Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

Rose and I went out. Apparently she avoided the bedrooms by taking me around by a side hall, for we entered the study direct from that. She showed me how to go, by another door, and left me there. I looked around; books, leather chairs, radio, smoke stands, and a flat-top desk by a window. There was the drawer, of course, where the gat had been kept. I went over to it and pulled it open and shut it again. Then I went out by the other door and followed directions. I struck a medium pace, past the dining-room door, across the central hall, through a big room and from that through the drawing-room; got my eye on my watch, opened the door into the foyer, went in and closed it—

It was a good thing the folks had been warned, for Rose yelling Now so I could hear it sounded even to me, away off in the foyer, like the last scream of doom. I went back in faster than I had come for fear she might try it again. She had beat it back to the room where Mrs. Burton was. When I entered she was standing by the couch with her face white as a sheet, looking seasick. Mrs. Burton was reaching up to pat her arm. I went over and sat down.

I said, “I almost didn’t get there. Two seconds at the most. Of course she rushed it, but it shows it must have been quick.—Okay, Rose. I won’t ask you to do any more yelling. You’re a good brave girl. Just a couple more questions. When you heard the shots you ran to the foyer with Mrs. Burton. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you see when you got there?”

“I didn’t see anything. It was dark.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard something on the floor and then I heard Mr. Chapin saying Mrs. Burton’s name and then the light went on and I saw him.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was trying to get up.”

“Did he have a gun in his hand?”

“No, sir. I’m sure he didn’t because he had his hands on the floor getting up.”

“And then you saw Dr. Burton.”

“Yes, sir.” She swallowed. “I saw him after Mrs. Burton went to him.”

“What did you do then?”

“Well... I stood there I guess... then Mrs. Burton told me to go for Dr. Foster and I ran out and ran downstairs and they told me Dr. Foster had just left and I went to the elevator—”

“Okay, hold it.”

I looked back over my notes. Mrs. Burton was patting Rose’s arm again and Rose was looking at her with her lip ready to sag. My watch said five minutes till eleven; I had been in that room nearly two hours. There was one thing I hadn’t gone into at all, but it might not be needed and in any event it could wait. I had got enough to sleep on. But as I flipped the pages of my pad there was another point that occurred to me which I thought ought to be attended to. I put the pad and pencil in my pocket and looked at Mrs. Burton:

“That’s all for Rose. It’s all for me too, except if you would just tell Rose—”

She looked up at the maid and nodded at her. “You’d better go to bed, Rose. Good night.”

“Oh, Mrs. Burton—”

“All right now. You heard Mr. Goodwin say you’re a brave girl. Go and get some sleep.”

The maid gave me a look, not any too friendly, looked again at her mistress, and turned and went. As soon as the door had closed behind her I got up from my chair.

I said, “I’m going, but there’s one more thing. I’ve got to ask a favor of you. You’ll have to take my word for it that Nero Wolfe’s interest in this business is the same as yours. I’ll tell you that straight. You don’t want Paul Chapin to burn in the electric chair for killing your husband, and neither does he. I don’t know what his next move will be, that’s up to him, but it’s likely he’ll need some kind of standing. For instance, if he wants to ask Inspector Cramer to let him see the gun he’ll have to give a better reason than idle curiosity. I can’t quite see Paul Chapin engaging him, but how about you? If we could say we were acting on commission from you it would make things simple. Of course there wouldn’t be any fee, even if we did something you wanted done. If you want me to I’ll put that in writing.”

I looked at her. Her head was still up, but the signs of a flop were in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. I said to her, “I’m going, I won’t stay and bark at you about this, just say yes or no. If you don’t lie down somewhere and relax, let it go ahead and bust, you’ll be doing another kind of relaxing. What about it?”

She shook her head. I thought she was saying no, to me, but then she spoke — though this didn’t sound as if it was directed at me any more than the headshake: “I loved my husband, Mr. Goodwin. Oh yes, I loved him. I sometimes disapproved of things he did. He disapproved of things I did, more often — though he seldom said so. He would disapprove of what I am doing now — I think he would. He would say, let fate do her job. He would say that as he so often said it — gallantly — and about Paul Chapin too. He is dead... Oh yes, he is dead... but let him live enough to say that now, and let me live enough to say what I always said, I will not keep my hand from any job if I think it’s mine. He would not want me to make any new concessions to him, dead.” She rose to her feet, abruptly, and abruptly added, “And even if he wanted me to I doubt if I could. Good night, Mr. Goodwin.” She held out her hand.

I took it. I said, “Maybe I get you, but I like plain words. Nero Wolfe can say he is acting in your behalf, is that it?”

She nodded. I turned and left the room.

In the foyer I took a glance around as I got my hat and coat from the table and put them on. I took the black bag from the closet. When I opened the door I gave the lock an inspection and saw it was the usual variety in houses of that class, the kind where you can press a button countersunk in the edge of the door to free the cylinder. I tried it and it worked. I heard a noise in the hall and stepped out and shut the door behind me. There sitting in a chair, twisting the hide on his neck to see who had been monkeying with the door but not bothering to get up, was the snoop Cramer had left to protect the family from annoyance as I had suspected he would.

I started pulling on my gloves. I said to him friendly and brisk, “Thank you, my man. I assure you we appreciate this,” and went on to the elevator.

At two o’clock that night — Sunday morning — I sat at my desk, in the office, and yawned. Wolfe, behind his own desk, was looking at a schedule I had typed out for him, keeping a carbon for myself, during one of the intervals in my report when he had called time out to do a little arranging in his mind. The schedule looked like this:

6:05 Mrs. Burton arrives home. Present in apartment: Burton, daughter, Bowen, maid, cook.

6:20 Bowen leaves.

6:25 Daughter leaves.

6:30 Dora Chapin arrives.

7:20 Dora leaves.

7:30 Paul Chapin arrives.

7:33 Burton is shot.

7:50 Fred Durkin phones.

I looked at my carbon and yawned. Fritz had kept some squirrel stew hot for me, and it had long since been put away, with a couple of rye highballs because the black sauce Fritz used for squirrel made milk taste like stale olive juice. After I had imparted a few of the prominent details without saying how I had got hold of them, Wolfe had explained to Hibbard that it is the same with detectives as with magicians, their primary and constant concern is to preserve the air of mystery which is attached to their profession, and Hibbard had gone up to bed. The development that had arrived over the telephone while he was taking his bath had changed his world. He had eaten no dinner to speak of, though the need to chaperon the gold leaf on his teeth had departed. He had insisted on phoning fifty or sixty people, beginning with his niece, and had been restrained only by some tall talk about his word of honor. In fact, that question seemed not entirely closed, for Wolfe had had Fritz cut the wire of the telephone which was in Hibbard’s room. Now he was up there, maybe asleep, maybe doping out a psychological detour around words of honor. I had gone on and given Wolfe the story, every crumb I had, and there had been discussions.