by Rex Stout
WOLFE: On our assumption, yes.
NORA: The camera must have taken them the day before, at sixteen minutes past six Wednesday afternoon. At that hour I am always up in my room, washing and changing, getting ready to go to the lounge for cocktails. So is everyone else, nearly always. So there it is, take it altogether. On Monday Archie Goodwin comes as the new secretary under another name. Thursday morning Mr. Jarrell’s gun is gone. Thursday afternoon the pictures come, taken at a time when I was up in my room alone. Friday morning, today, the news comes that Jim Eber has been murdered, shot. Also this morning Archie Goodwin isn’t there, and Mr. Jarrell says he has sent him on a trip. And this afternoon Mr. Jarrell tells me that Jim was shot with a thirty-eight.
(The gray eyes were steady and cold. I had the feeling that if they aimed my way they would see me right through the picture, though I knew they couldn’t.)
NORA: I’m not frightened, Mr. Wolfe. I don’t scare easily. And I know you wouldn’t deliberately conspire to have me accused of murder, and neither would Archie Goodwin. But all those things together, I wasn’t going to just wait and see what happened. It wouldn’t have helped any to say all this to Mr. Jarrell. I know all about his business affairs, but this is his personal life, his family, and I don’t count. I’d rather not have him know I came to you, but I don’t really care. I’ve worked long enough anyhow. Was Archie Goodwin there because Mr. Jarrell hired you, or was it someone else?
WOLFE: Even granting the assumption, I can’t tell you that.
NORA: I suppose not. But he’s not there today, so you may be through. In the twenty-two years I have been with Mr. Jarrell I have had many opportunities, especially the past ten years, and my net worth today, personally, is something over a million dollars. I know you charge high fees, but I could afford it. I said I’m not frightened, and I’m not, but something is going to happen to somebody, I’m sure of that, and I don’t want it to happen to me. I want you to see that it doesn’t. I’ll pay you a retainer, of course, whatever you say. I believe the phrase is “to protect my interests.”
WOLFE: I’m sorry, Miss Kent, but I must decline.
NORA: Why?
WOLFE: I’ve undertaken a job for Mr. Jarrell. He has—
NORA: Then he did hire you! Then he knew it was Archie Goodwin!
WOLFE: No. That remains only an assumption. He has engaged me to conduct a conference for him. On the telephone today. He feels that the situation calls for an experienced investigator, and at six o’clock, three hours from now, he will come here and bring seven people with him-his family, and a man named Brigham, and you. That is, if you care to come. Evidently you are in no mood to trot when he whistles.
NORA: He phoned you today?
WOLFE: Yes.
NORA: You were already working for him. You sent Archie Goodwin up there.
WOLFE: You have a right, madam, to your beliefs, but I beg you not to be tiresome with them. If you join us at six o’clock, and I advise you to, you should know that the Mr. Goodwin who scurried from this room at your behest will be here, at his desk, and Alan Green, Mr. Jarrell’s secretary, will also be present. The others, the members of Mr. Jarrell’s family, unlike you, will probably be satisfied that those two men know who they are. Will you gain anything by raising the question?
NORA: No. I see. No. But I don’t-then Mr. Jarrell doesn’t know either?
WOLFE: Don’t get tangled in your own assumption. If you wish to revise it after the conference by all means do so. And now I ask you to reciprocate. I have an assumption too. We have accepted yours as a basis for discussion; now let us accept mine. Mine is that none of the people who will be present at the conference fired the shot that killed Mr. Eber. What do you think of it?
(The gray eyes narrowed.)
NORA: You can’t expect me to discuss that. I am employed by Mr. Jarrell.
WOLFE: Then we’ll turn it around. We’ll assume the contrary and take them in turn. Start with Mr. Jarrell himself. He took his own gun, with that hocus-pocus, and shot Eber with it. What do you say to that?
NORA: I don’t say anything.
(She stood up.)
NORA: I know you’re a clever man, Mr. Wolfe. That’s why your picture is in my scrapbook. I may not be as clever as you are, but I’m not an utter fool.
(She started off, and, halfway to the door, turned.)
NORA: I’ll be here at six o’clock if Mr. Jarrell tells me to.
She went. I whispered to Orrie, “Go let her out, Archie.” He whispered back, “Let her out yourself, Alan.” The result was that she let herself out. When I heard the front door close I left the wing and made it to the front in time to see her, through the one-way glass panel, going down the stoop. When she had reached the sidewalk safely I went to the office.
Wolfe was forward in his chair, his palms on his desk. Orrie was at my desk, in my chair, at ease. I stood and looked down at Wolfe.
“First,” I said, “Who is whom?”
He grunted. “Confound that woman. When you were introduced to her Monday afternoon I suppose you were looking at her. And you saw no sign that she had recognized you?”
“No, sir. A woman who has it in her to collar a million bucks knows how to hide her feelings. Besides, I thought it was only women under thirty who put my picture in scrapbooks. Then the program will be as scheduled?”
“Yes. Have you a reason for changing it?”
“No, sir. You’re in for it. Please excuse me a minute.” I pivoted to Orrie. “You’ll be me at six o’clock, I can’t help that, but you’re not me now.”
Down went my hands, like twin snakes striking, and I had his ankles. With a healthy jerk he was out of my chair, and I kept him coming, and going, until he was flat on his back on the rug, six feet away. By the time he had bounced up I was sitting. I may or may not know how to deal with a murderer, but I know how to handle an imposter.
Chapter 8
I MADE A CRACK, I remember, about Susan’s entrance in the lounge Monday evening, after everyone else was there, as to whether or not she had planned it that way. My own entrance in Wolfe’s office that Friday afternoon, after everyone else was there, was planned that way all right. There were two reasons: first, I didn’t want to have to chat with the first arrivals, whoever they would be, while waiting for the others; and second, I didn’t want to see Orrie being Archie Goodwin as he let them in and escorted them to the office. So at five-forty, leaving the furnishing of the refreshment table to Fritz and Orrie, I left the house and went across the street to the tailor shop, from where there was a good view of our stoop.
The first to show were Lois and Nora Kent and Roger Foote, in a taxi. Nora paid the hackie, which was only fair since she could afford it, and anyway, she probably put it on the expense account. Transportation to and from a conference to discuss whether anyone present is a murderer is probably tax deductible. The next customer was also in a taxi-Corey Brigham, alone. Then came Wyman and Susan in a yellow Jaguar, with him driving. He had to go nearly to Tenth Avenue to find a place to park, and they walked back. Then came a wait. It was 6:10 when a black Rolls-Royce town car rolled to the curb and Jarrell and Trella got out. I hadn’t grown impatient, having myself waited for Trella twenty-five minutes on Tuesday, bound for lunch at Rusterman’s. As soon as they were inside I crossed the street and pushed the button. Archie Goodwin let me in and steered me to the office. He was passable.
He had followed instructions on seating. The bad thing about it was that I had four of them in profile and couldn’t see the others’ faces at all, but we couldn’t very well give the secretary a seat of honor confronting the audience. Of course Jarrell had the red leather chair, and in the front row of yellow chairs were Lois, Trella, Wyman, and Susan. The family. Behind them were Alan Green, Roger Foote, Nora Kent, and Corey Brigham. At least I had Lois right in front of me. She wasn’t as eye-catching from the back as from the front, but it was pleasant.
When Wolfe entered he accepted Jarrell’s offer of a hand, got b
ehind his desk, stood while Jarrell pronounced our names, inclined his head an eighth of an inch, and sat.
Jarrell spoke. “They all know that this is about Eber, and I’ve hired you, and that’s all. I’ve told them it’s a conference, a family conference, and it’s off the record.”
“Then I should clarify it.” Wolfe cleared his throat. “If by ‘off the record’ you mean that I am pledged to divulge nothing that is said, I must dissent. I’m not a lawyer and cannot receive a privileged communication. If you mean that this proceeding is confidential and none of it will be disclosed except under constraint of law, if it ever applies, that’s correct.”
“Don’t shuffle, Wolfe. I’m your client.”
“Only if we understand each other.” Wolfe’s eyes went left to right and back again. “Then that’s understood. I believe none of you know about the disappearance of Mr. Jarrell’s gun. You have to know that. Since his secretary, Mr. Green, was present when its absence was discovered, I’ll ask him to tell you. Mr. Green?”
I had known that would come, but not that he would pick on me first. Their heads were turned to me. Lois twisted clear around in her chair, and her face was only arm’s length away. I reported. Not as I had reported to Wolfe, no dialogue, but all the main action, from the time Jarrell had dashed into my room until we left the library. I had their faces.
The face that left me first was Trella’s. She turned it to her husband and protested. “You might have told us, Otis!”
Corey Brigham asked me, “Has the gun been found?” Then he went to Jarrell too. “Has it?”
Wolfe took over. “No, it has not been found. It has not been looked for. In my opinion Mr. Jarrell should have had a search made at once, calling in the police if necessary, but it must be allowed that it was a difficult situation for him. By the way, Mr. Green, did you get the impression that Mr. Jarrell suspected anyone in particular?”
I hoped I got him right. Since he had asked it he wanted it answered, but he hadn’t asked what Jarrell had said, only if I had got an impression. I gave him what I thought he wanted. “Yes, I did. I might have been wrong, but I had the feeling that he thought he knew who had taken it. It was-”
“Goddamn it,” Jarrell blurted, “you knew what I thought! I didn’t think, I knew! If it’s out let it come all the way out!” He aimed a finger at Susan. “You took it!”
Dead silence. They didn’t look at Susan, they looked at him, all except Roger Foote, next to me. He kept his eyes on Wolfe, possibly deciding whether to place a bet on him.
The silence was broken by Wyman. He didn’t blurt, he merely said, “That won’t get you anywhere, Dad, not unless you’ve got proof. Have you got any?” He turned, feeling Susan’s hand on his arm, and told her, “Take it easy, Sue.” He was adding something, but Wolfe’s voice drowned it.
“That point should be settled, Mr. Jarrell. Do you have proof?”
“No. Proof for you, no. I don’t need any.”
“Then you’d better confine your charge to the family circle. Broadcast, it would be actionable.” His head turned to the others. “We’ll ignore Mr. Jarrell’s specification of the culprit, since he has no proof. Ignoring that, this is the situation: When Mr. Jarrell learned this afternoon that Mr. Eber had been killed with a gun of the same caliber as his, which had been taken from a drawer of his desk, he was concerned, and no wonder, since Eber had been in his employ five years, had lived in his house, had recently been discharged, had visited his house on Wednesday, the day the gun was taken, and had been killed the next day. He decided to consult me. I told him that his position was precarious and possibly perilous; that his safest course was to report the disappearance of his gun, with all the circumstances, to the police; that, with a murder investigation under way, it was sure to transpire eventually, unless the murderer was soon discovered elsewhere; and that, now that I knew about it, I would myself have to report it, for my own protection, if the possibility that his gun had been used became a probability. Obviously, the best way out would be to establish that it was not his gun that killed Eber, and that can easily be done.”
“How?” Brigham demanded.
“With an if, Mr. Brigham, or two of them. It can be established if it is true, and if the gun is available. Barring the servants, one of you took Mr. Jarrell’s gun. Surrender it. Tell me where to find it. I’ll fire a bullet from it, and I’ll arrange for that bullet to be compared with the one that killed Eber. That will settle it. If the markings on the bullets don’t match, the gun is innocent and I have no information for the police. Per contra, if they do match, I must inform the police immediately, and give them the gun, and all of you are in a pickle.” He upturned both palms. “It’s that simple.”
Jarrell snapped at his daughter-in-law, “Where is it, Susan?”
“No,” Wolfe snapped back at him, “that won’t do. You have admitted you have no proof. I am conducting this conference at your request, and I won’t have you bungling it. These people, including you, are jointly in jeopardy, at least of severe harassment, and I insist on making the appeal to them jointly.” His eyes went right and left. “I appeal to all of you. Mrs. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mrs. Otis Jarrell.” Pause. “Miss Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Green.” Pause. “Mr. Foote.” Pause. “Miss Kent.” Pause. “Mr. Brigham.”
Lois twisted around in her chair to face me. “He’s good at remembering names, isn’t he?” she asked. Then she made two words, four syllables, with her lips, without sound. I am not an accomplished lip reader, but there was no mistaking that. The words were “Archie Goodwin.”
I was arranging my face to indicate that I hadn’t caught it when Corey Brigham spoke. “I don’t quite see why I have been included.” His well-trained smile was on display. “It’s an honor, naturally, to be considered in the Jarrell family circle, but as a candidate for taking Jarrell’s gun I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”
“You were there, Mr. Brigham. Perhaps I haven’t made it clear, or Mr. Green didn’t. The photograph, taken automatically when the door opened, showed the clock above the door at sixteen minutes past six. You were a dinner guest that evening, Wednesday, and you arrived shortly after six and were in the lounge.”
“I see.” The smile stayed on. “And I rushed back to the library and worked the great rug trick. How did I get in?”
“Presumably, with a key. The door was intact.”
“I have no key to the library.”
Wolfe nodded. “Possession of a key to that room would be one of the many points to be explored in a laborious and prolonged inquiry, if it should come to that. Meanwhile you cannot be slighted. You’re all on equal terms, if we ignore Mr. Jarrell’s specification without evidence, and I do.”
Roger Foote’s voice boomed suddenly, louder than necessary. “I’ve got a question.” There were little spots of color beneath the cheekbones of his big wide face-at least there was one on the side I could see. “What about this new secretary, this Alan Green? We don’t know anything about him, anyway I don’t. Do you? Did he know Eber?”
My pal. My pet panhandler. I had lent the big bum sixty bucks, my money as far as he knew, and this was what I got for it. Of course, Peach Fuzz hadn’t won. He added a footnote. “He had a key to the library, didn’t he?”
“Yes, Mr. Foote, he did,” Wolfe conceded. “I don’t know much about him and may have to know more before this matter is settled. One thing I do know, he says he was in his room alone at a quarter past six Wednesday afternoon, when the gun was taken. So was Mr. Jarrell, by his account. Mr. Green has told you of Mr. Jarrell’s coming for him, and what followed. Mr. Brigham was in the lounge. Where were you, Mr. Foote?”
“Where was I when?”
“I thought I had made it plain. At a quarter past six Wednesday afternoon.”
“I was on my way back from Jamaica, and I got home-no. No, that was yesterday, Thursday. I must have been in my room, shaving. I always shave around then.”
“You say ‘
must have been.’ Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“No. I’m not Louis the Fourteenth. I don’t get an audience in to watch me shave.”
Wolfe nodded. “That’s out of fashion.” His eyes went to Trella. “Mrs. Jarrell, we might as well get this covered. Do you remember where you were at that hour on Wednesday?”
“I know where I am at that hour every day-nearly every day, except week ends.” I could see one of her ears, but not her face. “I was in the studio looking at television. At half past six I went to the lounge.”
“You’re sure you were there on Wednesday?”
“I certainly am.”
“What time did you go to the studio?”
“A little before six. Five or ten minutes before.”
“You remained there continuously until six-thirty?”
“Yes.”
“I believe the studio is on the main corridor. Did you see anyone passing by in either direction?”
“No, the door was closed. And what do you take me for? Would I tell you if I had?”
“I don’t know, madam; but unless we find that gun you may meet importunity that will make me a model of amenity by comparison.” His eyes went past Wyman to Susan. “Mrs. Jarrell? If you please.”
She replied at once, her voice down as usual, but firm and distinct. “I was in my room with my husband. We were there together, from about a quarter to six, for about an hour. Then we went down to the lounge together.”
“You confirm that, Mr. Jarrell?”
“I do.” Wyman was emphatic.
“You’re sure it was Wednesday?”
“I am.”
Wolfe’s eyes went left and were apparently straight at me, but I was on a line with Lois, who was just in front. “Miss Jarrell?”