A Right To Die

by Rex Stout

  "I think it likely, yes."

  "Well, we didn't."

  Wolfe nodded. "You would say that, naturally."

  "Not just 'naturally.'" His hands were cupped over the ends of the chair arms, gripping them. "This is the truth if I ever spoke it, if anyone on our staff is a murderer I want him punished to the full extent. It will make it harder for us, it already has, Dunbar in jail, but if we expect to be treated like good citizens we must be good citizens. But you're wrong, I'm positive you're wrong. At noon today Mr. Ewing heard about the murder of Peter Vaughn on the radio and came and told me, and I got them in my room, all of them who spoke with Vaughn yesterday, and I put it to them straight. I told them the police might never learn that Vaughn had been there, but if they did, there was to be no covering up. I told them that if one of them was involved in any way, I wanted to know it then and there. I told them that if any one of them had the slightest suspicion about another one, he was to speak up, then and there."

  He released the chair arms and turned his hands over. "I know my people, Mr. Wolfe. Not only because they're my color; I know them. In my position I have to. They were there in my room with me for nearly two hours, and we talked it out. When we got through I was absolutely certain that none of them was involved in the murder of Peter Vaughn or Susan Brooke, and I was certain that none of them had any suspicion of any of the others. I'm not saying I'm as good at it as you are, but I know them! Believe me, you're wrong. See them and question them, all right, but you're wrong!"

  Wolfe wasn't impressed, and neither was I. The executive director of the ROCC had made a lot of speeches to a lot of audiences; he had had a lot of practice saying things like "This is the truth if I ever spoke it." Granting that he had spread the odds some on his own ticket, on the others he was merely taking the line that a man in his position had to take, though I admit he had done it better than some I had heard on other occasions.

  "Admirable," Wolfe said. "I like to hear words well used. As for my being wrong, only the event can answer. Will you please ask Mr. Faison to come?"

  "Certainly." Henchy levered on the chair arms to rise. "I was going to mention, about alibis. Of course I asked them. None of them has an alibi he could prove beyond question. Mr. Oster could have told you that, but he was agitated."

  Wolfe nodded. "I like your taste in words. 'Agitated.' He was indeed."

  I was at the door to the front room, and when I swung it open as Henchy came, the sound of Oster's voice, in charge, was heard. It didn't stop, so apparently Henchy summoned Faison by hand; anyhow, the fund raiser appeared and crossed to the chair his boss had vacated as I shut the door.

  Wolfe scowled at him, and no wonder. What was there left to ask? Cass Faison's grin wasn't working, and from his expression it seemed doubtful if it would ever work again, but his coal-black skin still had its high gloss when the light hit it right.

  Wolfe spoke. "No preamble is required, Mr. Faison, since Mr. Oster has described the situation. Mr. Henchy sent Mr. Vaughn to you?"

  Faison nodded. "That's right."

  "To your room?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you alone with him?"

  "Yes."

  "Had you ever seen him before?"

  "No. None of us had ever seen him before."

  "How long was he with you?"

  "Not more than three or four minutes. I wasn't timing it. Possibly five."

  "What was said?"

  "He said the same thing to all of us. He wanted to know how intimate Miss Brooke had been with Mr. Whipple. We all said the same thing to him. We said we didn't know. He didn't want to believe that. He said someone there must know. He was all—he was in a fret. I sent him to Mr. Ewing."

  Wolfe's lips were tight. He turned to me. "This is farcical."

  "Yes, sir. They talked it out for two hours with Mr. Henchy."

  "Bring them."

  It occurred to me as I crossed to the door that I might as well get a little personal satisfaction. I would put Miss Tiger in the red leather chair. But Wolfe might himself interfere with that, so when I opened the door I asked Henchy to come and took him to the red leather chair, and then summoned the others. Since Saul had moved up enough chairs for all, I was free to enjoy the look on Oster's face when he saw I had foxed him. That settled my relations with Harold R. Oster. We were enemies for life, and that suited me fine.

  Wolfe took them in, from Henchy at the far left to Maud Jordan at the far right, nearest me. "I'm through," he said. "I'm through with you for today, but not with the job I'm doing. The situation is unaltered. I have learned nothing whatever from Mr. Henchy, Mr. Oster, or Mr. Faison, except that you are presenting a solid front. You are maintaining that your exchanges with Mr. Vaughn yesterday were identical. I don't believe it. I believe—"

  "I'm not!" It was Maud Jordan.

  Wolfe's eyes went to her. "Not what, Miss Jordan?"

  "What you said about identical exchanges. I know what that man, Vaughn, asked the rest of them, but he didn't ask me anything. He merely said he wanted to see Mr. Henchy."

  "When he entered."

  "Yes."

  "And gave you his name."

  "Of course."

  "And when he departed?"

  "He didn't say anything." She upped her chin and a half. "I want to say something now. You're hounding these people, and I think it's outrageous. You're bullying them just because they're Negroes. And who are you? Where were you born?"

  She was only the switchboard, but nobody shushed her, not even a murmur or two. She was a volunteer, and she had given half a grand to the fund for Medgar Evers's children. Wolfe's head turned left. "Do you wish to support that indictment, Mr. Henchy?"

  "No. I think you're wrong, but no, I wouldn't call it bullying."

  "Do you wish to add anything, Miss Jordan?"

  "No. I mean what I said."

  "Mr. Ewing, I haven't spoken with you. Have you anything to say?"

  "No, only that I agree with Mr. Henchy. If you think one of us is a murderer, you're wrong, but I wouldn't call it bullying. I know what it will be like if the police find out he came there yesterday morning. Are you going to tell them?"

  "Miss Tiger. Do you wish to say anything?"

  "No," she said, barely audible.

  "Then we're through. For today. I may see all of you again, and I certainly expect to see one of you; I would give something to know which one. To answer Mr. Ewing's question, I shall not tell the police of Mr. Vaughn's ill-fated visit. I bid you good afternoon merely as a civility." He leaned back, laced his fingers at his center mound, and closed his eyes.

  I was surprised at Oster. Not a word. He got up and headed for the hall. Saul Panzer, who was on a chair over by the bookshelves, followed him out, and as the others rose and moved, no one saying anything, I stayed put. Saul was there. I don't especially mind holding a coat for a murderer, but I like to know when I'm doing it. I looked at my watch: 5:19. Wolfe could still have forty minutes with the orchids, but apparently he preferred to take a nap. I sat and watched his big chest rise and fall, expecting, and I admit hoping, to see the lip exercise start, but it didn't. When the sounds from the hall ended with the closing of the front door and Saul came and took the yellow chair nearest me, he was still just sitting and breathing.

  "In a way," I told Saul, "I'm glad you've seen her. I'll be doing a lot of talking about her in the future and you'll appreciate it better. I'm sure you'll agree that the best way to handle it is to cherish and covet her at a distance, but the question is what distance. A mile is a distance, but so is a yard or even an inch. I wish I knew more about poetry. If I could turn out—"

  "Shut up!" Wolfe bellowed.

  I turned and said, "Yes, sir. I was only remarking about the one single aspect of the party that struck me as worthy of remark. Was there any other?"

  "No." He had straightened up.

  "Then there's no argument. I might as well go on remarking about Miss Tiger. Two days ago I said there wasn't one sens
ible thing anybody could do. Now it's even worse; there's not even one unsensible thing."

  "Confound it, don't sit there inventing grotesque words!"

  "Shall I go?" Saul asked.

  "No. When Archie exhausts inanity he may have a suggestion. I won't. It's hopeless. Whatever Vaughn saw or heard there yesterday is buried beyond recovery. One of those six people either killed him or knows who did, but that key to his identity is undiscoverable. There's another one somewhere, but a hundred men might not find it in a hundred days. Saul?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Archie?"

  "Sorry and sad."

  He glared. "Two highly trained and highly skilled men, and what good are you? Go somewhere. Do something. Am I to sit here another evening, and go up to bed, contemplating frustration? Reflecting, in desperation, as I did day before yesterday, on a diphthong?"

  Saul and I exchanged glances. Our genius was going potty on us. To humor him I inquired, "A diphthong?"

  "Yes. Tenuous almost to nullity, it was unworthy of consideration. It still is. But I'm bereft, and it's a fact. Get Mr. Vaughn."

  For half a second I thought he was worse than potty; then, realizing that there was a Mr. Vaughn who was still alive, and that diphthongs might be his hobby, I got at the phone. With his son not yet buried, Samuel Vaughn probably wouldn't be at Heron Manhattan, Inc., but I tried it on the chance, was told that he wasn't in today, and dialed his home number. He wasn't accessible until I made it clear that Nero Wolfe wanted to ask him a question—I didn't say about a diphthong—and in a couple of minutes I had him, and Wolfe took his phone.

  "I presume to disturb you, Mr. Vaughn, only because I am concerned with the death of your son in connection with my investigation of the death of Susan Brooke, and I need a bit of information you may be able to supply. According to the published accounts, your son graduated from Harvard in nineteen fifty-nine. Is that correct?"

  "Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "To lead to the next question. I'd rather not elucidate now, but it's possible that this will be helpful in identifying a murderer. Do you know if your son was acquainted with a fellow student named Richard Ault? A-U-L-T. Perhaps a classmate?"

  "I'm afraid I don't— Wait a minute … yes, I do. That was the name of the boy that committed suicide that summer, after they graduated. My son told me about it. Yes, he knew him rather well; they took the same courses. But I don't understand … what possible connection …"

  "There may be none. If I find one, you'll understand then. Do you know if your son ever visited Richard Ault at his home—perhaps at vacation time?"

  "Where was his home?"

  "Evansville, Indiana."

  "Then he didn't. I'm sure he didn't. Have you any reason to think he did?"

  "No. I'm obliged to you, Mr. Vaughn, for indulging me. If this leads to anything, the obligation will be canceled."

  As I cradled the receiver my eyes were narrowed at it. I was considering diphthongs. Ch? Gh? Au? Wh? Br? I'd have to look it up. Too many years had passed since the fourth grade, or maybe fifth. I was interrupted by Wolfe saying, "Get Mr. Drucker."

  Again it took me half a second to catch up; it had been ten days since I had eaten roast beef and apple pie with Otto Drucker, the distinguished citizen, in my hotel room in Racine. I got his number from the file and put in the call, and when I got him I took time for a few sociable remarks before passing him to Wolfe. He told Wolfe it was a pleasure to speak with a man whose career he had followed with interest and admiration.

  Wolfe grunted. "I may forfeit the admiration by the job I'm on now. You may be able to supply some needed information. I suppose you remember your conversation with Mr. Goodwin?"

  "Certainly. Susan Brooke. Are you still on that?"

  "I am. I'm floundering. What can you tell me of the young man who shot himself on the porch of the Brooke house?"

  "Not much. I told Goodwin all I know. I didn't even remember his name."

  "His name was Richard Ault. Do you know if any member of his family came to Racine? Or any representative of the family?"

  "I don't know, but I don't think so. As far as I recollect, they held the body here only a day or two and shipped it. I don't remember that anyone came to get it. I can find out."

  "It isn't worth the trouble. I believe Mr. Goodwin has told you to command us if at any time you need information from here."

  "He didn't say 'command,' but he said you'd reciprocate and I appreciate it. I like that 'command.' If you need more on this let me know."

  Wolfe said he would, hung up, pushed the phone away as if he resented it, which he does, pushed his chair back, left it, walked over to the globe, twirled it, and focused on a spot near the center of the United States of America.

  In a minute he demanded, not turning, "Where the devil is Evansville?"

  "If you've got Indiana, at the bottom, on the Ohio River."

  Another ten seconds, and he turned. "How do you get there?"

  "Probably the quickest would be a plane to Louisville."

  "I'd have to be back Monday morning for a little job," Saul said.

  "No, Archie will go. You're needed here. Archie, find—"

  He stopped because I had turned to the phone and started dialing.

  Chapter 14

  AT TEN MINUTES past two Friday morning I sat on a wooden chair at the end of a glass-topped desk in a room with two windows, being sized up by a cop. I wasn't exactly in the pink, after the day in New York, the plane ride to Louisville, and the three-hour drive in a rented car to Evansville, but since I now knew which diphthong it was, and I would sleep better after I got the answers to a few questions, and police headquarters is open all night, I had stopped at the hotel only long enough to sign in. I admit that as I sat I had to tell myself to keep my shoulders up.

  The cop's name was Sievers, Lieutenant Sievers, an old pro with very little hair but plenty of jaw. He gave my New York State detective license a thorough look, handed it back, and frowned at me. "Archie Goodwin," he said. "Haven't I seen that name somewhere?"

  "I hope not on a hot dodger. You may have seen the name of the man I work for, Nero Wolfe."

  "Oh." He nodded. "That one. Yeah. How do you stand him?"

  "I've asked myself that question a thousand times, and damned if I can answer it."

  "Don't expect me to. What's your problem here?"

  "Just a little information we need, about a man named Richard Ault, or I should say his family. He's dead. He committed suicide in Racine, Wisconsin, on August fourteenth, nineteen fifty-nine."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "This was his home town, wasn't it?"

  "It was. He was born here."

  "Did you know him?"

  "I knew him by sight. I don't know if I ever spoke to him. He wasn't the kind we have to speak to much. Why are you interested in him now?"

  "We're not, in him. A point has come up in a case we're on that his family might know about. I'll see them tomorrow—I mean today—but I thought it wouldn't hurt to find out what they're like first. How do they stand locally?"

  "They don't stand. You won't see them tomorrow. There's no one to see."

  "No one at all?"

  "No. If you want details, Richard Ault's father, Benjamin Ault, Junior, has a furniture factory, a big one. He inherited it from his father, Benjamin Senior. Benjamin Junior died about ten years ago. Let's see …" He shut his eyes and lowered his head. He looked up. "That's right, nineteen fifty-three. You don't believe in making notes, huh? Out here we always make notes."

  "So do I when they may be needed. What about brothers or sisters?"

  He shook his head. "Richard was an only."

  "There's still Mrs. Ault. Where is she?"

  "I don't know, and I don't know who does. There's a lawyer who might named Littauer, H. Ernest Littauer. He handled it when she sold the factory."

  I had my notebook out and was scribbling. When in Evansville do as the Romans do. "I need all the dope I can get," I said.
"Am I keeping you from anything important?"

  "Hell no. Not until the phone rings to report a hit and run."

  "I hope it won't. When did Mrs. Ault sell the factory?"

  "About three years ago. When Benjamin Junior died, her husband, she changed the name of the business to M. and R. Ault, Inc. M for Marjorie and R for Richard. Then a couple of years after Richard's death she sold it and left town. As far as I know she has never been back, and I don't know where she is. You do shorthand, huh?"

  "I guess you could call it that to be polite. I understand Richard went to Harvard University."

  "I believe he did. Let's see." In a moment: "Yes, he did."

  "Do you happen to know if his mother ever went to visit him there?"

  He cocked his head and eyed me. "You know, maybe I'm not as sharp as you are, out here in the sticks, but I can count up to ten. A point in a case his family might know about, nuts. Suppose you open up a little, huh?"

  I nodded. "I intend to, but I wasn't being sharp. If you had told me she's here in Evansville I wouldn't even have bothered to take a look at her. I'm about done. Did she ever visit him at Harvard?"

  "I don't know, but it would be a good bet. He was the apple of her eye."

  I took a breath. "Now. I hate to ask it. I'm afraid to ask it, but here goes. Describe her."

  "I thought so," he said.

  "I only hope you'll still think so after you describe her."

  "Well, three years ago, about a hundred and forty pounds. Late forties or early fifties. Five feet six. Light brown hair with a little gray. Brown eyes, a little close. Not much of a mouth. Long narrow nose, extra narrow. Not exactly a double chin, but a crease in it. That enough?"

  "I'm not much at paying compliments," I said, "but you are absolutely the best describer south of the North Pole. I could have saved wear and tear on my nerves by asking for it sooner. One more question. Would you care to take a trip to New York this morning, expenses paid and honored guest treatment?"

  "You're damn right I would. But I'm an employee of the city of Evansville. What have you got on Mrs. Ault?"

  "You're an officer of the law, dedicated to the service of justice, and you're needed to identify a murderer—a double murderer. I'm sticking my neck out. If you call the New York Police Department and spill it, my name is mud, and I doubt if you'll be needed. If you come with me, justice will be served just as well or better, you can hang around a day or two if you care to, and if you like to see your picture in the paper, the Gazette has a circulation of over a million. Of course if Evansville couldn't manage even for an hour without you …"