Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 12

by Too Many Women

  “Think again, Mr. Frenkel. The car wasn’t found until nearly noon, so it couldn’t have been in the morning paper.”

  “What!” He was disconcerted. “Are you sure of that?”

  “Positive.”

  “That’s strange.” He shook his head. “That shows what a mind can do with itself. I clearly remember that the impression was with me that morning when I went to work, so the detail of where the car was found must have come later and only made the impression deeper and stronger. Anyhow, that was when it started, and I’ve had it ever since, and I want to get rid of it.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I assured him. “That first time you went to sleep, when you were exhausted with conceptions and your head ached, what time was it?”

  “It was around nine o’clock. Naturally I’ve considered that. I can’t determine it very exactly, but it couldn’t have been far from nine one way or the other.”

  “Did you know where Moore was that evening? Or where you might expect to find him?”

  “No.” He hesitated. “I knew—” He left it hanging.

  I nudged. “Let’s have it.”

  “I knew where I surmised he was, or might be. No, that’s not right. I knew whom I surmised he might be with, and that’s all. I prefer not to mention names.”

  “When you woke up by the bathroom door, how were you dressed?”

  “As usual. As I had been when I lay down. Suit, shoes—fully dressed.”

  “No hat or overcoat?”

  “My God, no. That would have removed any doubt, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, a couple of layers. Any other indications—dirty hands or anything?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Have you ever mentioned this to anyone, your impression that you killed Moore?”

  “Never. When the police were investigating, soon after it happened, a detective called on me and asked if I had been out for a walk late that night and had noticed anyone parking a car on Ninety-fifth Street. Of course that meant they were interested in me because I lived only a block away. He also asked about certain—about my relations with Moore. I told him frankly that I hated Moore.”

  “But you didn’t tell him about your impression?”

  “No, why should I?”

  “You shouldn’t. Why are you telling me?”

  Frenkel hunched his shoulders together. His eyes were no longer probing me; now they left me entirely, going down until they reached the floor. He seemed to be getting forlorn, and I hoped he didn’t have another headache coming on. I waited for him to lift his eyes again, which he eventually did.

  “It’s very difficult,” he said in a grieved tone. “It may sound foolish, but when I learned that you are investigating Moore’s murder I had a kind of vague hope that if I told you about it you might be able to check up on it—you’re a detective and would know how to do it—perhaps by questioning the landlady and other people there you could establish the fact that I didn’t leave my room that evening.” He looked uncertain. “Or perhaps you could relieve my mind. Maybe I haven’t made it plain what terrible pressure I’ve been under. Perhaps you could tell me whether Mr. Naylor has mentioned any names in connection with this—with that irresponsible report he sent to Mr. Pine. Specifically, has he mentioned mine?”

  I was no longer bored, but if any gleam showed in my eyes it was against orders. “Well,” I said offhand, “a lot of names have been mentioned of course. Have you any reason to suppose that Mr. Naylor might single you out?”

  “No good reason, no. It’s like this, Mr. Truett.” He leaned forward, and apparently he had got his second wind, for he was probing again. “This impression that I killed a man has been the dominating element of my whole mental process for nearly four months. It is vital to me, absolutely vital, that I either validate it or destroy it with as little delay as possible. I need to know, and I have a right to know, if anyone else has the same impression, and if so for what reason and with what justification. It can’t be the same reason as mine, for no one on earth, except you now that I’ve told you, knows what happened to me in my room that evening. So I ask if Mr. Naylor has mentioned my name. If he has, and if your telling me so is not regarded as in confidence, I would like to go to him—”

  The door opened and Kerr Naylor was in the room.

  In spite of Ben Frenkel’s distress and SOS appeal I had sprouted no germ of brotherly feeling for him, or if I had, it had wilted fast at the suspicion that what he chiefly wanted was to pump me. But the sight of Naylor’s neat little colorless face and glittery colorless eyes aroused my protective instinct, not only in behalf of Frenkel, but of the whole stock department. As Frenkel saw who the newcomer was and arose, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste, I told Naylor casually:

  “Hello, I haven’t seen you today. I’ve been discussing the personnel of his section with Mr. Frenkel. I think—”

  “He isn’t the head of the section,” Naylor snapped.

  “Yeah, but I often find in my personnel work that you get more from an assistant than you do from a head. Did you want something?”

  “You can finish with Frenkel later.”

  “Sure,” I said agreeably, “but about one point that came up, I got the impression that he wanted to ask you about it. That right, Mr. Frenkel?”

  It didn’t seem to be since he was edging toward the door. He had not gone wholly inarticulate, but his rumble had degenerated to a mumble, something about the outgoing mail waiting for him, and he was gone. He left the door standing open. Kerr Naylor went and closed it, came to the chair his underling had just vacated, and sat down.

  “You’ve got them jumping through hoops,” I said in admiring awe. “Even big ones like Frenkel, who could do a major operation on you with one hand.”

  Naylor smiled his two-cent smile. “He would like to, Frenkel would.”

  “Why, any particular reason?”

  “No, except that he thinks I prevented his promotion in January.” Naylor pulled a pamphlet from his side pocket. “I came across this in a drawer of my desk and thought you might like to read it.”

  I took it. The title on the cover was PROTEINS AND ENZYMES. “Did you say read it or eat it?” I inquired.

  Having no sense of humor, he ignored that. It seemed that he had paid me a visit expressly to give me the pamphlet and discuss its thesis—or rather, to give me a lecture on it. It was all at the tip of his tongue, and he reeled it off as if I had paid to get in and was dying to hear about it.

  I did hear a word here and there, enough to enable me to contribute an occasional grunt or a question, but mostly I was trying to decide what kept him wound up. That he really had it in his heart to sell me on the enzyme potential of foliage I did not believe for a moment. I felt helpless, and so of course I was irritated. Right there in his little head, as he sat doing his spiel, were facts and intentions that were what I needed and all I needed, and I hadn’t the faintest idea how to start prying them loose. I have often felt, talking with a man in the line of duty, okay, brother, wait till Wolfe gets a crack at you, but with Kerr Naylor I wasn’t at all sure that even Wolfe could get a wedge in him.

  He went on and on. I glanced twice at my wristwatch, without effect. Finally I told him I was sorry, I had an appointment and was already late. He wanted to know who with. I gave him the first name that popped into my head, Sumner Hoff.

  “Ah.” He nodded, leaving his chair. “One of our best men—a fine engineer and a good organizer. It’s regrettable—really unfortunate—that he is endangering his whole career on account of that Livsey girl. He could have gone to Brazil, taken charge there, and he wouldn’t leave because of her. You know who she is—you were in her room yesterday and again today. Do you know where Hoff’s office is?”

  “I’ll find—”

  “Come along. It’s near mine, I’ll show you.”

  I followed him, thinking that his intelligence service was not only thorough but on its toes, since he already knew of my brief call on Miss L
ivsey. We went down the broad aisle that separated the main arena from the row of offices, and when we were nearing its end he halted in front of a closed door.

  “This is Hoff’s room,” he announced in the thin tenor that I had had enough of for a while. “By the way, something I nearly forgot to mention. Regarding the murder of Waldo Moore, I told you yesterday that all I could furnish was the bare fact. That was not strictly true, and was therefore in the nature of a misrepresentation. I am in possession of another fact: the name of the person who killed him. I know who it was. But I can go no further. It is neither proper nor safe to accuse a person of murder without communicable evidence to support the charge. So that’s all I can say.” He smiled at me. “Tell Mr. Wolfe I’m sorry.” He turned and went, headed for his own office at the end of the aisle.

  My impulse was to go after him. I stood and considered it. He had done it in style, his style, waiting to toss it at me until we were outside, with the nearest row of desks and personnel so close that I would have had to take only two short steps to touch the rayon shoulder of a dark-haired beauty with magenta lipstick. She was looking at me, now that the big boss had departed, and so were others in that sector, enjoying a good view of the bloodhound. I made a face at them collectively, and, deciding not to go after Naylor because I wasn’t sure I could keep from strangling him, I opened the door of Hoff’s room and went in.

  He looked up, got me at a glance, and barked at me. “Get out!”

  I shut the door and surveyed. He had a nice big room. As for him, it might have been expected that the man who had plugged Waldo Moore in the jaw for romantic reasons, and was a civil engineer into the bargain, would be well designed and constructed, but no. There was heft to him, but he would be pudgy before many years passed, and also he would have two chins. He didn’t get up and start for me or pick up anything to throw; he simply told me to get out.

  I approached his desk, offering reasonably, “I will if you’ll tell me why.”

  “Get out of here!” He meant every word he said. “You goddam snoop! And stay out!”

  For one thing, with a man in that frame of mind the chances of having a friendly and fruitful conversation are not very good, and for another, I was there at that time only because I had told Naylor on the spur of the moment that I had an appointment with him. I hated to pass up an opportunity for a cutting remark, two or three of which were ready for my tongue simultaneously, but the look on his face indicated that he would like nothing better than for me to try to stay, so he could add some remarks of his own. Therefore I outwitted him by pivoting on my heel and getting out, just as he said.

  Back in my own room, I stood at the window and examined Kerr Naylor’s latest card, top and bottom. I had a notion to go down to a booth and phone Wolfe, but it was past four o’clock and he would be up in the plant rooms until six, and he never liked to be asked to use his brain when he was up there, so I rejected it. Instead, I put some paper in the typewriter and put the same head on it as on my report to Naylor-Kerr, Inc., the day before. I sat a few minutes making up my mind how to word it and then hit the keys:

  Mr. Kerr Naylor came to my office at 3:25 p.m. He talked of irrelevant matters for some time, and then he told me that he knows who killed Waldo Moore. He said that was all he could say, because “it is neither proper nor safe to accuse a person of murder without communicable evidence to support the charge.” He told me to tell Mr. Wolfe he was sorry. I would have tried to get him not to wait until Monday to go to see Mr. Wolfe, but he left and went to his room, and in view of his attitude and manner I thought it would be useless to go after him.

  I had a couple of other items to add, regarding Ben Frenkel and Sumner Hoff, filling a page, but it seemed pretty skimpy for a full day’s work. Still liking the idea that someone might be curious enough, or scared enough, to take a look at my folders, I made a second carbon, and I disposed of it as I had the day before, putting it on top of the other one inside the third folder from the top, and deploying tobacco crumbs in the same spots. By the time that was all arranged it was four-thirty. I went out and took an elevator to the thirty-sixth, and told the receptionist, Miss Abrams, that I had no appointment with Pine but would like to have one minute with him to hand him something. She said he was in a meeting and wouldn’t be free for an hour or more. I thought if Pine could trust her I could too, got an envelope from her and put the report in it and sealed it, and left it with her for Pine.

  On the way back to the stock department I had a bright idea. I still hadn’t seen Gwynne Ferris. If a unit of personnel could waylay me on Wednesday, why couldn’t I return the compliment on Thursday? Not by waylaying, but through channels. I would wait until I saw her to decide whether to invite her to Rusterman’s or take her home with me and let Wolfe do some work.

  But I didn’t see her. Using my phone, I was told by the head of the reserve pool that he was sorry, but Miss Ferris had so much in her book that she would have to stay overtime, and he would greatly appreciate it if I could wait till morning. I told him sure.

  I knocked off with the bunch, at quitting time, and going down in the elevator I couldn’t complain of lack of attention. Some stared at me openly, some glanced when they thought I wasn’t looking, and some used the corner-of-the-eye technique, but for each and all I was certainly it.

  16.

  Wolfe was reading three books at once. He had been doing that, off and on, all the years I had been with him, and it always annoyed me because it seemed ostentatious. The three current items were The Sudden Guest by Christopher La Farge, Love from London by Gilbert Gabriel, and A Survey of Symbolic Logic by C. I. Lewis. He would take turns with them, reading twenty or thirty pages in each at a time. In the office after dinner that evening he sat at his desk, having a wonderful time with his literary ring-around-a-rosy.

  I had already, before dinner, reported to him on the day’s events, and presumably he had listened, but he had not asked a single question or made a single comment. For table conversation business was of course taboo, but it might have been supposed that with digestion proceeding under control and according to plan he would have one or two suggestions to offer. Not so.

  I was at my own desk, cleaning and oiling my arsenal—two revolvers and an automatic. When he finished the second heat with A Survey of Symbolic Logic, dogeared it, put it down, and reached for Love horn London, I inquired respectfully, “Where’s Saul?”

  “Saul?” You might have thought he was trying to decide whether I meant Saul of Tarsus or Saul Soda. “Oh. It seemed pointless to waste a client’s money. Did you want him for something? I believe he’s working on a forgery case for Mr. Bascom.”

  “So I’m doing a solo. Shall I go up and start catching up on sleep, or would you care to pretend we both earn money?”

  “Archie.” He picked up the book. “I do not propose to start sorting out chaos. At present this case is merely a guggle of unintelligible babel. If Mr. Naylor killed Mr. Moore, it is quite possible that he will carry his joke too far. If he didn’t, and he knows that someone else did, the same comment can be made. If neither, the corporation is spending money foolishly but we are not stockholders. We’ll probably know more about it after my talk with Mr. Naylor Monday evening. Until then it would be futile to bother my head about it. Besides, you don’t really want me to. You are wallowing in clover, with hundreds of young women accessible, unguarded, and utterly at your mercy.”

  “I do not,” I said, closing the drawer where I kept the arsenal and getting to my feet, “like clover.” I walked to the door to the hall, where I turned. “It is not my mercy they’re at. And if I stick my foot in something down there that you have to pull it out of, don’t blame me.”

  17.

  At nine-thirty-five A.M. Friday, the next morning, I stood in front of the filing cabinet in my room in the Naylor-Kerr stock department, gazing down into the drawer I had opened with a feeling of real satisfaction. Not only were the tobacco crumbs nowhere visible, but the edge of the Thursda
y report was a good half inch down from the Wednesday report, and I had left them precisely even.

  I enjoyed the satisfied feeling for a few seconds and then could have kicked myself. Thursday I had brought paraphernalia with me, but had taken it home again, not wanting to leave it around, and this morning I hadn’t brought it. That cost me an extra forty minutes. I closed the drawer and locked it. Down on the street I had no trouble finding a taxi, since it was the time of day that the carriage trade gets to work in that part of town. At Wolfe’s house I popped in and right out again, with the cab waiting, and no encounter with Wolfe since his morning hours in the plant rooms are from nine to eleven, and headed back for William Street.

  I would have liked to lock my door, since the custom there was to enter without knocking, but there was no key, so I barricaded it by shoving the desk against it. With the folders from the drawer carefully and lovingly transported to the desk, I opened my kit and started to work. It was like picking peaches off a tree with all the branches loaded. Any schoolboy could have harvested that crop. Within twenty minutes I had three dozen beauts, some on the slick cardboard of the top folder, a few on the second, more on the third, and a whole flock on the coated stock of the two reports.

  My feeling of satisfaction had tapered off a little. The total bulk of curiosity out in the arena, not to mention the two rows of offices, regarding me and my activities, would easily have filled a ten-ton truck, and common curiosity has led people into more complicated and perilous ventures than sneaking into a room and looking over the contents of a filing cabinet. But even at the biggest discount I was doing something, getting something you could see and show around, instead of hopping around bobbing the chin.