by Rex Stout
He went back to the pile of papers.
Chapter 18
THE HOST WAS LATE to the party, but it wasn’t his fault. I wasn’t present at the private argument Cramer insisted on having with Wolfe in the dining room, being busy elsewhere, but as I passed in the hall, admitting guests as they arrived, I could hear their voices through the closed door. Since the door to the office was soundproofed and I kept it shut, they weren’t audible in there.
The red leather chair was of course reserved for Inspector Cramer, and Purley Stebbins was on one nearby against the wall, facing the gathering. Jerome and Rita Arkoff and Tom and Fanny Irwin were in the front row, where Saul and I had spaced the chairs, but Irwin had moved his close to his wife’s-not, however, taking her hand to hold. Mr. and Mrs. Herold and Albert Freyer were grouped over by the globe, off apart. Back of the Arkoffs and Irwins were William Lesser and Patrick Degan, and between them and slightly to the rear was Saul Panzer. That way the path from me to Degan was unobstructed and Saul was only an arm’s length from him.
It was a quarter past nine, and the silence, broken only by a mutter here and there, was getting pretty heavy when the door opened and Wolfe and Cramer entered. Wolfe crossed to his desk and sat, but Cramer stood to make a speech.
“I want you to understand,” he told them, “that this is not an official inquiry. Five of you came here at my request, but that’s all it was, a request. Sergeant Stebbins and I are here as observers, and we take no responsibility for anything Nero Wolfe says or does. As it stands now, you can walk out whenever you feel like it.”
“This is a little irregular, isn’t it, Inspector?” Arkoff asked.
“I said you can walk out,” Cramer told him. He stood a moment, turned and sat, and scowled at Wolfe.
Wolfe was taking them in. “I’m going to begin,” he said conversationally, “by reporting a coincidence, though it is unessential. It is unessential, but not irrelevant. Reading the Times at breakfast this morning, I noticed a Washington dispatch on page one.” He picked up a newspaper from his desk. “If you’ll indulge me I’ll read some of it.
‘A total disclosure law requiring all private welfare and pension plans to open books to governmental inspection was recommended today by a Senate subcommittee. The proposal was based on a two-year study that disclosed practices ranging from sloppy bookkeeping to a $900,000 embezzlement.
‘The funds have grown to the point, the committee said, that they now provide benefits to 29,000,000 workers and to 46,000,000 dependents of these workers. Assets of the pension funds alone now total about 25 billion dollars, it was said.
‘The Senate group, headed by Senator Paul H. Douglas, Democrat of Illinois, said: “While the great majority of welfare and pension programs are being responsibly and honestly administered, the rights and equities of the beneficiaries in many instances are being dangerously ignored. In other cases, the funds of the programs are being dissipated and at times become the hunting ground of the unscrupulous.”‘“
Wolfe put the paper down. “It goes on, but that will do. I read it for the record and because it juxtaposed two things: the word ‘welfare’ and large sums of money. For a solid week I had been trying to find a hint to start me on the trail of the man who killed Michael Molloy-and subsequently Johnny Keems and Ella Reyes-enough of one at least to stir my pulse, to no avail. This, if not a flare, was at least a spark. Patrick Degan was the head of an organization called the Mechanics Alliance Welfare Association, and a large sum of money had been found in a safe-deposit box Molloy had rented under an assumed name.”
He pushed the newspaper aside. “That faint hint, patiently and persistently pursued, might eventually have led me to the truth, but luckily it wasn’t needed. I have here in my drawer a sheaf of papers which contain evidence of these facts: that from nineteen fifty-one to nineteen fifty-five Molloy made purchases of small pieces of land in various parts of the country; that their value, and the amounts of money he had to put up, were negligible; that in each case the purchaser of record was some ‘camp’-examples are the Wide World Children’s Camp and the Blue Sky Children’s Camp; that these camps, twenty-eight in all, borrowed a total of nearly two million dollars from Mr. Degan’s organization on mortgages; that Molloy’s share of the loot was one-fourth and Degan’s share three-fourths, from which each had presumably to meet certain expenses; and that the date of the last such loan on mortgage was October seventeenth, nineteen fifty-five. I can supply many details, but those are the essentials. Do you wish to comment, Mr. Degan?”
Of course all eyes were on him, but his were only for Wolfe. “No,” he said, “except that it’s outrageous and libelous and I’ll get your hide. Produce your sheaf of papers.”
Wolfe shook his head. “The District Attorney will produce them when the time comes. But I’ll humor your curiosity. When Molloy decided to leave the country with his loot, alarmed by the Senate investigation, and to take his secretary, Delia Brandt, with him, he stowed his records in a suitcase and left it in Delia Brandt’s apartment. That is suggestive, since prudence would have dictated their destruction. It suggests that he foresaw some future function for them, and the most likely one would have been to escape penalty for himself by supplying evidence against you. No doubt you foresaw that too, and that’s why you killed him. Do you wish to comment?”
“No. Go ahead and hang yourself.”
“Wait a minute,” Cramer snapped. “I want to see those papers.”
“Not now. By agreement I have an hour without interruption.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Listen and you’ll know.” Wolfe returned to Degan. “The best conjecture is that you knew Molloy had those records, some in your writing, and you knew or suspected he was preparing to decamp. If you demanded that he give them to you or destroy them in your presence, he refused. After you killed him you had no time to search the apartment, but enough to go through his clothing, and it must have been a relief to find the key to the safe-deposit box, since that was the most likely repository of the records-but it was a qualified relief, since you didn’t dare to use the key. If you still have it, and almost certainly you have, it can be found and will be a damaging bit of evidence. You now have another, as the administrator of Molloy’s estate, but surely the safe-deposit company can distinguish between the original and the duplicate they had to have made-and by the way, what would you have done if, opening the box in the presence of Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Parker, you had found the records in it? Had you decided on a course?”
Degan didn’t reply. “Get on,” Cramer rasped. “Where did you get them?”
Wolfe ignored him. “However, they weren’t there. Another question: how did you dare to kill him when you didn’t know where they were? But I’ll venture to answer that myself. By getting Peter Hays there and giving the police an obvious culprit, you insured plenty of time and opportunity for searching the apartment as an old friend of Mrs. Molloy’s. She is not present to inform us, but that can wait.”
“Where is she?” Cramer demanded.
Ignored again. “You must admit, Mr. Degan, that luck was with you. For instance, the safe-deposit box. You had the key, but even if you had known the name Molloy had used in renting it, and you probably didn’t, you wouldn’t have dared to try to get at it. Then fortune intervened, represented by me. I got you access to the box. But in spite of that good fortune you weren’t much better off, for the records weren’t there, and until you found them you were in great jeopardy. What did you do? I wouldn’t mind paying you the compliment of supposing that you conceived the notion that Molloy had cached the records in Delia Brandt’s apartment, and you approached her, but I doubt if you deserve it. It is far more likely that she approached you; that, having decided to marry William Lesser, she wanted to get rid of Molloy’s suitcase, still in her apartment; that before doing so she forced it open and inspected its contents; that if items such as passports and steamship or airplane tickets were there she destroyed them; that she
examined the sheaf of papers and from them learned that there was a large sum of money somewhere and that you had been involved with Molloy in extensive and lucrative transactions and probably knew where the money was. She was not without cunning. Before approaching you she took the suitcase, with the records in it, to Grand Central Terminal and put it in a checking locker. Then she saw you, told you what she knew and what she had, and demanded the money.”
“That’s a lie!” William Lesser blurted.
Wolfe’s eyes darted to him. “Then what did she do? Since you know?”
“I don’t know, but I know she wouldn’t do that! It’s a lie!”
“Then let me finish it. A lie, like a truth, should reach its destination. And that, Mr. Degan, was where luck caught up with you. You couldn’t give her the money from the safe-deposit box, but even if you gave her a part of your share of the loot and she surrendered the records to you, you couldn’t empty her brain of what she knew, and as long as she lived she would be a threat. So last night you went to her apartment, ostensibly, I presume, to give her the money and get the records, but actually to kill her, and you did so. I don’t know- Saul !”
I wouldn’t say that Saul slipped up. Sitting between Lesser and Degan, naturally he was concentrating on Degan, and Lesser gave no warning. He just lunged, right across Saul’s knees, either to grab Degan or hit him, or maybe both. By the time I got there Saul had his coattail, jerking him off, Degan was sitting on the floor, and Purley Stebbins was on the way. But Purley, who has his points, wasn’t interested in Lesser, leaving him to Saul. He got his big paws on Degan’s arm, helped him up, and helped him down again onto the chair, while Saul and I bulldozed Lesser to the couch. When we were placed again it was an improvement: Stebbins on one side of Degan and Saul on the other, and Lesser on the sidelines. Cramer, who had stood to watch the operation, sat down.
Wolfe resumed. “I was saying, Mr. Degan, that I don’t know whether you searched her apartment for the records, but naturally-Did he, Mr. Cramer?”
“Someone did,” Cramer growled. “Good. I’m stopping this right here. I want to see those records and I want to know how you got them.”
Wolfe looked at the wall clock. “I still have thirty-eight minutes of my hour. If you interpose authority of course you have it. But I have your word. Is it garbage?”
Cramer’s face got redder, and his jaw worked. “Go ahead.”
“I should think so.” Wolfe returned to Degan. “You did search, naturally, without success. You weren’t looking for something as small as a key, but even if you had been you still wouldn’t have found it, for it was destined for me. How it reached me is a detail Mr. Cramer may discuss with me later if he still thinks it worth while; all that concerns you is that I received it, and sent Mr. Panzer with it to Grand Central, and he returned with the suitcase. From it I got the sheaf of papers now in my drawer. I was inspecting them when Mr. Cramer phoned me shortly after six o’clock, and I arranged with him for this meeting. That’s all, Mr. Degan.”
Wolfe’s eyes went left, and his voice lifted and sharpened. “Now for you, Mrs. Irwin. I wonder if you know how deep your hole is?”
“Don’t say anything, Fanny.” Irwin stood up. “We’re going. Come on, Fanny.” He took her shoulder and she came up to her feet.
“I think not,” Wolfe said. “I quote Mr. Cramer: ‘As it stands now, you can walk out whenever you feel like it.’ But the standing has been altered. Archie, to the door. Mr. Cramer, I’ll use restraint if necessary.”
Cramer didn’t hesitate. He was gruff. “I think you’d better stay and hear it out, Mr. Irwin.”
“I refuse to, Inspector. I’m not going to sit here while he insults and bullies my wife.”
“Then you can stand. Stay at the door, Goodwin. No one leaves this room until I say so. That’s official. All right, Wolfe. God help you if you haven’t got it.”
Wolfe looked at her. “You might as well sit down, Mrs. Irwin. That’s better. You already know most of what I’m going to tell you, perhaps all. Last Wednesday evening a man named Keems, in my employ, called at your apartment and spoke with you and your husband. You were leaving for a party and cut the interview short. Keems left the building with you, but soon he went back to your apartment and talked with your maid, Ella Reyes, and gave her a hundred dollars in cash. In return she gave him information. She told him that on January third you complained of no headache until late in the afternoon, immediately after you received a phone call from Patrick Degan. She may even-”
“That isn’t true.” Fanny Irwin had to squeeze it out.
“If you mean she didn’t tell him that, I admit I can’t prove it, since Johnny Keems and Ella Reyes are both dead. If you mean that didn’t happen, I don’t believe you. She may even have also told him that she heard the phone conversation on an extension, and that Mr. Degan told you to withdraw from the theater party that evening, giving a headache as an excuse, and to suggest that Mrs. Molloy be invited in your stead.”
“You know what you’re saying,” Jerome Arkoff said darkly.
“I do,” Wolfe told Mrs. Irwin, not him. “I am charging you with complicity in the murder of Michael Molloy, and, by extension, of Johnny Keems and Ella Reyes and Delia Brandt. With that information from your maid, Keems, ignoring the instructions I had given him, sought out Degan. Degan, seeing that he was in great and imminent peril, acted promptly and effectively. On some pretext, probably of taking Keems to interview some other person, he had Keems wait for him at a place not frequented at that time of night while he went for his car; and instead of going for his car he stole one, drove it to the appointed place, and killed Keems with it.”
Wolfe’s head moved. “Do you wish to challenge that detail, Mr. Degan? Have you an alibi for that night?”
“I’m listening,” Degan said, louder than necessary. “And don’t forget others are listening too.”
“I won’t.” Wolfe returned to Fanny Irwin. “But Degan had learned from Keems the source of his information, and Ella Reyes was almost as great a menace as Keems had been. Whether he communicated with her directly or through you, I don’t know. He arranged to meet her, and killed her, and put the body where it was not found until somewhat later, taking her handbag to delay identification. By then he was no better than a maniac, and when, two or three days afterward, he was confronted with still another threat, this time from Delia Brandt, qualms, either of conscience or of trepidation, bothered him not at all. But I wonder about you. You felt no qualms? You feel none?”
“Don’t say anything,” her husband told her. He had her hand.
“I’m not sure that’s good advice,” Wolfe said. “There are certainly people present who would question it. If you’ll turn your head, madam, to your right and rear, there by the big globe-the man on the left and the woman beside him-they are the parents of Peter Hays, who has been convicted of a murder you helped to commit. The other man is also deeply interested; he is Peter Hays’s counsel. Now if you’ll turn your head the other way. The man on the couch, who lost control of himself a few minutes ago, is-or was-the fiance of Delia Brandt. They were to be married-tomorrow, Mr. Lesser?”
No reply.
Wolfe didn’t press him. “And standing at the door is Archie Goodwin, and on Mr. Degan’s left is Saul Panzer. They were friends and colleagues of Johnny Keems-and I myself knew Keems for some years and had esteem for him. I’m sorry I can’t present to you any of the friends or family of Ella Reyes; you knew her better than anyone else here.”
“What the hell good does this do?” Jerome Arkoff demanded.
Wolfe ignored it. “The point is this, Mrs. Irwin. Mr. Degan is done for. I have this sheaf of papers in my drawer. The key for the safe-deposit box which he took from Molloy’s body will almost certainly be found in Degan’s possession. There are other items-for example, when Mr. Goodwin left this house last Tuesday a man followed him, and that man will be found and will tell who engaged him. I’ll stake my reputation that it was Degan.
Now that we know that Degan killed those four people, the evidence will pile up. Fingerprints in Delia Brandt’s apartment, his movements Wednesday night and Thursday night and Sunday night, an examination of the books of his organization; it will be overwhelming.”
“What do you want of me?” she asked. They were her first words since he had called her a murderer.
“I want you to consider your position. Your husband advises you to say nothing, but he should consider it too. You are clearly open to a charge as accessory to murder. If you think you must not admit that Degan phoned you on January third, and suggested that you withdraw from the theater party and that Mrs. Molloy be asked in your stead, you are wrong. Such an admission would injure you only if it carried the implication that you knew why Degan wanted Mrs. Molloy away from her apartment-knew it either when he made the suggestion or afterward. And such an implication is not inherent. It is even implausible, since Degan wouldn’t want to disclose his intention to commit murder. He could have told you merely that he wanted a private conversation with you and asked you to make an opportunity for that evening, and his suggestion of Mrs. Molloy could have been offhand. If so, it is unwise and dangerous for you to keep silent, for silence can carry implications too. If Degan merely wanted an opportunity to discuss some private matter-”
“That was it!” she said, for all to hear.
Her husband let go of her hand.
Jerome Arkoff croaked, “Don’t be a goddam fool, Tom! This is for keeps!”
Rita sang out, “Go on, Fanny! Spit it out!”
Fanny offered both hands to her husband, and he took them. She gave him her eyes too. “You know me, Tom. You know I’m yours. He just said he had to see me, he had to tell me something. He came to the apartment, but now I see, because he didn’t come until nearly ten-”
Degan went for her. Of course it was a convulsion rather than a calculated movement. It couldn’t very well have been calculated, since Saul and Purley were right there beside him, and since, even if he got his hands on her and somehow managed to finish her, it wouldn’t have helped his prospects any. It was as Wolfe had said, after killing four people he was no better than a maniac, and, hearing her blurting out her contribution to his doom, he acted like one. He never touched her. Saul and Purley had him and jerked him back, and those two together are enough for any maniac.