Ellery Queen's Champions of Mystery vol. 33 (1977)

by Ellery Queen

  “Me again. From a booth on Eighth Avenue. I left the scene informally because I have something to report. We won’t be contradicted about the money. Miss Annis, whom I now call Hattie, has buttoned her lip and will keep it buttoned. She is in her room with the door bolted and Cramer and Rowcliff are going to batter their way in. Stebbins isn’t around. I was re—”

  “He was here.”

  “Who? Stebbins?”

  “Yes. I spoke with him at the door. He wanted the package of money. I told him it was not mine to surrender, since it had been left in your safekeeping. He said nothing about its being bogus. I didn’t admit him. He was not pleased.”

  “I’ll bet. I was requested by Cramer to persuade Hattie to let him in, and I tried—not through the door, she let me in. When I told her that if they had to bust the door to get to her they would take her downtown and hold her, she said she wanted to hire you to make them eat dirt. I said the only job you might take would be to investigate the murder, and dirt-eating, if any, would be a by-product, and your fee would be high. She said she could pay you twenty-one thousand dollars, one-tenth of the tax-exempt bonds she has in a bank vault. I said we would leave it that you are hired, and if you refuse to take it on because you’re eccentric I’ll notify her. The trouble is, how can I notify her if she’s not accessible? Shall I ask Cramer to tell her you’re too busy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Naturally,” I said sympathetically. “You would rather starve than work if only you had no appetite. The fact is, she wanted to hire me and I told her to get me she had to hire you. I’ll hold the wire while you count ten.”

  “Confound you.” It was a growl from the depths. “She may have no bonds. She is probably indigent.”

  “Not a chance. She’s my favorite screwball, but she’s not a liar. I’m under her spell and I’m in her debt. She made Cramer ask me a favor.”

  Silence. Then, more growl. “Come home and report. We’ll see.”

  One of the rules in that house is no business talk at meals, ever, and another is no business in the plant rooms except in emergencies. That winter day the emergency was not that some sudden development demanded immediate action or that an important case had reached a crisis; it was that Wolfe had to decide to work or not to work, and he could get no pleasure fiddling with orchids with that hanging over him. He took my report not in one of the three plant rooms, with their dazzle of color, but in the potting room, perched on his made-to-order stool at the big bench. Theodore was washing pots at the sink, and I used his stool.

  Wolfe keeps his eyes closed when I am reporting and rarely interrupts with questions. When I finished he took in air clear down to his middle, let it out, opened his eyes, and grunted, “Any comments or suggestions?”

  “Yes, sir, plenty. First, Hattie Annis is out. She couldn’t possibly have been faking it when we went in and found the body. I wouldn’t try to predict what’s she’s going to do, but I know what she didn’t do. She didn’t kill Tammy Baxter. Second, their not asking if I knew the money is counterfeit is an insult to my intelligence and yours too. Leach had told Cramer not to mention it because what he wants is to find the source. He’d rather catch a counterfeiter than a murderer any day, and if counterfeiting was mentioned to me I might mention it to a reporter. Evidently he thinks we can’t add two and two. A T-man coming to ask me about a woman who had left a package of bills with me, and the idea that they might be counterfeit wouldn’t occur to me?”

  “He didn’t know she had been here and left a package.”

  “He did when I was being questioned. He heard me tell Cramer. Cramer must have been biting nails. He’d love to get us for being in possession of a stack of the queer. Ten to one Leach didn’t know he sent Stebbins here to get it. Third, Tammy Baxter was a T-woman.”

  Wolfe made a face. “That mean something?”

  “It does now. If there are T-men, there can be a T-woman, though I’ve never heard of one. This morning Leach asked if she was here, and when I told him she had been and gone he asked if she had been back or phoned and then switched to Hattie Annis. Why didn’t he ask what Tammy Baxter had said? Because he knew; she had reported to him. Also he knew the phone number of that house. Also Cramer. Why wasn’t he more interested in my talk with Tammy Baxter only an hour or so before she was murdered? Because he already knew about it from Leach.”

  “Then she had been posted in that house by the Secret Service?”

  “Sure. A good guess is that they knew someone who lived there had passed bad money. I doubt if they knew which one, because if so they know who killed Tammy Baxter, and I don’t think they would dare not to tell Cramer—but it’s possible. Their big play isn’t for the passers, it’s for the plant. Fourth, one of the four roomers is it, on account of the knife. It came from that kitchen. Raymond Dell, Noel Ferris, Paul Hannah, Martha Kirk. If one or more of them have been crossed off by alibis that would narrow it. Fifth, if Hattie Annis is your client you probably want to speak to Parker, since you are against leaving a client in the coop. I’ll ring him.”

  “I haven’t told you to.”

  “Do you tell me not to?”

  He tightened his lips. He took a deep breath. “Confound you. Call him.”

  “Right. But first one more. Sixth, I see no reason why I shouldn’t try the package for prints, since it hasn’t occurred to us that the bills may be phony. I’m assuming that you don’t intend to let loose of your client’s property unless a court orders you to.”

  “Certainly not. But there will be other prints than yours. Hers.”

  “I’ve got hers.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, sir. In case.”

  “So.” He got off the stool. “So you make the decisions. Let me know if you wish to confer. Go.”

  I went. It isn’t easy to pass down the aisles of those three rooms without stopping, even in an emergency, but that time I stopped only once, where a group of Miltonia roezlis was sporting more than fifty racemes on four feet of bench. It was the best crop of Miltonias that Wolfe (and Theodore) had ever had. The display is always harder to believe when snow is dancing on the sloping glass overhead.

  Since it was after office hours I dialed the home number of Nathaniel Parker, the lawyer, got him, put him through to Wolfe, and listened in, as I am supposed to when not told to get off. He was a little doubtful about springing our client before morning, since they had had to smash a door to get to her and she wasn’t talking, but he said he would get on it immediately and do his best. That done, I went to the safe and got the wrapping paper and bills.

  It was a two-hour job, and I took an hour out for dinner, so it was after nine o’clock when I finished. It took so long because (a) wrapping paper is a mean surface to lift prints from, (b) I had to check and double check every print with Hattie’s and mine, and (c) I had to be darned careful to leave any evidence intact.

  During the last hour, after dinner, Wolfe was there at his desk in the only chair he really likes, reading his current book. Now and then he shot me a glance, of course hoping that I would announce that we had him, and his job would be simple. But at a quarter past nine I swiveled and spoke. “No. Positively. Seven good prints, twelve fair ones, and fourteen smudges. The only ones that can be identified are Hattie’s and mine. Either he never handled it without gloves or he wiped it.”

  I’ll say this for him: he never asks silly questions like Are you sure, or Have you tried the bills too. He merely growled. “It was too much to expect.” He picked up his bookmark, a thin strip of gold that had been given him by a client in spite of the size of his bill, inserted it, and put the book down. “What do you suggest?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, I took the bills and wrapping paper, still handling them with care, went to the safe, and put them in. “Now,” I said, returning, “it will take a brain, and you know where one is. I only run errands. I know you never leave the house on business, but if you—”

  The doorbell rang. I offered myself three to o
ne that it was Cramer, probably with Leach for company, stepped to the hall, and flipped the switch for the stoop light. It had been a bad debt. I stepped back in and told Wolfe, “All four of them. Dell, Ferris, Hannah, and Martha Kirk.”

  He glared at me. “You invited them?”

  “No, sir. It’s a surprise party. People have no consideration. They might at least have phoned.”

  “It’s impossible! I’m not ready. I haven’t prepared my mind.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s impossible. Bring them in.”

  I went to the front, opened the door, and invited them to enter. Martha Kirk, first in, did not curtsy, and Raymond Dell didn’t bow. When I turned after shutting the door she was sitting on the bench pulling off her galoshes and the men were removing their coats. “Have you written your piece?” Dell demanded.

  That had been so long ago, eight whole hours, that for a second I didn’t get him. “Oh,” I said. “I had forgotten I was doing one. I got interrupted.”

  “We want to see Nero Wolfe,” Martha Kirk said. “And you.”

  “Then you might as well have us together. This way.” I went to the office door and stood aside, and they filed in. Wolfe arose, inclined his head an eighth of an inch as I pronounced each name, and sat. He never shakes hands with strangers. I was going to put Martha Kirk in the red leather chair, but Dell beat us to it, so I moved up a yellow one for her, next to me, and Ferris and Hannah moved their own, beyond her. Wolfe’s eyes went from left to right and back again.

  “Go ahead, Martha,” Paul Hannah said. “This was your idea.”

  “No,” Martha said, “it was Hattie’s idea.” She was still ornamental, and the dimples were still there, but she didn’t look up to making an omelet of larks’ eggs. She turned her face to me and then to Wolfe. “It’s crazy,” she said. “The idea that Hattie—it’s just crazy.”

  “She doesn’t mean,” Noel Ferris explained, “that Hattie’s idea is crazy, she means the idea that Hattie killed Tammy Baxter. Hattie’s idea was that we should come and see you.”

  “According to Martha,” Paul Hannah said.

  “Idiot children,” Raymond Dell rumbled. His hat had pressed his white mane down, but it was starting to unfurl. “Snapping and yapping in the face of tragedy.”

  “Death isn’t tragedy,” Ferris said. “Life is tragedy.”

  “Was it Miss Annis’ idea,” Wolfe inquired, “that you should come and expound philosophy to me? Miss Kirk, I gather that she spoke with you?”

  Martha nodded. “She spoke to me. She said she had hired you and Mr. Goodwin to make the cops eat dirt, and we must come and tell you everything we had told the cops.”

  “When did she hire you?” Hannah demanded. His chubby pink cheeks were a little saggy.

  Wolfe ignored him and kept his eyes at Martha. “What else did she say?”

  “Nothing. She couldn’t. I was coming downstairs, and they were carrying her out, and she saw me and said that, and I said we would. Of course I couldn’t tell the others then, they were still questioning us, but I did as soon as they left.”

  “They were carrying her literally? Bodily?”

  “Yes. Two men.”

  “Had they forced the door of her room?”

  “Yes.”

  Wolfe grunted. “Possibly actionable. For the record, Miss Annis is my client, but my job is not as she defined it. I have engaged to investigate the murder that was committed in her house.”

  “It wasn’t committed by her,” Martha declared. “But they’ve arrested her. It’s crazy!”

  “It was committed by a sex maniac,” Paul Hannah said. “Twice last week a man followed her right to the door. When she told me about it I offered to ambush him, but she said no, if he did it again and came close she would handle him. She would too.”

  Noel Ferris twisted his lip. “Lochinvar Hannah,” he drawled. “These sex maniacs are damn clever. Of course getting in wasn’t much—he could have a bag of assorted keys; but getting the knife from the kitchen was a real stroke. We know he did because you identified it.”

  “You keep harping on that.” Hannah’s cheeks were pinker. “Certainly I identified it, with that nick in it. I supposed you all would. I knew Hattie would.”

  “I did,” Martha said.

  Ferris turned a hand over. “Then I should have too. I was too sentimental, I always am. I had a vague notion that it would be better to leave it plausible that the knife was a stranger. Also I am too sensitive. I couldn’t bear the thought that the knife I had sliced ham with had been. . .” He finished it with a gesture, an actor’s gesture.

  Raymond Dell snorted. “Adolescent imbeciles! All three of you! We came here to serve a friend in whose debt we are, not to prattle. Tammy Baxter was new in that house, not yet of us. For all we know, Hattie may have had reason to fear her beyond endurance. In a frenzy of fear, in the panic of desperation, she killed her. That is quite possible. We know that Hattie was not herself. We thought her incapable of guile, but she brought this man Goodwin, a professional detective—she brought him there and presented him to Martha and me in false colors.”

  Ferris’ brows were up. “But you came here to serve her?”

  “I did.” Dell’s boom would have carried to the gallery if there had been one. “Whether she killed or not, whether she was wise to trust her fate to this man Wolfe and this man Goodwin—we are not to judge. We can only ask, what can we do or say to help her?” His eyes focused on Wolfe. “And we can only ask you.”

  Martha Kirk put in, “Hattie said we should tell him everything we told the cops.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “That may not be necessary. I hope not.” He cleared his throat. “It has already been of some slight help to sit and listen to you; that is inherent in the situation. When four people are conversing in my presence and I know that one of them committed murder less than twelve hours ago, I would be a dolt to get no inkling at all. Look at you now—your reaction to what I just said. You are all staring at me. One of you opened his mouth to interrupt, but closed it. None of you glances at the others, or at any other. But I know that one of you is feeling the pinch. He is asking himself, are my eyes all right, how about my mouth, should I say something? He is aware, of course, that it will take more than an inkling to undo him; but an inkling can give me a start.”

  It wasn’t giving me one. They all kept their stares at him. Martha’s lips were parted, and Ferris’ were twisted. Paul Hannah’s jaw was working. Dell’s chin was up and he was frowning. Ferris demanded, “You know it was one of us? How?”

  “Not by an inkling, Mr. Ferris. There is the knife, and there is my conviction, on grounds that satisfy me, that Miss Annis didn’t use it. But that isn’t all. I prefer not to disclose why she took Mr. Goodwin to her house in masquerade; though one of you has certainly guessed why I’ll leave it a guess.”

  He flattened his palms on the chair arms. “And now we may proceed. Three of you came here to help a friend, and one of you came because he didn’t dare to refuse, nor will he dare to refuse to answer my questions; and I expect him to expose himself. If he has already exposed himself to the police we are wasting our time, but I’ll proceed on the assumption that he hasn’t. If I fail, it will be because I haven’t asked the right questions—and I don’t intend to fail.”

  His head turned. “Mr. Dell. Have you paid your room rent for the past three months?”

  Raymond Dell’s chin lifted another quarter of an inch. “We could all refuse,” he said.

  Wolfe nodded. “You could indeed. If you think that would serve your friend in whose debt you are. Shall I try the others?”

  “No. As for that question, if Hattie is your client you could ask her. Perhaps you already have. I have paid no room rent for three years and she has asked for none.”

  Wolfe’s head moved. “Miss Kirk?”

  She was still staring at him. “The cops didn’t ask me that.”

  Wolfe grunted. “They have their technique and I have mine. That que
stion applies to the problem as I see it. Does it embarrass you?”

  “No. I have lived there nearly a year and I have paid five dollars every week.”

  “From current income?”

  “I haven’t any current income. I get a check from my father every month.”

  “I trust it doesn’t embarrass him. Mr. Ferris?”

  Noel Ferris passed his tongue over his lips. “How this applies is beyond me,” he said, “but I don’t dare to refuse to answer. I haven’t figured how I stand on rent, but you can. I’ve had a room there for eighteen months. Last summer I was on television for thirteen weeks and I gave Hattie a hundred and fifty dollars. A show I was in flopped in November, and since then it has been television crumbs. Two weeks ago I gave her sixty dollars. You figure it.”

  “You’re a hundred and eighty dollars short. Mr. Hannah?”

  Paul Hannah was looking determined. “I’m not taking any dare,” he blurted. “You may think your question applies, but I don’t. You say you know one of us killed Tammy Baxter, but I don’t believe it. I know damn well I didn’t. You don’t kill someone without a reason, and what was it? She had only been there three weeks and we barely knew her. The knife doesn’t prove anything. Whoever killed her got in the house somehow, and if he was in the house he could have got the knife. I’m not taking any dare.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Your spunk is impressive, Mr. Hannah, but it bounces off. If you are innocent the question whether you’ll take a dare doesn’t arise; the question is, what are you here for? To oblige a friend or parade your conceit?”

  “I’m here because of what Hattie said to Martha and I wanted to hear what you had to say. And you ask if I’ve paid my room rent, for God’s sake. All right, I have. I’ve been there four months and I’ve paid every week. That proves something?”

  “Obviously. That you are not a pauper. You have an income?”

  “No. I have money that I saved.”

  “So. That point is covered.” Wolfe’s eyes went to Martha. “Now, Miss Kirk, for what you have told the police—at least one detail. Your movements this morning, say from ten thirty until one o’clock. Where were you?”