by Rex Stout
“Thanks,” Skinner repeated, more drily still. “I’ll get to you—”
“No doubt. But let me—no, confound it, I’m talking! Let me orient you a little. Here’s your predicament. An eminent personage, an envoy of Great Britain, has been discovered alone with a murdered man and the fact has been made public. Even if you wanted to you can’t keep him in custody because of his diplomatic immunity. Why not, then, to avoid a lot of official and international fuss, just forget it and let him go? Because you don’t dare; if he really did kill Mr. Walsh you are going to have to ask his government to surrender him to you, and fight to get him if necessary, or the newspapers will howl you out of office. You are sitting on dynamite, and so is Mr. Hombert, and you know it. I can imagine with what distaste you contemplate being forced into an effort to convict the Marquis of Clivers of murder. I see the complications; and the devil of it is that at this moment you don’t at all know whether he did it or not. His story that he went to see Mr. Walsh and found him already dead may quite possibly be true.
“So, since an attempt to put Lord Clivers on trial for murder, and convict him, would not only create an international stink but might be disastrous for you personally, what should be your first and immediate concern? It seems obvious. You should swiftly and rigorously explore the possibility that he is not guilty. Is there someone else who wanted Harlan Scovil and Michael Walsh to die, and if so, who, and where is he? I know of only six people living who might help you in pursuing that inquiry. One of them is the murderer, another is an old man on a farm in Nebraska, and the other four are in this room. And, questioning one of them, what do you do? You put on an exhibition of your cunning at cross-examination in an effort to infer that she has tried to blackmail Lord Clivers, though he has had various opportunities to make such an accusation and has not done so. Again, you aim the weapon of your cunning, not at your own ignorance, but directly at Miss Fox, when you pounce on the larceny charge, though that accusation has been dismissed by the man who made it.
“Bah!” Wolfe looked around at them. “Do you wonder, gentlemen, that I have not taken you into my confidence in this affair? Do you wonder that I have no intention of doing so even now?”
Cramer grunted, gazing at a cigar he had pulled out of his pocket five minutes before. Skinner, scratching his ear, screwed up his mouth and looked sidewise at Clara Fox. Hombert let out a “Ha!” and slapped the arm of his chair. “So that’s your game! You’re not going to talk, eh? By God, you will talk!”
“Oh, I’ll talk.” Wolfe sighed. “You may know everything you are entitled to know. You are already aware that Mr. Scovil was in this room yesterday afternoon and got killed shortly after leaving it. Mr. Goodwin talked with him and will repeat the conversation if you wish it. You may hear everything from Miss Fox and Miss Lindquist that I have heard; and from Miss Fox regarding Mr. Walsh. You may know of the claim which I have presented to Lord Clivers on behalf of Miss Lindquist and her father, which he has offered to settle. But there are certain things you may not know, at least not from me; for instance, the details of a long conversation which I had with Lord Clivers when he called here this afternoon. He can tell you—”
“What’s that?” Skinner sat up, croaking. Hombert goggled. Cramer, who had finally got his cigar lit, jerked it up with his lip so that the ash fell to the rug. Skinner went on, “What are you trying to hand us? Clivers called on you today?”
Wolfe nodded. “He was here over an hour. Perhaps I shouldn’t say today, since it is nearly one o’clock Wednesday morning. Yes, Lord Clivers called. We drank eight bottles of beer, and he greatly admired that terrestrial globe you see there.”
Without taking his cigar from his mouth, Cramer rumbled, “I’ll be damned.” Hombert still goggled. Skinner stared, and at length observed, “I’ve never heard of your being a plain liar, Wolfe, but you’re dishing it up.”
“Dishing it up?” Wolfe looked at me. “Does that mean lying, Archie?”
“Naw,” I grinned, “it’s just rhetoric.”
“Indeed.” Wolfe reached to push the button, and leaned back. “So you see, gentlemen, I not only have superior knowledge in this affair, I have it from a superior source. Lord Clivers gave me much interesting information, which of course I cannot consider myself free to reveal.” He turned his eyes on the Police Commissioner. “I understand, Mr. Hombert, that Mr. Devore, Mr. Cramer and you were all in communication with him, protecting him, following the death of Mr. Scovil. It’s too bad he didn’t see fit to take you into his confidence. Maybe he will do so now, if you approach him properly.”
Hombert sputtered, “I don’t believe this. We’ll check up on this.”
“Do so.” Wolfe opened the bottle and filled his glass. “Will you have beer, gentlemen? No? Water? Whiskey? Miss Fox? Miss Lindquist? —You haven’t asked Miss Lindquist anything. Must she sit here all night?”
Skinner said, “I could use a good stiff highball. Listen, Wolfe, are you telling this straight?”
“Of course I am. —Fritz, serve what is required. —Why would I be so foolish as to invent such a tale? Let me suggest that the ladies be permitted to retire.”
“Well …” Skinner looked at Hombert. Hombert, tight-lipped, shrugged his shoulders. Skinner turned and asked abruptly:
“Your name is Hilda Lindquist?”
Her strong square face looked a little startled at the suddenness of it, then was lifted by her chin. “Yes.”
“You heard everything Clara Fox said. Do you agree with it?”
She stared. “What do you mean, agree with it?”
“I mean, as far as you know, is it true?”
“Certainly it’s true.”
“Where do you live?”
“Plainview, Nebraska. Near there.”
“When did you get to New York?”
“Last Thursday. Thursday afternoon.”
“All right. That’s all. But understand, you’re not to leave the city—”
Wolfe put in, “My clients will remain in this house until I have cleared up this matter.”
“See that they do.” Skinner grabbed his drink. “So you’re going to clear it up. God bless you. If I had your nerve I’d own Manhattan Island.” He drank.
The clients got up and went. I escorted them to the hall, and while I was out there the doorbell rang. It was Saul Panzer. I went to the kitchen with him and got his report, which didn’t take long. Johnny Keems was there with his chair tipped back against the wall, half asleep, and Purley Stebbins was in a corner, reading a newspaper. I snared myself a glass of milk, took a couple of sips, and carried the rest to the office.
Hombert and Cramer had highballs and Fritz was arranging another one for Skinner. I said to Wolfe: “Saul’s back. The subject left his office a few minutes before six and showed up at his apartment about a quarter after seven and dressed for dinner. Saul hasn’t been able to trace him in between. Shall he keep after it tonight?”
“No. Send him home. Here at eight in the morning.”
“Johnny too?”
“Yes. —No, wait.” Wolfe turned. “Mr. Cramer. Perhaps I can simplify something for you. I know how thorough you are. Doubtless you have discovered that there are various ways of getting into that place on 55th Street, and I suppose you have had them all explored. You may even have learned that there was a man there this afternoon, investigating them.”
Cramer was staring at him. “Now, somebody tell me, how did you know that? Yeah, we learned it, and we’ve got a good description, and there are twenty men looking for him …”
Wolfe nodded. “I thought I might save you some trouble. I should have mentioned it before. The man’s out in the kitchen. He was up there for me.”
Cramer went pop-eyed. “But good God! That was before Walsh was killed!” He put his drink down. “Now what kind of a—”
“We wanted to see Walsh, and knew you would have a man posted at the entrance. He was there to find a way. He left a few minutes after six and was here from six
-thirty until eight o’clock. You may talk with him if you wish, but it will be a waste of time. My word for it.”
Cramer looked at him, and then at me. He picked up his drink. “To hell with it.”
Wolfe said, “Send Johnny home.”
Cramer said, “And tell Stebbins to go out front and tell Rowcliff to cancel that alarm and call those men in.”
I went to perform those errands, and after letting the trio out I left the door open a crack and told Purley to shut it when he came back in. The enemy was inside anyhow, so there was no point in maintaining the barricade.
Back in the office, Skinner and Hombert were bombarding Wolfe. It had got now to where it was funny. Clivers was the bird they had been busy protecting, and the one they were trying to get out of hanging a murder onto, and here they were begging Wolfe to spill what Clivers had disclosed to him over eight bottles of beer! I sat down and grinned at Cramer, and darned if he didn’t have decency enough to wink back at me. I thought that called for another highball, and went and got it for him.
Skinner, with an open palm outstretched, was actually wheedling. “But, my God, can’t we work together on it? I’ll admit we went at it wrong, but how did we know Clivers was here this afternoon? He won’t tell us a damn thing, and as far as I personally am concerned I’d like to kick his rump clear across the Atlantic Ocean. And I’ll admit we can’t coerce you into telling us this vital information you say you got from Clivers, but we can ask for it, and we do. You know who I am. I’m not a bad friend to have in this county, especially for a man in your business. What’s Clivers to you, anyhow, why the devil should you cover him up?”
“This is bewildering,” Wolfe murmured. “Last night Mr. Cramer told me I should help him to protect a distinguished foreign guest, and now you demand the opposite!”
“All right, have your fun,” Skinner croaked. “But tell us this, at least. Did Clivers say anything to indicate that he had it ready for Mike Walsh?”
Wolfe’s eyelids flickered, and after a moment he turned to me. “Your notebook, Archie. You will find a place where I asked Lord Clivers, ‘Don’t you believe him?’ I was referring to Mr. Walsh. Please read Lord Clivers’ reply.”
I had the notebook and was thumbing it. I looked too far front, and flipped back. Finally I had it, and read it out:
“Clivers: ‘I don’t believe anybody. I know damn well I’m a liar. I’m a diplomat. Look here. You can forget about Walsh. I’ll deal with him myself. I have to keep this thing clear, at least as long as I’m in this country. I’ll deal with Walsh. Scovil is dead, God rest his soul. Let the police do what they can with that. As for the Lindquists …’ ”
Wolfe stopped me with a finger. “That will do, Archie. Put the notebook away.”
“He will not put it away!” Hombert was beating up the arm of his chair again. “With that in it? We want—”
He stopped to glare at Skinner, who had tapped a toe on his shin. Skinner was ready to melt with sweetness; his tone sounded like Romeo in the balcony scene. “Listen, Wolfe, play with us. Let us have that. Your man can type it, or he can dictate from his notes and I’ll bring a man in to take it. Clivers is to sail for Europe Sunday. If we don’t get this thing on ice there’s going to be trouble.”
Wolfe closed his eyes, and after a moment opened them again. They were all gazing at him, Cramer slowly chewing his cigar, Hombert holding in an explosion, Skinner looking innocent and friendly. Wolfe said, “Will you make a bargain with me, Mr. Skinner? Let me ask a few questions. Then, after considering the replies, I shall do what I can for you. I think it is more than likely you will find me helpful.”
Skinner frowned. “What kind of questions?”
“You will hear them.”
A pause. “All right. Shoot.”
Wolfe turned abruptly to the inspector. “Mr. Cramer. You had a man following Mr. Walsh from the time you released him this afternoon, and that man was on post at the entrance of the boarding on 55th Street. I’d like to know what it was that caused him to cross the street and enter the enclosure, as reported in the Gazette. Did he hear a shot?”
“No.” Cramer took his cigar from his mouth. “The man’s out in the kitchen. Do you want to hear it from him?”
“I merely want to hear it.”
“Well, I can tell you. Stebbins was away from his post for a few minutes, he’s admitted it. There was a taxi collision at the corner of Madison, and he had to go and look it over, which was bright of him. He says he was away only two minutes, but he may have been gone ten, you know how that is. Anyhow, he finally strolled back, on the south side of 55th, and looking across at the entrance of the boarding he saw the door slowly opening, and the face of a man looked out and it wasn’t Walsh. There were predestrians going by, and the face went back in and the door closed. Stebbins got behind a parked car. In a minute the face looked out again, and there was a man walking by, and the face disappeared again. Stebbins thought it was time to investigate and crossed the street and went in, and it was just lousy luck that that damn newspaper cockroach happened to see him. It was Clivers all right, and Walsh’s body was there on the ground—”
“I know.” Wolfe sighed. “It was lying in front of the telephone. So Mr. Stebbins heard no shot.”
“No. Of course, he was down at the corner and there was a lot of noise.”
“To be sure. Was the weapon on Lord Clivers’ person?”
“No.” Cramer sounded savage. “That’s one of the nice details. We can’t find any gun, except one in Walsh’s pocket that hadn’t been fired. There’s a squad of men still up there, combing it. Also there’s about a thousand hollow steel shafts sticking up from the base construction, and it might have been dropped down one of those.”
“So it might,” Wolfe murmured. “Well … no shot heard, and no gun found.” He looked around at them. “I can’t help observing, gentlemen, that that news relieves me enormously. Moreover, I think you have a right to know that Mr. Goodwin and I heard the shot.”
They stared at him. Skinner demanded, “You what? What the hell are you talking about?”
Wolfe turned to me. “Tell them, Archie.”
I let them have my open countenance. “This evening,” I said, and corrected it, “—last evening—Mr. Wolfe and I were in this office. At two minutes before seven o’clock the phone rang, and it happened that we both took off our receivers. A voice said, ‘Nero Wolfe!’ It sounded far off but very excited—it sounded—well, unnatural. I said, ‘Yes, talking,’ and the voice said, ‘I’ve got him, come up here, 55th Street, this is Mike Walsh, I’ve got him covered, come up.’ The voice was cut off by the sound of an explosion, very loud, as if a gun had been shot close to the telephone. I called Walsh’s name a few times, but there was no answer. We sent a phone call to police headquarters right away.”
I looked around respectfully for approval. Skinner looked concentrated, Hombert looked about ready to bust, and Cramer looked disgusted. The inspector, I could see, didn’t have far to go to get good and sore. He burst out at Wolfe, “What else have you got? First you tell me the man I’ve got the whole force looking for, thinking I’ve got a hot one, is one of your boy scouts acting as advance agent. Now you tell me that the phone call we’re trying to trace about a shot being heard, and you can’t trace a local call anyway with these damn dials, now you tell me you made that too.” He stuck his cigar in his mouth and bit it nearly in two.
“But Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe protested, “is it my fault if destiny likes this address? Did we not notify you at once? Did I not even restrain Mr. Goodwin from hastening to the scene, because I knew you would not want him to intrude?”
Cramer opened his mouth but was speechless. Skinner said, “You heard that shot on the phone at two minutes to seven. That checks. It was five after when Stebbins found Clivers there.” He looked around sort of helpless, like a man who has picked up something he didn’t want. “That seems to clinch it.” He growled at Wolfe, “What makes you so relieved about not findin
g the gun and Stebbins not hearing the shot, if you heard it yourself?”
“In due time, Mr. Skinner.” Wolfe’s forefinger was gently tapping on the arm of his chair, and I wondered what he was impatient about. “If you don’t mind, let me get on. The paper says that Mr. Stebbins felt Lord Clivers for a weapon. Did he find one?”
“No,” Cramer grunted. “He got talkative enough to tell us that he always carries a pistol, but not with evening dress.”
“But since Lord Clivers had not left the enclosure, and since no weapon can be found, how could he possibly have been the murderer?”
“We’ll find it,” Cramer asserted gloomily. “There’s a million places in there to hide a gun, and we’ll have to get into those shafts somehow. Or he might have thrown it over the fence. We’ll find it. He did it, damn it. You’ve ruined the only outside leads I had.”
Wolfe wagged his head at him. “Cheer up, Mr. Cramer. Tell me this, please. Since Mr. Stebbins followed Mr. Walsh all afternoon, I presume you know their itinerary. What was it?”
Skinner growled, “Don’t start stalling, Wolfe. Let’s get—”
“I’m not stalling, sir. An excellent word. Mr. Cramer?”
The inspector dropped his cigar in the tray. “Well, Walsh stopped at a lunch counter on Franklin near Broadway and ate. He kept looking around, but Stebbins thinks he didn’t wise up. Then he took a surface car north and got off at 27th Street and walked west. He went in the Seaboard Building and took the elevator and got off at the 32nd floor and went into the executive offices of the Seaboard Products Corporation. Stebbins waited out in the hall. Walsh was in there nearly an hour. He took the elevator down again, and Stebbins didn’t want to take the same one and nearly lost him. He walked east and went into a drug store and used a telephone in a booth. Then he took the subway and went to a boarding-house in East 64th Street, where he lived, and he left again a little after half-past five and walked to his job at 55th Street. He got there a little before six.”