by Rex Stout
Tolman said, “Odell, what was it this man told you yesterday afternoon?”
The house dick didn’t look at me. He sounded gruff “He told me Phillip Laszio was going to be killed by somebody, and when I asked him who was going to do it he said they were going to take turns.”
“What else?”
“That’s all he said.”
Tolman turned to me, but I beat the gun. I gave Odell a dig in the ribs that made him jump. “Oh, that’s it!” I laughed. “I remember now, when we were out by the bridle path throwing stones, and you pointed out that ledge to me and told me—sure! Apparently you didn’t tell Mr. Tolman everything we said, since he thinks—Did you tell him how I was talking about those dago and polack cooks, and how they’re so jealous of each other they’re apt to begin killing each other off any time, and how Laszio was the highest paid of the bunch, sixty thousand bucks a year, so they would be sure to pick on him first, and how they would take turns killing him first and then begin on the next one—and then I remember you began telling me about the ledge and how it happened you could leave the hotel at that time of day—” I turned to Tolman. “That’s all that was, just a couple of guys talking to pass the time. You’re welcome to any significance you can find in it. If I told you what Odell told me about that ledge—” I laughed and poked my pal in the ribs again.
Tolman was frowning, but not at me. “What about it, Odell? That’s not the way you told it. What about it?”
I had to hand it to Odell for a good poker face, at that. He was the picture of a Supreme Court justice pretending that he had no personal interest in the matter. Still he didn’t glance at me, but he looked Tolman quietly in the eye. “I guess my tongue kinda ran away with me. I guess it was about like he says, just shootin’ off. But of course I remembered the name, Phillip Laszio, and any detective would jump at a chance to have a hot one on a murder…”
The squint-eyed ruffian spoke, in a thin mild drawl that startled me. “You sound pretty inaccurate to me, Odell. Maybe you ought to do less guessin’?”
Tolman demanded, “Did he or did he not tell you Laszio was going to be killed?”
“Well … the way he just said it, yes. I mean about them all being jealous dagoes, and Laszio getting sixty thousand—I’m sure he said that. I guess that’s all there was to it.”
“What about it, Goodwin? Why did you pick on Laszio?”
I showed a palm. “I didn’t pick on him. I happened to mention him because I knew he was the tops—in salary, anyhow. I had just read an article—want to see it?”
The sheriff drawled, “We’re wastin’ time. Get the hell out of here, Odell.”
My pal, without favoring me with a glance, turned and made for the door. Tolman called to the cop:
“Bring Wolfe in.”
I sat tight. Except for the little snags that had threatened to trip me up, I was enjoying myself. I was wondering what Inspector Cramer of the New York Homicide Squad would say if he could see Nero Wolfe letting himself be called in for a grilling by small town snoops at half-past three in the morning, because he didn’t want to offend a prosecuting attorney! He hadn’t been up as late as that since the night Clara Fox slept in his house in my pajamas. Then I thought I might as well offer what help I could, and got up and brought a big armchair from the other end of the room and put it in position near the table.
The cop returned, with my boss. Tolman asked the cop who was left out there, and the cop said, “That Vookshish or whatever it is, and Berin and his daughter. They tried to shoo her off to bed, but she wouldn’t go. She keeps making passes to come in here.”
Tolman was chewing his lip, and I kept one sardonic eye on him while I used the other one to watch Nero Wolfe getting himself into the chair I had placed. Finally Tolman said, “Send them to their rooms. We might as well knock off until morning. All right, Pettigrew?”
“Sure. Bank it up and sleep on it.” He squinted at the cop. “Tell Plank to wait out there until we see what arrangements he’s made. This is no time of night for anyone to be taking a walk.”
The cop departed. Tolman rubbed his eyes, then, chewing at his lip again, leaned back and looked at Wolfe. Wolfe seemed placid enough, but I saw his forefinger tapping on the arm of his chair and knew what a fire was raging inside of him. He offered as a bit of information, “It’s nearly four o’clock, Mr. Tolman.”
“Thanks.” Tolman sounded peevish. “We won’t keep you long. I sent for you again because one or two things have come up.” I observed that he and the sheriff both had me in the corner of their eyes, and I’d have sworn they were putting over a fast one and trying to catch me passing some kind of a sign to Wolfe. I let myself look sleepy, which wasn’t hard.
Wolfe said, “More than one or two, I imagine. For instance, I suppose Mrs. Laszio has repeated to you the story she told me yesterday afternoon. Hasn’t she?”
“What story was that?”
“Come now, Mr. Tolman.” Wolfe stopped tapping with the finger and wiggled it at him. “Don’t be circuitous with me. She was in here with you over half an hour, she must have told you that story. I figured she would. That was why I didn’t mention it; it seemed preferable that you should get it fresh from her.”
“What do you mean, you figured she would?”
“Only an assumption.” Wolfe was mild and inoffensive. “After all, she is a participant in this tragedy, while I am merely a bystander—”
“Participant?” Tolman was frowning. “Do you mean she had a hand in it? You didn’t say that before.”
“Nor do I say it now. I merely mean, it was her husband who was murdered, and she seems to have had, if not premonition, at least apprehension. You know more about it than I do, since you have questioned her. She informed you, I presume, that her husband told her that at noon yesterday, in the kitchen of this place, he found arsenic in a sugar shaker which was intended for him; and that without her husband’s knowledge or consent she came to ask my assistance in guarding him from injury and I refused it.”
“Why did you refuse it?”
“Because of my incompetence for the task. As I told her, I am not a food taster or a body guard.” Wolfe stirred a little; he was boiling. “May I offer advice, Mr. Tolman? Don’t waste your energy on me. I haven’t the faintest idea who killed Mr. Laszio, or why. It may be that you have heard of me; I don’t know; if so, you have perhaps got the impression that when I am engaged on a case I am capable of sinuosities, though you wouldn’t think it to look at me. But I am not engaged on this case, I haven’t the slightest interest in it, I know nothing whatever about it, and you are as apt to receive pertinent information from the man in the moon as you are from me. My connection with it is threefold. First, I happened to be here; that is merely my personal misfortune. Second, I discovered Mr. Laszio’s body; as I told you, I was curious as to whether he was childishly keeping secret surveillance over the table, and I looked behind the screen. Third, Mrs. Laszio told me someone was trying to poison her husband and asked me to prevent it; you have that fact; if there is a place for that piece in your puzzle, fit it in. You have, gentlemen, my sympathy and my best wishes.”
Tolman, who after all wasn’t much more than a kid, twisted his head to get a look at the sheriff, who was slowly scratching his cheek with his middle finger. Pettigrew looked back at him and finally turned to Wolfe:
“Look, mister, you’ve got us wrong I think. We’re not aiming to make you any trouble or any inconvenience. We don’t regard you as one of that bunch that if they knew anything they wouldn’t tell us if they could help it. But you say maybe we’ve heard of you. That’s right. We’ve heard of you. After all, you was around with this bunch all day talking with ’em. You know? I don’t know what Tolman here thinks, but it’s my opinion it wouldn’t hurt any to tell you what we’ve found out and get your slant on it. Since you say you’ve got no interest in it that might conflict. All right, Barry?”
Wolfe said, “You’d be wasting your time. I’m not a wizard.
When I get results, I get them by hard work, and this isn’t my case and I’m not working on it.”
I covered a grin. Tolman put in, “The sooner this thing is cleaned up, the better for everybody. You realize that. If the sheriff—”
Wolfe said brusquely, “Very well. To-morrow.”
“It’s already to-morrow. God knows how late you’ll sleep in the morning, but I won’t. There’s one thing in particular I want to ask you. You told me that the only one of these people you know at all well is Vukcic. Mrs. Laszio told me about her being married to Vukcic and getting divorced from him some years ago to marry Laszio. Could you tell me how Vukcic has been feeling about that?”
“No. Mrs. Laszio seems to have been quite informative.”
“Well, it was her husband that got killed. Why? Have you got anything against her? That’s the second dig you’ve taken at her.”
“Certainly I have something against her. I don’t like women asking me to protect their husbands. It is beneath the dignity of a man to rely, either for safety or salvation, on the interference of a woman. Pfui!”
Of course Wolfe wasn’t in love. I hoped Tolman realized that. He said:
“I asked you that question, obviously, because Vukcic was one of the two who had the best opportunity to kill him. Most of them are apparently out of it, by your own testimony among others.” He glanced at one of the papers on the table. “The ones who were in the parlor all the time, according to present information, are Mrs. Laszio, Mrs. Mondor, Lisette Putti and Goodwin. Servan says that when he went to the dining room to taste those sauces Laszio was there alive and nothing wrong, and at that time Mondor, Coyne and Keith had already been in, and it is agreed that none of them left the parlor again. They too are apparently out of it. The next two were Berin and Vukcic. Berin says that when he left the dining room Laszio was still there and still nothing wrong, and Vukcic says that when he entered, some eight or ten minutes later on account of a delay, Laszio was gone and he saw nothing of him and noticed nothing wrong. The three who went last, Vallenko and Rossi and you, are also apparently out of it, but not as conclusively as the others, since it is quite possible that Laszio had merely stepped out to the terrace or gone to the toilet, and returned after Vukcic left the dining room. According to the cooks, he had not appeared in the kitchen, so he had not gone there.”
Tolman glanced at the paper again. “That makes two probabilities, Berin and Vukcic, and three possibilities, Vallenko and Rossi and you. Besides that, there are three other possibilities. Someone could easily have entered the dining room from the terrace at any time; the glass doors were closed and the shades drawn, but they were not locked. And there were three people who could have done that: Leon Blanc, who refused to take part on account of animosity toward Laszio and was absent; Mrs. Coyne, who was outdoors alone for nearly an hour, including the interval between Berin’s visit to the dining room and that of Vukcic; and Miss Berin. Blanc claims he went to his room and didn’t leave it, and the hall attendants didn’t see him go out, but there is a door to the little side terrace at the end of the left wing corridor which he could have used without observation. Mrs. Coyne says she was on the paths and lawns throughout her absence, was not on the dining room terrace, and re-entered by the main entrance and went straight to the parlor. As for Miss Berin, she returned to the parlor, from the room, before the tasting of the sauces began, and did not again leave; I mentioned her absence only to have the record complete.” I thought to myself, you cold-blooded hound! She was in her room crying for you, that was her absence, and you make it just part of a list!
“You were there, Mr. Wolfe. That covers it, doesn’t it?”
Wolfe grunted. Tolman resumed, “As for motive, with some of them there was enough. With Vukcic, the fact that Laszio had taken his wife. And immediately preceding Vukcic’s trip to the dining room he had been talking with Mrs. Laszio and gazing at her and dancing with her—”
Wolfe said sharply, “A woman told you that.”
“By God,” the sheriff drawled, “you seem to resent the few little things we have found out. I thought you said you weren’t interested.”
“Vukcic is my friend. I’m interested in him. I’m not interested in this murder, with which he had no connection.”
“Maybe not.” Tolman looked pleased, I suppose because he had got a rise out of Nero Wolfe. “Anyway, my talk with Mrs. Mondor was my first chance to make official use of my French. Next there is Berin. I got this not from Mrs. Mondor, but from him. He declares that Laszio should have been killed long before now, that he himself would have liked to do it, and that if he has any opportunity to protect the murderer he will do so.”
Wolfe murmured, “Berin talks.”
“I’ll say he does. So does that little Frenchman Leon Blanc, but not the same style. He admits that he hated Laszio because he cheated him out of his job at the Hotel Churchill some years ago, but he says he wouldn’t murder anybody for anything. He says that it does not even please him that Laszio is dead, because death doth not heal, it amputates. Those were his words. He’s soft-spoken and he certainly doesn’t seem aggressive enough to stab a man through the heart, but he’s no fool and possibly he’s smooth.
“There’s the two probabilities and one possibility with motives. Of the four other possibilities, I guess you didn’t do it. If Rossi or Vallenko had any feelings that might have gone as far as murder, I haven’t learned it yet. As for Mrs. Coyne, she never saw Laszio before, and I can’t discover that she has spoken to him once. So until further notice we have Berin and Vukcic and Blanc. Any of them could have done it, and I think one of them did. What do you think?”
Wolfe shook his head. “Thank heaven, it isn’t my problem, and I don’t have to think.”
Pettigrew put in, in his mild drawl, “Do you suppose there’s any chance you suspect your friend Vukcic did it and so you’d rather not think about it?”
“Chance? Certainly. Remote. If Vukcic did it, I hope with all my heart he left no rope for you to hang him by. And as for information regarding it, I have none, and if I had I wouldn’t reveal it.”
Tolman nodded. “That’s frank, but not very helpful. I don’t have to point out to you that if you’re interested in your friend Vukcic and think he didn’t do it, the quickest way to clear him is to find out who did. You were right there on the spot; you saw everyone and heard everything that was said. It seems to me that under those circumstances a man of your reputation and ability should find it possible to offer some help. If you don’t it’s bound to put more suspicion on your friend Vukcic, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Your suspicions are your affair; I can’t regulate them. Confound it, it’s four o’clock in the morning!” Wolfe sighed. Then he compressed his lips. He sat that way, and finally muttered, “Very well, I’ll help for ten minutes. Tell me about the routine—the knife, fingerprints, anything found—”
“Nothing. There were two knives on the table for slicing the squab, and it was one of them. You saw for yourself there was not the slightest sign of a struggle. Nothing anywhere. No prints that seem to mean anything; those on the knife handle were all smudged. The levers on the door to the terrace are rough wrought iron. Men are still in there working it over, but that angle looks hopeless.”
Wolfe grunted. “You’ve omitted possibilities. The cooks and waiters?”
“They’ve all been questioned by the sheriff, who knows how to deal with niggers. None of them went to the dining room, and they didn’t see or hear anything. Laszio had told them he would ring if anything was wanted.”
“Someone could have gone from the large parlor to the small one and from there entered the dining room and killed him. You should establish beyond doubt the presence of everyone in the large parlor, especially during the interim between Berin’s leaving the dining room and Vukcic’s entering it, which, as you say, was some eight or ten minutes.”
“I have done so. Of course, I covered everybody pretty fast.”
“Th
en cover them again. Another possibility: someone could have been concealed behind either of the screens and struck from there when the opportunity offered.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.” Wolfe frowned. “I may as well tell you, Mr. Tolman, I am extremely skeptical regarding your two chief suspects, Mr. Berin and Mr. Vukcic. That is putting it with restraint. As for Mr. Blanc, I am without an opinion; as you have pointed out, he could unquestionably have left his room, made an exit at the end of the left wing corridor, circled the building, entered by the dining room terrace, achieved his purpose, and returned the way he had come. In that case, might he not have been seen by Mrs. Coyne, who was outdoors at the time, looking at the night?”
Tolman shook his head. “She says not. She was at the front and the side both. She was no one but a nigger in uniform, and stopped him and asked him what the sound of a whippoorwill was. We’ve found him—one of the boys from the spring on his way to Mingo Pavilion.”
“So. As for Berin and Vukcic, if I were you I would pigeonhole them for the present. Or at least—I offer a suggestion: get the slips, the tasting reports, from Mr. Servan—”
“I have them.”
“Good. Compare them with the correct list, which you also got from Mr. Servan no doubt—”
“He didn’t have it. It was in Laszio’s pocket.”
“Very well. Compare each list with it, and see how nearly each taster was correct.”
Sheriff Pettigrew snorted. Tolman asked dryly, “You call that being helpful, do you?”
“I do. I am already—by the way!” Wolfe straightened a little. “If you have the correct list there—the one you took from Laszio’s pocket—do you mind if I look at it a moment?”
Tolman, with his brows up, shuffled through the papers before him, extracted one, handed it to me, and I passed it to Wolfe. Wolfe looked at it with his forehead wrinkled, and exclaimed, “Good God!” He looked at it again, and turning to me, shaking the paper in his hand. “Archie. Coyne was right! Number 3 was shallots!”