeks ago he was murdered. That was worth looking into, and we did some checking on him. We learned that he did a piece called ‘The Realty Racket’ a couple of years ago, and as a result a man named Frank Odell had got a jail sentence for fraud. Mr. Wolfe had me look him up, and I located him and went to see him and learned that he had worked for your firm. So I thought I ought to ask you about it.”
She had put the glass on the table. “But what is there to ask me?”
“Just questions. For instance, about Morris Althaus. How well did you know him?”
“I didn’t know him at all.”
“He came at least once to your house—your office. According to Odell.”
She nodded. “That’s right, he did. I remembered that when I read about him—the murder.” Her chin was up. “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Goodwin. Are you intimating that I have concealed something?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bruner, I am. That you may have. We might as well clear it up before lunch instead of after. You have hired Mr. Wolfe to do a job that’s as close to impossible as a job can get. The least you can do is tell us everything that could conceivably have a bearing on it. The fact that you had known Morris Althaus, at least you had met him, naturally suggests questions. Did you know he was working at a piece on the FBI? Let me finish. Did you know or suspect that the FBI was involved in his murder? Was that why you sent those books? Was that why you came to Nero Wolfe? Just stay in the buggy. We simply have to know everything you know, that’s all.”
She did all right. A woman who can toss you a check for a hundred grand without blinking hasn’t had much practice listening to reason from a hireling, but she managed it. She didn’t count ten, at least not audibly, but she picked up her glass and drank, gave me a straight look, put the glass down, and spoke. “I didn’t ‘conceal’ anything. It just didn’t occur to me to mention Morris Althaus. Or perhaps it did occur to me while I was thinking about it, but not while I was talking to Mr. Wolfe. Because it was just—I didn’t really kno
w anything. I don’t know anything now. I had read about the murder and remembered that I had met him, but the only connection it had with the FBI was what Miss Dacos, my secretary, had told me, and that was just a girl talking. She didn’t really know anything either. It had nothing to do with my sending the books. I sent them because I had read it, and I thought it was important for important people to read it. Does that answer your questions?”
“Pretty well, but it raises another one. Just keep in mind that I’m working on your job. What had Miss Dacos told you?”
“Nothing but talk. She lived at the same address, she still does. Her—”
“What same address?”
“The same as that man, Morris Althaus. In the Village. Her apartment is on the second floor, below his. She was out that evening, and soon after—”
“The night he was killed?”
“Yes. Stop interrupting me. Soon after she returned to her apartment she heard footsteps outside, people going down the stairs, and she was curious about who it might be. She went to the window and looked out and saw three men leave the house and walk to the corner, and she thought they were FBI men. The only reason she had for thinking they were FBI men was that they looked like it; she said they were ‘the type.’ As I said, she didn’t know anything, and I didn’t know there was any connection between Morris Althaus and the FBI. You asked if I knew he was working on a piece on the FBI. No, not until you told me. I resent your suggestion that I concealed something.” She looked at her wristwatch. “It’s after one o’clock, and I have an appointment at half past two, a committee meeting that I must be on time for.”
I pushed a button, two shorts, on a slab on the table, and begged her pardon for asking her to lunch and then starving her. In a couple of minutes Pierre came with the lobster bisque, and I told him to bring the squabs in ten minutes without waiting for a ring.
There was a little question of etiquette. As a matter of business it would have been proper to tell her that neither Nero Wolfe nor I was ever allowed to pay for anything we or our guests ate at Rusterman’s, so it wouldn’t be an item on the expense account, but such a remark didn’t seem to fit with Squabs à la Moscovite, Mushrooms Polonaise, Salade Béatrice, and Soufflé Armenonville. I vetoed it. I didn’t resume on Miss Dacos, but our only known common interest was the FBI. I learned that she had received 607 letters thanking her for the book, most of them just a polite sentence or two; 184 disapproving letters, some pretty strong; and 29 anonymous letters and cards calling her names. I was surprised that it was only 29; out of the 10,000 there must have been a couple of hundred members of the John Birch Society and similar outfits.
With the coffee I returned to Miss Dacos, having done some calculating. If Wolfe left Hewitt’s at four o’clock he would get back around five-thirty, but he might leave, say five and arrive at six-thirty, in need of refreshment after the dangerous trip in the dark of night surrounded by thousands of treacherous machines. It would have to be after dinner. When Pierre left after serving coffee I told Mrs. Bruner, “Of course Mr. Wolfe will have to see Miss Dacos. She may know nothing, as you say, but he’ll have to satisfy himself on that. Will you tell her to be here at nine o’clock this evening? In this room. Our office may be bugged.”
“But I told you it was just a girl talking.”
I said she was probably right, but one of Wolfe’s specialties was prying something useful out of people who just talk, and when she finished her coffee I took her to Felix’s office in the rear, and she got Miss Dacos on the phone and arranged it.
After I escorted her downstairs and into her car I went back up and had another cup of coffee. I would wait to call Wolfe until I was sure they had finished lunch. I sat and looked things over. I had slipped up on one point; I hadn’t asked if Miss Dacos had been present when Morris Althaus and Frank Odell had talked with Mrs. Bruner in her office. Of course Miss Dacos could tell us, but it was the kind of detail that Wolfe expects me to cover, and I expect me to too. How good a guess was it that it was Sarah Dacos who had told the cops about the three men? Not good at all, unless she had dressed it up or down either for the cops or for Mrs. Bruner. She couldn’t see them go to a car around the corner, and get the license number, from the window of Number 63. Then we could be getting corroboration, but for the first alternative, that the FBI killed him, not for the one we preferred. But so what, since it was no longer futile, according to Wolfe’s program.
I remembered how, crossing Washington Square yesterday on my sightseeing trip, I had thought it was coincidence that Arbor Street was in the Village and Sarah Dacos lived in the Village. Now it might be more than coincidence; it might be some more cause and effect.
At three o’clock I went to Felix’s office and called Lewis Hewitt’s number. There’s something wrong with the way the people in that palace handle phone calls. It took a good four minutes, but finally Wolfe’s voice came.
“Yes, Archie?”
“Yes and no,” I said, “but more yes than no. I’m at Rusterman’s. Mrs. Bruner and I had lunch here. If you get here before six-thirty I can report before dinner. We might as well eat here because someone is coming at nine o’clock to discuss things.”
“Coming there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why? Why not the office?”
“It will be better here. Unless you want an attractive young woman practically sitting on your lap for a couple of hours with the radio going.”
“What young woman?”
“Sarah Dacos, Mrs. Bruner’s secretary. I’ll report when you come.”
“If I come. Very well.” He hung up.
I dialed the number I knew best and told Fritz we would dine at Rusterman’s and he would have to leave the venison chops in the marinade until tomorrow. Then I got Mrs. David Althaus’s number from the book and dialed it, but by the time she got on I had decided not to ask her on the phone. All I wanted to know was if she had ever heard her son mention a girl named Sarah Dacos, but I had three hours to kill, so I might as well take a walk. I asked if she would let me in if I came around four-thirty, and she said yes. On the way out I told Felix that Wolfe and I would be there for dinner.
Chapter 9
I was back in the soundproofed room, on my fanny with my legs stretched out and my eyes focused on my toes, going over the mess for the tenth time, when Wolfe arrived at twenty minutes to seven, ushered in by Felix. Knowing that was the busiest time of day downstairs for Felix, I shooed him out and took Wolfe’s coat and hung it up and said I hoped he had had an interesting trip.
He growled and went and sat in the armchair which Marko Vukcic had bought years ago for his friend Nero’s exclusive use. Between Wolfe’s visits it is kept in the room that was Marko’s personal den. “I have decided,” he said, “that every man alive today is half idiot and half hero. Only heroes could survive in the maelstrom, and only idiots would want to.”
“It’s tough in spots,” I conceded, “but you’ll feel better after you eat. Felix has woodcock.”
“I know he has.” He glared. “You enjoy it.”
“I have up to now. Now, I’m not so sure. How about Hewitt?”
“Confound it, he enjoys it too. Everything is arranged. Saul was very helpful, as he always is. Satisfactory.”
I went and took a chair. “My report may not be satisfactory, but it has its points. To begin at the end, Mrs. Althaus says that she never heard her son mention Sarah Dacos.”
“Why should he?”
“That’s one of the points. Cause and effect.”
I reported the conversations in full and the actions in detail, including the frolic with the G-men. It had been our first actual contact with the enemy, and I thought he should know how we had handled ourselves. That armchair wasn’t as good as his in the office for leaning back and closing his eyes, but it would do, and it was almost like home. When I finished he didn’t move a muscle, not even opening an eye. I sat through three minutes of complete silence and then spoke.
“I understand, of course, that all that bored you—if you bothered to listen. You don’t give a damn who killed Morris Althaus. All you’re interested in is this cocky shenanigan you’re cooking up, and to hell with who murdered whom. I appreciate your not snoring. A sensitive man like me.”
His eyes opened. “Pfui. I can say satisfactory, and I do. Satisfactory. But you could have proceeded. You could have had that woman here this afternoon instead of this evening.”
I nodded. “You’re not only bored, your connections are jammed. You said we prefer by far the second alternative, so we certainly want to know if there is any chance of getting it. Sarah Dacos was there in the house, if not when he was shot, soon after. It’s possible she can settle it, one way or the other. If you want—”
The door opened, and Pierre entered with a loaded tray. I glanced at my watch: 7:15. So he had told Felix a quarter past seven; by gum, he was hanging on to one rule at least, and he would certainly hang on to another one, no business talk at the table. He got up and left the room to wash his hands. By the time he got back Pierre had the mussels served and was waiting to hold his chair. He sat, forked a mussel to his mouth, used his tongue and teeth on it, swallowed, nodded, and said, “Mr. Hewitt has bloomed four crosses between Maltonia sanderae and Odontoglossum pyramus. One of them is worth naming.”
So they had found time to visit the orchid house.
Around half past eight Felix came and asked if he could have a minute to discuss the problem of shipping langoustes from France by air. It developed that what he really wanted was Wolfe’s approval of frozen langoustes, and of course he didn’t get it. But he was stubborn, and they were still at it when Pierre ushered Sarah Dacos in. She was right on time. As I took her coat she accepted my offer of coffee, so I put her in a chair at the table and waited until Felix had gone to tell Wolfe her name.
He sizes a man up, but not a woman, because of his conviction that any opinion formed by any woman is sure to be wrong. He looked at Sarah Dacos, of course, since he was to talk to her. He told her that he supposed Mrs. Bruner had told her of her conversation with me.