Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 33 - Too Many Clients Page 6

  “So would I. That was one reason I got Fred there. There’s a bare chance that he has keys and will show up.”

  Wolfe grunted. “Pfui. The chance that anyone at all will come there is minute and you know it. You got Fred there because I cannot now say merely that the incident is closed. I would have to tell you to recall him, and you know that I respect your commitments as I do my own. Yes, Fritz?”

  “Lunch is ready, sir. The parsley had wilted and I used chives.”

  “We’ll see.” Wolfe pushed his chair back and arose. “Pepper?”

  “No, sir. I thought not, with chives.”

  “I agree, but we’ll see.”

  I followed him out and across the hall to the dining room. As we finished the clam juice Fritz came with the first installment of dumplings, four apiece. Some day I would like to see how long I can keep going on Fritz’s marrow dumplings, of chopped beef marrow, bread crumbs, parsley (chives today), grated lemon rind, salt, and eggs, boiled four minutes in strong meat stock. If he boiled them all at once of course they would get mushy after the first eight or ten, but he does them eight at a time, and they keep coming. They are one of the few dishes with which I stay neck and neck with Wolfe clear to the tape, and they were the reason I had let it pass when he had said he wouldn’t see the clients I had got. Those marrow dumplings induce a state of mind in which anybody would see anybody. And it worked. We had finished the salad and returned to the office, and Fritz had brought coffee, when the doorbell rang. I went to the hall for a look through the one-way glass, stepped back in, and told Wolfe, “Meg Duncan. At least we might as well collect for the cigarette case. Say two bucks?”

  He glared. “Confound you.” He put his cup down. “What if she killed him? Does that concern us? Very well, you invited her. Five minutes.”

  I went to the front and opened the door. It wasn’t a thirty-year-old female with a good enough face, in a plain gray suit and a plain little hat, who gave me a smile that would warm a glacier as she crossed the sill. The face had been arranged by a professional and was being handled by a professional, and while the dress and jacket were not spectacular they were by no means plain. And the voice was the voice of an angel who might consider taking a week off if she got an invitation that appealed to her. Not only did she use it on me in the hall, but also on Wolfe when I steered her to the office and he stood, inclined his head an eighth of an inch, and indicated the red leather chair.

  Her smile was on full. Granting that it was professional, it was a damned good smile. “I know how busy you men are with important things,” she said, “so I won’t take your time.” To me: “Did you find it?”

  “He did,” Wolfe said. He sat. “Sit down, Miss Duncan. I like eyes at my level. A brief discussion may be necessary. If you answer two or three questions satisfactorily you may have the cigarette case when you have paid me fifty thousand dollars.”

  The smile went. “Fifty thousand? That’s fantastic!”

  “Sit down, please.”

  She looked at me, saw merely a working detective, moved to the red leather chair, sat on the edge, and said, “Of course you don’t mean that. You can’t.”

  Wolfe, leaning back, regarded her. “I do and I don’t. Our position—I include Mr. Goodwin—is peculiar and a little delicate. The body of a man who had died by violence was found in that hole on that street near that house. He was a man of means and standing. The police don’t know of his connection with that house and his quarters there, but we do, and we intend to use that knowledge to our profit. I don’t suppose you are familiar with the statutes regarding suppression of evidence of a crime. It may even—”

  “My cigarette case isn’t evidence of a crime!”

  “I haven’t said it is. It may even lead to a charge of accessory to murder. Interpretation of that statute is in some respects vague, but not in others. Knowingly concealing or disposing of a tangible object that would help to identify the criminal or convict him would of course be suppression of evidence; but words may be evidence or may not. Usually not. If you were to tell me now that you entered that room Sunday night, found Yeager’s body there, and got Mr. Perez to help you take it from the house and put it in that hole, that would not be evidence. I couldn’t be successfully prosecuted if I failed to tell the police what you had told me; I would merely swear that I thought you were lying.”

  She had slid back in the chair a little. “I wasn’t in that room Sunday night.”

  “Not evidence. You may be lying. I’m only explaining the delicacy of our position. You told Mr. Goodwin you would pay him a thousand dollars to find your cigarette case and keep it for you, and give it to you later at his discretion. We can’t accept that offer. It would engage us not to turn it over to the police even if it became apparent that it would help to identify or convict a murderer, and that’s too great a risk for a thousand dollars. You may have it for fifty thousand, cash or a certified check. Do you want it?”

  I think he meant it. I think he would have handed it over for thirty grand, or even twenty, if she had been dumb enough to pay it. He had let me go up to 82nd Street with five Cs in my pocket for one specific reason, to see if I could flush a prospect for a worthy fee, and if she was fool enough, or desperate enough, to pay twenty grand, not to mention fifty, for her cigarette case, he could call it a day and leave the murder investigation to the law. As for the risk, he had taken bigger ones. He was saying only that he would give her the case, not that he would forget about it.

  She was staring at him. “I didn’t think,” she said, “that Nero Wolfe was a blackmailer.”

  “Neither does the dictionary, madam.” He swiveled to the stand that had held the three Websters he had worn out and now held a new one. Opening it and finding the page, he read: ‘Payment of money exacted by means of intimidation; also, extortion of money from a person by threats of public accusation, exposure, or censure.’ ” He swiveled back. “I don’t fit. I haven’t threatened or intimidated you.”

  “But you …” She looked at me and back to him. “Where would I get fifty thousand dollars? You might as well say a million. What are you going to do? Are you going to give it to the police?”

  “Not by choice. Only under the compulsion of circumstance. A factor would be your answers to my questions.”

  “You haven’t asked me any questions.”

  “I do now. Were you in that room Sunday evening or night?”

  “No.” Her chin was up.

  “When were you last there? Before today.”

  “I haven’t said I was ever there.”

  “That’s egregious. Your behavior this morning. Your offer to Mr. Goodwin. You had keys. When?”

  She set her teeth on her lip. Five seconds. “More than a week ago. A week ago Saturday. That’s when I left the cigarette case. Oh my God.” She extended a hand, not a professional gesture. “Mr. Wolfe, this could ruin my career. I haven’t seen him since that night. I don’t know who killed him, or why, or anything. Why must you drag me into it? What good will it do?”

  “I didn’t drag you there this morning, madam. I don’t ask how often you visited that room because your answer would be worthless, but when you did visit it were others there?”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone ever there when you were besides Mr. Yeager?”

  “No. Never.”

  “But other women went there. That’s not surmise, it’s established. Of course you knew that; Mr. Yeager was not concerned to conceal it. Who are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t deny that you knew there were others?”

  She thought she was going to, but his eyes had her pinned. She swallowed the yes and said, “No. I knew that.”

  “Of course. He wanted you to. His arrangement for keeping slippers and garments testifies that he derived pleasure not only from his present companion but also from her awareness that she had—uh—colleagues. Or rivals. So surely he wasn’t silent about them? Surely he spoke of them, in
comparison, in praise or derogation? And if he didn’t name them he must have aroused conjecture. This is my most instant question, Miss Duncan: who are they?”

  I had heard Wolfe ask questions of women that made them tremble, or turn pale, or yell at him, or burst into tears, or fly at him, but that was the first time I ever heard one that made a woman blush—and her a sophisticated Broadway star. I suppose it was his matter-of-fact way of putting it. I didn’t blush, but I cleared my throat. She not only blushed; she lowered her head and shut her eyes.

  “Naturally,” Wolfe said, “you would like this episode to pass into history as quickly as possible. It might help if you will tell me something about the others.”

  “I can’t.” She raised her head. The blush was gone. “I don’t know anything about them. Are you going to keep my cigarette case?”

  “For the present, yes.”

  “You have me at your mercy.” She started to rise, found that her knees were shaky, and put a hand on the chair arm to help. She got erect. “I was a fool to go there, an utter fool. I could have said—I could have said anything. I could have said I lost it. What a fool.” She looked at me straight, said, “I wish I had clawed your eyes out,” turned, and headed for the door. I got up and followed her, passed her in the hall, and had the front door open when she reached it. She wasn’t very steady on her feet, so I watched her descend the seven steps to the sidewalk before I shut the door and returned to the office. Wolfe was in his reading position and had opened his book, An Outline of Man’s Knowledge of the Modern World, edited by Lyman Bryson. I had spent an hour one afternoon looking it over, and had seen nothing about modern satyrs.

  Chapter 6

  Six years ago, reporting one of Wolfe’s cases, one in which no fee or hope of one was involved, I tried a stunt that I got good and tired of before I was through. It took us to Montenegro, and nearly all the talk was in a language I didn’t know a word of, but I got enough of it out of Wolfe later to report it verbatim. I’m not going to repeat that experience, so I’ll merely give you the gist of his conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Perez when he came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock and found them there. It was in Spanish. Either he took the opportunity to speak one of his six languages, or he thought they would be freer in their native tongue, or he wanted to rile me, I don’t know which. Probably all three. After they had gone he gave me the substance.

  This isn’t evidence; it’s just what they said. They didn’t know who came Sunday evening, man or woman, or how many, or when he or she or they had left. They didn’t know how many different people came at different times. Sometimes they had heard footsteps in the hall, and they had always sounded like women. If a man had ever come they hadn’t seen or heard him. No one had ever been in the room when they went up to clean; they didn’t go up if the elevator was up there, but that had happened only five or six times in four years.

  They had heard no shot Sunday evening, but even the floor of the room was soundproofed. When Perez went up at midnight there had been a smell of burnt powder, but he thought it was a weak smell and she thought it was a strong one. There had been nothing in the room that didn’t belong there—no gun, no coat or hat or wrap. Yeager had been fully dressed; his hat and topcoat had been on a chair, and they had put them in the hole with the body. None of the slippers or garments or other articles were out of the drawers. The bed had not been disturbed. Everything was in place in the bathroom. They had taken nothing from Yeager’s body but his keys. They had cleaned the room Monday morning, vacuumed and dusted, but had taken nothing out of it.

  They had paid no rent for their basement. Yeager had paid them fifty dollars a week and had let them keep the rent they collected for the rooms on the four floors. Their total take had been around two hundred dollars a week (probably nearer three hundred and maybe more). They had no reason to suppose that Yeager had left them the house, or anything else, in his will. They were sure that none of the tenants had any connection with Yeager or knew anything about him; the renting had been completely in their hands. They had decided that one hundred dollars wasn’t enough to pay Wolfe and me, and though it would take most of their savings (this isn’t evidence) they thought five hundred would be better, and they had brought half of that amount along. Of course Wolfe didn’t take it. He told them that while he had no present intention of passing on any of the information they had given him he had to be free to use his discretion. That started an argument. Since it was in Spanish I can’t give it blow by blow, but judging from the tones and expressions, and from the fact that at one point Mrs. Perez was up and at Wolfe’s desk, slapping it, it got pretty warm. She had calmed down some by the time they left.

  Since they didn’t leave until dinnertime and business is barred at the table, Wolfe didn’t relay it to me until we were back in the office after dinner. When he had finished he said, “It’s bootless. Time, effort, and money wasted. That woman killed him. Call Fred.” He picked up his book.

  “Sure,” I said, “no question about it. It was such a nuisance, all that money rolling in, three hundred a week or more, she had to put a stop to it, and that was the easiest way, shoot him and dump him in a hole.”

  He shook his head. “She is a creature of passion. You saw her face when I asked if her daughter had ever gone up to that room—no, you didn’t know what I had asked her. Her eyes blazed, and her voice shrilled. She discovered that Yeager had debauched her daughter and she killed him. Call Fred.”

  “She admitted it?”

  “Certainly not. She said that her daughter had been forbidden to go up to that room and had never seen it. She resented the implication with fury. We are no longer concerned.” He opened the book. “Call Fred.”

  “I don’t believe it.” My voice may have shrilled slightly. “I haven’t described Maria at length and don’t intend to, but when I start marrying she will be third on the list and might even be first if I didn’t have prior commitments. She may be part witch but she has not been debauched. If and when she orgies with a satyr he’ll be leaning gracefully against a tree with a flute in his hand. I don’t believe it.”

  “Orgy is not a verb.”

  “It is now. And when I asked you this morning if there was any limit to how much I should take along and disburse if necessary, you said as dictated by my discretion and sagacity. I took five hundred, and my discretion and sagacity dictated that the best way to use it was to get Fred there and keep him there. Sixty hours at seven-fifty an hour is four hundred and fifty dollars. Add fifty for his grub and incidentals and that’s the five hundred. The sixty hours will be up at eleven-thirty p.m. Thursday, day after tomorrow. Since I have met Maria and you haven’t, and since you left it—”

  The phone rang. I whirled my chair and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s reside—”

  “Archie! I’ve got one.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman. You coming?”

  “Immediately. You’ll be seeing me.” I cradled the phone and stood up. “Fred has caught a fish. Female.” I glanced at the wall clock: a quarter to ten. “I can have her here before eleven, maybe by ten-thirty. Instructions?”

  He exploded. “What good would it do,” he roared, “to give you instructions?”

  I could have challenged him to name one time when I had failed to follow instructions unless forced by circumstances, but with a genius you have to be tactful. I said merely, “Then I’ll use my discretion and sagacity,” and went. I should have used them in the hall, to stop at the rack for my topcoat, as I discovered when I was out and headed for Tenth Avenue. A cold wind, cold for May, was coming from the river, but I didn’t go back. Getting a taxi at the corner, I told the driver 82nd and Amsterdam. There might still be a cop at the hole, and even if there wasn’t it would be just as well not to take a cab right to the door.

  There was no cop at the hole, and no gathering of amateur criminologists, just passers-by and a bunch of teen-agers down the block. After turning in at 156, descending the three steps, and
using Meg Duncan’s key, I entered and proceeded down the hall; and halfway along I had a feeling. Someone had an eye on me. Of course that experience, feeling a presence you have neither seen nor heard, is as old as rocks, but it always gets you. I get it at the bottom of my spine, showing perhaps that I would be either raising or lowering my tail if I had one. At the moment I had the feeling there was a door three paces ahead of me on the right, opened to a crack, a bare inch. I kept going, and when I reached the door I shot an arm out and pushed it. It swung in a foot and was stopped, but the foot was enough. There was no light inside and the hall was dim, but I have good eyes.

  She didn’t move. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “This is my room.” A remarkable thing; with a strong light on her, that was best, and with a dim one, that was best.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. “As you know, I’m a detective, and detectives have bad habits. How many times have you been in the room on the top floor?”

  “I’m not allowed,” she said. “Would I tell you? So you could tell my mother? Excuse me, I shut the door.”

  She did, and I didn’t block it. A nice long talk with her would be desirable, but it would have to wait. I went to the elevator and used the other key, stepped in, and was lifted.