by Rex Stout
I said, “Yeah. You’re Scotch?”
She nodded. “My name was Buchan.”
“So McNair told us.” I jerked my eyes up quick from my notebook, which was my habit against the handicap of not being able to keep a steely gaze on the victim. But she wasn’t recoiling in dismay; she was just nodding again.
“Yes. I gathered from what the policemen said that Boyden had told Mr. Wolfe a good deal of his early life. Of course you have the advantage of knowing what it was he had to say to Mr. Wolfe. I knew, naturally, that Boyden was not well … his nerves …”
Gebert put in, “He was what you call a wreck. He was in a very bad condition. That is why I told the police, they will find it was suicide.”
“The man was crazy!” This was a croak from Dudley Frost. “I’ve told you what he did yesterday! He instructed his lawyer to demand an accounting on Edwin’s estate! On what grounds? On the ground that he is Helen’s godfather? Absolutely fantastic and illegal! I always thought he was crazy—”
That started a general rumpus. Mrs. Frost expostulated with some spirit, Llewellyn with respectful irritation, and Helen with a nervous outburst. Perren Gebert looked around at them, nodded at me as if he and I shared an entertaining secret, and got out a cigarette. I didn’t try to put it all down, but just surveyed the scene and listened. Dudley Frost was surrendering no ground:
“… crazy as a loon! Why shouldn’t he commit suicide? Helen, my dear, I adore you, you know damned well I do, but I refuse to assume respect for your liking for that nincompoop merely because he is no longer alive! He had no use for me and I had none for him! So what’s the use pretending about it? As far as your dragging this man in here is concerned—”
“Dad! Now, Dad! Cut it out—”
Perren Gebert said to no one, “And half a bottle gone.” Mrs. Frost, sitting with her lips tight and patient, glanced at him. I leaned forward to get closer to Dudley Frost and practically yelled at him:
“What is it? Where does it hurt?”
He jerked back and glared at me. “Where does what hurt?”
I grinned. “Nothing. I just wanted to see if you could hear. I gather you would just as soon I’d go. The best way to manage that, for all of you, is to let me ask a few foolish questions, and you answer them briefly and maybe honestly.”
“We’ve already answered them. All the foolish questions there are. We’ve been doing that all day. All because that nincompoop McNair—”
“Okay. I’ve already got it down that he was a nincompoop. You’ve made remarks about suicide. What reason did McNair have for killing himself?”
“How the devil do I know?”
“Then you can’t think one up offhand?”
“I don’t have to think one up. The man was crazy. I’ve always said so. I said so over twenty years ago, in Paris, when he used to paint rows of eggs strung on wires and call it The Cosmos.”
Helen started to burst, “Uncle Boyd was never—” She was seated at my right, and I reached and tapped her sleeve with the tips of my fingers and told her, “Swallow it. You can’t crack every nut in the bag.” I turned to Perren Gebert:
“You mentioned suicide first. What reason did McNair have for killing himself?”
Gebert shrugged. “A specific reason? I don’t know. He was very bad in his nerves.”
“Yeah. He had a headache. How about you, Mrs. Frost? Have you got a reason?”
She looked at me. You couldn’t take that woman’s eyes casually; you had to make an effort. She said, “You make your question a little provocative. Don’t you? If you mean, do I know a concrete motive for Boyden to commit suicide, I don’t.”
“Do you think he did?”
She frowned. “I don’t know what to think. If I think of suicide, it is only because I knew him quite intimately, and it is even more difficult to believe that there was anyone who … that someone killed him.”
I started to sigh, then realized that I was imitating Nero Wolfe, and choked it off. I looked around at them. “Of course, you all know that McNair died in Nero Wolfe’s office. You know that Wolfe and I were there, and naturally we know what he had been telling us about and how he was feeling. I don’t know how carefully the police are with their conclusions, but Mr. Wolfe is very snooty about his. He has already made one or two about this case, and the first one is that McNair didn’t kill himself. Suicide is out. So if you have any idea that that theory will be found acceptable, either now or eventually, obliterate it. Guess again.”
Perren Gebert extended a long arm to crush his cigarette in a tray. “For my part,” he said, “I don’t feel compelled to guess. I made one to be charitable. Suppose you tell us why it wasn’t suicide.”
Mrs. Frost said quietly, “I asked you to sit down in my house, Mr. Goodwin, because my daughter brought you. But I wonder if you know when you are being offensive? We … I have no theory to advance …”
Dudley Frost started to croak: “Take no notice of him, Calida. Disregard him. I refuse to speak to him.” He reached for the whiskey bottle.
I said, “If you ask me, I could be even more offensive and still hope to make the grade to heaven.” I got Mrs. Frost’s eyes again. “For instance, I might remark on your phony la-de-da about asking me to sit down in your house. It isn’t your house, it’s your daughter’s, unless she gave it to you—” There was a gasp at my right from the client, and Mrs. Frost’s mouth opened, but I went on ahead of the rush:
“Just to show you how offensive I can be if I work at it. What kind of ninnies do you think we are? Even the cops aren’t as thick as you seem to believe. It’s time you folks pinched yourselves and woke up. Boyden McNair gets bumped off, and Helen Frost here happens to have enough regard for him to want to know who did it, and enough gumption to get the right man for the job, and enough jack to pay him. She’s your daughter and niece and cousin and almost fiancée. She brings me here. I already know enough to be aware that you’ve got vital information which you don’t intend to cough up, and you know I know it. And look at the kindergarten stuff you hand me! McNair had a headache, so he went to Nero Wolfe’s office to poison himself! You might at least have the politeness to tell me straight that you refuse to discuss the matter because you don’t intend to get involved if you can help it, then we can proceed with the involving.” I pointed my pencil at Perren Gebert’s long thin nose. “For instance, you! Did you know that Dudley Frost might tell us where the red box is?”
I concentrated on Gebert, but Mrs. Frost was off line only a little to the left of him, so I was having a glimpse of her too. Gebert fell for it absolutely. His head jerked around to look at Dudley Frost and then back at me. Mrs. Frost jerked too, first at Gebert, then back into steadiness. Dudley Frost was sputtering at me:
“What’s that? What red box? That idiotic thing in McNair’s will? Damn you, are you crazy too? Do you dare—”
I grinned at him. “Hold it. I just said you might. Yeah, the thing McNair left to Wolfe in his will. Have you got it?”
He turned to his son and growled, “I refuse to speak to him.”
“Okay. But the truth is, I’m a friend of yours. I’m tipping you off. Did you know that there’s a way for the District Attorney to force an accounting from you of your brother’s estate? And did you ever hear of a search warrant? I suppose when the cops went with one to your apartment this afternoon to look for the red box, there was a maid there to let them in. Didn’t she phone you? And of course in looking for the box they would have occasion to glance at anything that might be around. Or maybe they didn’t get there yet; they may be on the way now. And don’t go blaming your maid, she can’t help it—”
Dudley Frost had scrambled to his feet. “They wouldn’t—that would be an outrage—”
“Sure it would. I’m not saying they’ve done it, I’m just telling you, in a case of murder they’ll do anything—”
Dudley Frost had started across the room. “Come on, Lew—by Gad, we’ll see—”
“But, Dad
, I don’t—”
“Come on, I say! Are you my son?” He had turned at the far end of the room. “Thank you for the refreshment, Calida, let me know if there is anything I can do. Lew, damn it, come on! Helen, my dear, you are a fool, I’ve always said so. Lew!”
Llewellyn stopped to murmur something to Helen, nodded to his aunt, ignored Gebert, and hurried after his father to assist in the defense of their castle. There were rumblings from the entrance hall, and then the door opening and closing.
Mrs. Frost stood up and looked down at her daughter. She spoke to her quietly: “This is frightful, Helen. That this should come … and just now, just when you will soon be a woman and ready for your life as you want it. I know what Boyd was to you, and he was a great deal to me, too. Just now you’re holding things against me that time will make you forget … you’re remembering that I thought it wise to temper the affection you had for him. I thought it best; you were a girl, and girls should look to youth. Helen, my dear child …”
She bent down and touched her daughter’s shoulder, touched her hair and straightened up again. “You have strong impulses, like your father, and sometimes you don’t quite manage them. I don’t agree with Perren when he sneers at you for trying to buy vengeance. Perren loves to sneer; it’s his favorite pose; he would call it being sardonic … but you know him. I think the impulse that led you to hire this detective was a generous one. Certainly I have every reason to know that you are generous.” Her voice stayed low, but it got more of a ring in it, a music of metal. “I’m your mother, and I don’t believe you really want to bring people here who tell me that I refuse to discuss … this matter … because I don’t intend to get involved. I’m sorry I was brusque with you today on the telephone, but my nerves were on edge. Policemen were here, and you were away, just making more trouble for us to no good purpose. Really … really, don’t you see that? Cheap insults and bullying for your own family won’t help any. I think you’ve learned, in twenty-one years, that you can depend on me, and I’d like to feel that I can depend on you too …”
Helen Frost stood up. Seeing her face, with no color in it and her mouth twisted, it looked shaky to me, and I considered butting in, but decided to keep my trap shut. She stood straight, with her hands, fists, hanging at her sides, and her eyes were dark with trouble but held level at Mrs. Frost, which was why I didn’t speak. Gebert took a couple of steps toward her and stopped.
She said, “You can depend on me, Mother. But so can Uncle Boyd. That’s all right, isn’t it? Oh, isn’t it?” She looked at me and said in a funny tone like a child, “Don’t insult my mother, Mr. Goodwin.” Then she turned abruptly and ran out on us, skipped the shebang. She left by a door on the right, not toward the hall, and closed it behind her.
Perren Gebert shrugged his shoulders and thrust his hands into his pockets, then pulled one out to rub the side of his thin nose with his forefinger. Mrs. Frost, with a couple of teeth clamped on her lower lip, looked at him and then back at the door where her daughter had gone.
I said brightly, “I don’t think she fired me. I didn’t understand it that way. What do you think?”
Gebert showed me a thin smile. “You leave now. No?”
“Maybe.” I still had my notebook open in my hand. “But you folks might as well understand that we mean business. We’re not just having fun, we do this for a living. I don’t believe you can talk her out of it. This place belongs to her. I’m willing to have a showdown right now; say we go to her bedroom or wherever she went, and ask if I’m kicked out.” I directed my gaze at Mrs. Frost. “Or have a little chat right here. You know, they might find that red box at Dudley Frost’s, at that. How would that set with you?”
She said, “Stupid senseless tricks.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Even Steven. If you bounced me, Inspector Cramer would send me right back here with a man if Wolfe asked him to, and you’re in no position to ritz the cops, because they’re sensitive and they would only get suspicious. At present they’re not actually suspicious, they just think you’re hiding something because people like you don’t want any publicity except in society columns and cigarette ads. For instance, they believe you know where the red box is. You know, of course, it’s Nero Wolfe’s property; McNair left it to him. We really would like to have it, just for curiosity.”
Gebert, after listening to me politely, cocked his head at Mrs. Frost. He smiled at her: “You see, Calida, this fellow really believes we could tell him something. He’s perfectly sincere about it. The police, too. The only way to get rid of them is to humor them. Why not tell them something?” He waved a hand inclusively. “All sorts of things.”
She looked at him without approval. “This is nothing to be playful about. Certainly not your kind of playfulness.”
He lifted his brows. “I don’t mean to be playful. They want information about Boyd, and unquestionably we have it, quantities of it.” He looked at me. “You do shorthand in that book? Good. Put this down: McNair was an inveterate eater of snails, and he preferred Calvados to cognac. His wife died in childbirth because he was insisting on being an artist and was too poor and incompetent to provide proper care for her. —What, Calida? But the fellow wants facts! —Edwin Frost once paid McNair two thousand francs—at that time four hundred dollars—for one of his pictures, and the next day traded it to a flower girl for a violet—not a bunch, a violet. McNair named his daughter Glenna because it means valley, and she came out of the valley of death, since her mother died at her birth—just a morsel of Calvinistic merriment. A light-hearted man, Boyd was! Mrs. Frost here was his oldest friend and she once rescued him from despair and penury; yet, when he became the foremost living designer and manufacturer of women’s woolen garments, he invariably charged her top prices for everything she bought. And he never—”
“Perren! Stop it!”
“My dear Calida! Stop when I’ve just started? Give the fellow what he wants and he’ll let us alone. It’s a pity we can’t give him his red box; Boyd really should have told us about that. But I realize that his chief interest is in Boyd’s death, not his life. I can be helpful on that too. Knowing so well how Boyd lived, surely I should know how he died. As a matter of fact, when I heard of his death last evening, I was reminded of a quotation from Norboisin—the girl Denise gasps it as she expires: ‘Au moins, je meurs ardemment!’ Might not Boyd have used those very words, Calida? Of course, with Denise the adverb applied to herself, whereas with Boyd it would have been meant for the agent—”
“Perren!” It was not a protest this time, but a command. Mrs. Frost’s tone and look together refrigerated him into silence. She surveyed him: “You are a babbling fool. Would you make a jest of it? No one but a fool jests at death.”
Gebert made her a little bow. “Except his own, perhaps, Calida. To keep up appearances.”
“You may. I am Scotch, too, like Boyd. It is no joke to me.” She turned her head and let me have her eyes again. “You may as well go. As you say, this is my daughter’s house; we do not put you out. But my daughter is still a minor—and anyway, we cannot help you. I have nothing whatever to say, beyond what I have told the police. If you enjoy Mr. Gebert’s vaudeville I can leave you with him.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t like it much.” I stuck my notebook in my pocket. “Anyhow, I’ve got an appointment downtown, to squeeze blood out of a stone, which will be a cinch. It’s just possible Mr. Wolfe will phone to invite you to his office for a chat. Have you anything on for this evening?”
She froze me. “Mr. Wolfe’s taking advantage of my daughter’s emotional impulse is abominable. I don’t wish to see him. If he should come here—”
“Don’t let that worry you.” I grinned at her. “He’s done all his traveling for this season and then some. But I expect I’ll be seeing you again.” I started off, and after a few steps turned. “By the way, if I were you I wouldn’t make much of a point of persuading your daughter to fire us. It would just make Mr. Wolfe suspicious, a
nd that turns him into a fiend. I can’t handle him when he’s like that.”
It didn’t look as if even that one was going to cause her to burst into sobs, so I beat it. In the entrance hall I tried to open up the wrong mirror, then found the right one and got my hat. The etiquette seemed to be turned off, so I let myself out and steered for the elevator.
I had to flag a taxi to take me home, because I had ridden up with our client and her cousin, not caring to leave them alone together at that juncture.
It was after six o’clock when I got there. I went to the kitchen first and commandeered a glass of milk, took a couple of sniffs at the goulash steaming gently on the simmer plate, and told Fritz it didn’t smell much like freshly butchered kid to me. I slid out when he brandished a skimming spoon.
Wolfe was at his desk with a book, Seven Pillars of Wisdom, by Lawrence, which he had already read twice, and I knew what mood he was in when I saw that the tray and glass were on his desk but no empty bottle. It was one of his most childish tricks, every now and then, especially when he was ahead of his quota more than usual, to drop the bottle into the wastebasket as soon as he emptied it, and if I was in the office he did it when I wasn’t looking. It was that sort of thing that kept me skeptical about the fundamental condition of his brain, and that particular trick was all the more foolish because he was unquestionably on the square with the bottle caps; he faithfully put every single one in the drawer; I know that, because I’ve checked up on him time and time again. When he was ahead on quota he made some belittling remark about statistics with each cap he dropped in, but he never tried to get away with one.
I tossed my notebook on my desk and sat down and sipped at the milk. There was no use trying to explode him off of that book. But after a while he picked up the thin strip of ebony he used for a bookmark, inserted it, closed the book, laid it down, and reached out and rang for beer. Then he leaned back and admitted I was alive.