The Silent Speaker

by Rex Stout

  “Then they won’t call,” Wolfe declared, and shut his eyes again, leaving the discussion of the new development to the others. He was certainly being objectionable, and it wasn’t hard to guess why. The howling insolence of committing a murder on his own stoop would alone have been enough, but in addition to that his house was filled from top to bottom with uninvited guests and he was absolutely powerless. That was dead against his policy, his practice, and his personality. Seeing that he was really in a bad way, and thinking it might be a good plan for him to keep himself at least partially informed of what was going on, since he was supposed to have an interest in the outcome, I went to the kitchen to get some beer for him. Evidently he was in too bad a humor even to remember to send for beer, since there were no signs of any.

  Fritz and about a dozen assorted dicks were there drinking coffee. I told them:

  “You sure are cluttering up the place, but I don’t blame you. It isn’t often that members of the lower classes get a chance to drink coffee made by Fritz Brenner.”

  There was a subdued, but close to unanimous, concert of Bronx cheers. One said, “Goodwin the gentleman. One, two, three, laugh.”

  Another said, “Hey, you know everything. What’s the lowdown on this NIA-BPR stuff? Is it a feud or not?”

  I was putting six bottles and six glasses on a tray, with Fritz’s help. “I’m glad to explain,” I said generously. “The NIA and the BPR are in one respect exactly like the glorious PD, or Police Department. They have esprit de corps. Repeat it after me—no, don’t bother. That is a French term, the language spoken by Frenchmen, the people who live in France, the literal translation of which is ‘spirit of the body.’ In our language we have no precise equivalent—”

  The cheers had begun again, and the tray was ready, so I left them. Fritz came to the hall with me, closed the kitchen door, held my sleeve, and told my ear:

  “Archie, this is awful. I just want to say I know how awful it is for you. Mr. Wolfe told me when I took up his breakfast this morning that you had formed a passion for Miss Gunther and she had you wound around her finger. She was a beautiful girl, very beautiful. This is awful, what happened here.”

  I said, “Go to hell,” jerked my arm to free my sleeve, and took a step. Then I turned to him and said, “All I meant was, this is a hell of a night and it will take you a week to clean up the joint. Go back and finish that lesson in French I was giving them.”

  In the office they were as before. I peddled beer around, making three sales to outsiders, leaving three bottles for Wolfe, which was about as I had calculated, went back to the kitchen and got myself a sandwich and a glass of milk, and returned to my desk with them. The strategy council was going on and on, with Wolfe still aloof in spite of the beer. The sandwich made me hungry and I went and got two more. Long after they were gone the council was still chewing the fat.

  They were handicapped, of course, by continual interruptions, both by phone and by personal appearances. One of the phone calls was for Travis from Washington, and when he was through with it his face displayed no triumph. The nine cylinders had all been listened to, and there was nothing for us to bite on. They contained plenty of evidence that they had been dictated by Boone at his Washington office on Tuesday afternoon, but no evidence at all that would help to uncover a murderer. The BPR was trying to hang onto the transcriptions, but the Washington FBI promised to send a copy to Travis, and he agreed to let Cramer see it.

  “So,” Travis said aggressively, daring us to hint that we were no better off than before, “that proves that Miss Gunther was lying about them. She had them all the time.”

  “Nine.” Wolfe grunted in disgust. “Pfui.”

  That was his only contribution to their discussion of the cylinders.

  It was five minutes past three Tuesday morning when Phillips, the expert with less than his share of chin, entered the office with objects in his hands. In his right was a gray topcoat, and in his left was a silk scarf with stripes of dark brown and terra cotta. It was obvious that even an expert is capable of having feelings. His face showed plainly that he had something.

  He looked at Wolfe and me and asked, “Do I report here, Inspector?”

  “Go ahead.” Cramer was impatient. “What is it?”

  “This scarf was in the right-hand pocket of this coat. It was folded as it is now. Unfolding one fold exposes about forty square inches of its surface. On that surface are between fifteen and twenty particles of matter which in our opinion came from that piece of pipe. That is our opinion. Laboratory tests—”

  “Sure.” Cramer’s eyes were gleaming. “You can test from hell to breakfast. You’ve got a microscope up there, and you know what I want right now. Is it good enough to act on, or isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. We made sure before—”

  “Whose coat is it?”

  “The tag says Alger Kates.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s Kates’s coat.”

  Chapter 22

  SINCE THEY WERE A strategy council, naturally they didn’t send for Kates immediately. They had to decide on strategy first—whether to circle him and get him tangled, or slide it into him gently, or just hit him on the head with it. What they really had to decide was who was going to handle it; that would determine the method, and they started to wrangle about it. The point was, as it always is when you’ve got a crusher like that scarf in his pocket, which way of using it was most likely to crumble him and get a confession? They hadn’t been going long when Travis interposed:

  “With all this top authority present, and me not in it officially anyhow, I hesitate to make a suggestion.”

  “So what is it?” the D.A. asked tartly.

  “I would suggest Mr. Wolfe for it. I have seen him operate, and if it means anything I freely admit that he is my superior at it.”

  “Suits me,” Cramer said at once.

  The other two looked at each other. Neither liked what he was looking at, and neither liked Travis’s suggestion, so simultaneously they said nothing.

  “Okay,” Cramer said, “let’s go. Where do you want the coat and scarf, Wolfe, in sight?”

  Wolfe half opened his eyes. “What is this gentleman’s name?”

  “Oh. Phillips. Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Phillips.”

  “How do you do, sir. Give the coat to Mr. Goodwin. Archie, put it behind the cushions on the couch. Give me the scarf, please.”

  Phillips had handed me the coat without hesitation, but now he balked. He looked at Cramer. “This is vital evidence. If those particles get brushed off and scattered …”

  “I’m not a ninny,” Wolfe snapped.

  “Let him have it,” Cramer said.

  Phillips hated to do it. He might have been a mother instructed to entrust her newborn infant to a shady character. But he handed it over.

  “Thank you, sir. All right, Mr. Cramer, get him in here.”

  Cramer went, taking Phillips with him. In a moment he was back, without Phillips and with Alger Kates. We all gazed at Kates as he stepped across and took the chair indicated by Cramer, facing Wolfe, but it didn’t visibly disconcert him. He looked to me as he had up in my room, as if he might bust out crying any minute, but there was no evidence that he had done so. After he had sat down all I had was his profile.

  “You and I have hardly spoken, have we, Mr. Kates?” Wolfe asked.

  Kates’s tongue came out to wet his lips and went back in again. “Enough to satisfy—” he began, but his thin voice threatened to become only a squeak, and he stopped for a second and then started over. “Enough to satisfy me.”

  “But my dear sir.” Wolfe was gently reproachful. “I don’t believe we’ve exchanged a word.”

  Kates did not unbend. “Haven’t we?” he asked.

  “No, sir. The devil of it is that I can’t honestly say that I don’t sympathize with your attitude. If I were in your position, innocently or not, I would feel the same. I don’t like people piling questions on me, and in fact I don’t
tolerate it.” Wolfe let his eyes open another millimeter. “By the way, I am now, momentarily, official. These gentlemen in authority have deputized me to talk with you. As you doubtless know, that doesn’t mean that you must tolerate it. If you tried to leave this house before they let you go, you would be arrested as a material witness and taken somewhere, but you can’t be compelled to take part in a conversation if you are determined not to. What do you say? Shall we talk?”

  “I’m listening,” Kates said.

  “I know you are. Why?”

  “Because, if I don’t, the inference will be made that I’m frightened, and the further inference will be made that I am guilty of something that I am trying to conceal.”

  “Good. Then we understand each other.” Wolfe sounded as if he were grateful for a major concession. With casual unhurried movement he brought the scarf out from beneath the rim of the desk, where he had been holding it in his hand, and put it down on the blotter. Then he cocked his head at Kates as if trying to decide where to begin. From where I sat, having Kates’s profile, I couldn’t tell whether he even gave the scarf a glance. Certainly he didn’t turn pale or exhibit any hand-clenching or tremors of the limbs.

  “On the two occasions,” Wolfe said, “that Mr. Goodwin went to Fifty-fifth Street to see Miss Gunther, you were there. Were you a close friend of hers?”

  “Not a close personal friend, no. In the past six months, since I’ve been doing confidential research directly under Mr. Boone, I’ve seen her frequently in connection with the work.”

  “Yet she was staying in your apartment.”

  Kates looked at Cramer. “You people have gone over this with me a dozen times.”

  Cramer nodded. “That’s the way it goes, son. This’ll make thirteen.”

  Kates returned to Wolfe. “The present housing shortage makes it extremely difficult, and often impossible, to get a room in a hotel. Miss Gunther could have used her position and connections to get a room, but that is against BPR policy, and also she didn’t do things like that. A bed in a friend’s apartment was available to me, and my wife was away. I offered the use of my apartment to Miss Gunther coming up on the plane from Washington, and she accepted.”

  “Had she ever stayed there before?”

  “No.”

  “You had seen her frequently for six months. What did you think of her?”

  “I thought well of her.”

  “Did you admire her?”

  “Yes. As a colleague.”

  “Did she dress well?”

  “I never noticed particularly—no, that isn’t true.” Kates’s voice zoomed for a squeak again and he used the controls. “If you think these questions are important and you want full and truthful answers. Considering Miss Gunther’s striking appearance and her voluptuous figure, I thought she dressed extremely well for one in her position.”

  If Phoebe was here, I thought, she’d tell him he talks like an old-fashioned novel.

  “Then,” Wolfe said, “you did notice what she wore. In that case, when did you last see her wearing this scarf?” He used a thumb to indicate it.

  Kates leaned forward to look at it. “I don’t remember ever seeing her wear that. I never did.” He settled back.

  “That’s strange.” Wolfe was frowning. “This is important, Mr. Kates. Are you sure?”

  Kates leaned forward again, saying, “Let me see it,” and reached a hand for it.

  Wolfe’s hand was there before his, closing on it. “No,” Wolfe said, “this will be an exhibit in a murder trial and therefore should not be handled indiscriminately.” He stretched an arm to give Kates a closer look. Kates peered at it a moment, then leaned back and shook his head.

  “I’ve never seen it before,” he declared. “On Miss Gunther or anybody else.”

  “That’s a disappointment,” Wolfe said regretfully. “However, it doesn’t exhaust the possibilities. You might have seen it before and now not recognize it because your previous view of it was in a dim light, for instance on the stoop of this house at night. I suggest that for your consideration, because clinging to this scarf are many tiny particles which came from the piece of pipe, showing that the scarf was used as a protection in clutching the pipe, and also because the scarf was found in the pocket of your overcoat.”

  Kates blinked at him. “Whose overcoat?”

  “Yours. Get it, Archie.” I went for it, and stood beside Kates, holding it by the collar, hanging full length. Wolfe asked, “That’s your coat, isn’t it?”

  Kates sat and stared at the coat. Then he arose, turned his back on Wolfe, and called at the top of his voice, “Mr. Dexter! Mr. Dexter! Come in here!”

  “Cut it out.” Cramer was up and had him by the arm on the other side. “Cut out the yelling! What do you want Dexter for?”

  “Then get him in here. If you want me to stop yelling, get him in here.” Kates’s voice was trembling. “I told him something like this would happen! I told Phoebe to have nothing to do with Nero Wolfe! I told her not to come here tonight! I—”

  Cramer pounced. “When did you tell her not to come here tonight? When?”

  Kates didn’t answer. He realized his arm was being gripped, looked down at Cramer’s hand gripping it, and said, “Let go of me. Let go!” Cramer did so. Kates walked across to a chair against the wall, sat on it, and clamped his jaw. He was breaking off relations.

  I said to Cramer, “If you want it, I was there when Rowcliffe was questioning him. He said he was at his friend’s apartment on Eleventh Street, where he’s staying, and Miss Gunther phoned to say she had just been told to come here and wanted to know if he had been told too, and he said yes but he wasn’t coming and he tried to persuade her not to come, and when she said she was going to he decided to come too. I know you’re busy, but if you don’t read reports you throw wild punches.”

  I turned to include them all. “And if you want my opinion, with no fee, that’s not Miss Gunther’s scarf because it’s not her style. She wouldn’t have worn that thing. And it doesn’t belong to Kates. Look at him. Gray suit, gray topcoat. Also a gray hat. I’ve never seen him in anything but gray, and if he was still speaking to us you could ask him.”

  Cramer strode to the door which connected with the front room, opened it a crack, and commanded, “Stebbins! Come in here.”

  Purley came at once. Cramer told him, “Take Kates to the dining room. Bring the others in here one at a time, and as we finish with them take them to the dining room.”

  Purley went with Kates, who didn’t seem reluctant to go. In a moment another dick entered with Mrs. Boone. She wasn’t invited to sit down. Cramer met her in the middle of the room, displayed the scarf, told her to take a good look at it but not to touch it, and then asked if she had ever seen it before. She said she hadn’t, and that was all. She was led out and Frank Thomas Erskine was led in, and the performance was repeated. There were four more negatives, and then it was Winterhoff’s turn.

  With Winterhoff, Cramer didn’t have to finish his speech. He showed the scarf and started, “Mr. Winterhoff, please look—”

  “Where did you get that?” Winterhoff demanded, reaching for it. “That’s my scarf!”

  “Oh.” Cramer backed up a step with it. “That’s what we’ve been trying to find out. Did you wear it here tonight, or have it in your pocket?”

  “Neither one. I didn’t have it. That’s the one that was stolen from me last week.”

  “Where and when last week?”

  “Right here. When I was here Friday evening.”

  “Here at Wolfe’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wore it here?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you found it was gone, who helped you look for it? Who did you complain to?”

  “I didn’t—what’s this all about? Who had it? Where did you get it?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute. I’m asking now, who did you complain to?”

  “I didn’t complain to anybody. I didn’t no
tice it was gone until I got home. If—”

  “You mentioned it to no one at all?”

  “I didn’t mention it here. I didn’t know it was gone. I must have mentioned it to my wife—of course I did, I remember. But I have—”

  “Did you phone here the next day to ask about it?”

  “No, I didn’t!” Winterhoff had been forcing himself to submit to the pressure. Now he was through. “Why would I? I’ve got two dozen scarves! And I insist that—”

  “Okay, insist.” Cramer was calm but bitter. “Since it’s your scarf and you’ve been questioned about it, it is proper to tell you that there is evidence, good evidence, that it was wrapped around the pipe that Miss Gunther was killed with. Have you any comment?”

  Winterhoff’s face was moist with sweat, but it had already been that way up in my room when they were examining his hands. It was interesting that the sweat didn’t seem to make him look any less distinguished, but it did detract some when he goggled, as he now did at Cramer. It occurred to me that his best friend ought to warn him not to goggle.

  He finally spoke. “What’s the evidence?”

  “Particles from the pipe found on the scarf. Many of them, at one spot.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “In an overcoat pocket.”

  “Whose coat?”

  Cramer shook his head. “You’re not entitled to that. I’d like to ask you not to do any broadcasting on this, but of course you will.” He turned to the dick. “Take him to the dining room and tell Stebbins not to bring any more in.”

  Winterhoff had things to say, but he was shooed out. When the door was closed behind him and the dick, Cramer sat down and put his palms on his knees, pulled in a deep breath, and expelled it noisily.

  “Jee-zuss—Christ,” he remarked.

  Chapter 23

  THERE WAS A LONG silence. I looked at the wall clock. It said two minutes to four. I looked at my wrist watch. It said one minute to four. In spite of the discrepancy it seemed safe to conclude that it would soon be four o’clock. From beyond the closed doors to the front room and the hall came faint suggestions of little noises, just enough to keep reminding us that silence wouldn’t do. Every little noise seemed to be saying, come on, it’s getting late, work it out. The atmosphere there in the office struck me as both discouraged and discouraging. Some buoyancy and backbone were needed.