Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

“Okay. It just means extra trouble. Wolfe will have to arrange it at the D.A.’s office.”

“Let him. If he does, I won’t butt in. As far as I’m concerned, the only two people that get to see Chapin are his wife and his lawyer, and he’s got no lawyer and if you ask me not much wife.—Listen, now that you’ve asked me a favor and I’ve turned you down, how about doing one for me? Tell me what you want to see him for? Huh?”

I grinned. “You’d be surprised. I have to ask him what he wants us to do with what is left of Andrew Hibbard until he gets a chance to tend to it.”

Cramer stared at me. He snorted. “You wouldn’t kid me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Of course if he’s not talking he probably wouldn’t tell me, but I might find a way to turn him on. Look here, inspector, there must be some human quality in you somewhere. Today’s my birthday. Let me see him.”

“Not a chance.”

I got up. “How straight is it that he’s not talking?”

“That’s on the level. We can’t get a peep.”

I told him much obliged for all his many kindnesses, and left.

I got in the roadster and headed north. I wasn’t downcast. I hadn’t made any history, but I hadn’t expected to. Remembering the mask that Paul Chapin had been using for a face as I saw him sitting in the Burton foyer the night before, I wasn’t surprised that Cramer hadn’t found him much of a conversationalist, and I wouldn’t have expected to hear anything even if I had got to see him.

At Fourteenth Street I parked and went to a cigar store and phoned Wolfe. I told him, “Right again. They have to ask his wife whether he prefers white or dark meat, because he won’t even tell them that. He’s not interested in a lawyer. Cramer wouldn’t let me see him.”

Wolfe said, “Excellent. Proceed to Mrs. Burton.”

I went back to the roadster and rolled on uptown.

When they telephoned from the lobby to the Burton apartment to say that Mr. Goodwin was there, I was hoping she hadn’t got a new slant on this and that during the night. As Wolfe had said once, you can depend on a woman for anything except constancy. But she had stayed put; I was nodded to the elevator. Upstairs I was taken into the same room as the night before by a maid I hadn’t seen — the housekeeper, Mrs. Kurtz, I surmised. She looked hostile and determined enough to make me contented that I didn’t need to question her about a key or anything else.

Mrs. Burton sat in a chair by a window. She looked pale. If people had been with her she had sent them away. I told her I wouldn’t sit down, I only had a few questions Nero Wolfe had given me. I read the first one from my pad:

“Did Paul Chapin say anything whatever to you last night besides what you have already told me, and if so, what?”

She said, “No. Nothing.”

“Inspector Cramer showed you the gun that your husband was shot with. How sure are you that it was your husband’s, the one he kept in the drawer of his desk?”

She said, “Quite sure. His initials were on it, it was a gift from a friend.”

“During the fifty minutes that Dora Chapin was in the apartment last evening, was there any time when she went, or could have gone, to the study, and if so was there anyone else in the study at that time?”

She said, “No.” Then the frown came into her eyes. “But wait — yes, there was. Soon after she came I sent her to the study for a book. I suppose there was no one there. My husband was in his room dressing.”

“This next one is the last. Do you know if Mr. Bowen was at any time alone in the study?”

She said, “Yes, he was. My husband came to my room to ask me a question.”

I put the pad in my pocket, and said to her, “You might tell me what the question was.”

“No, Mr. Goodwin. I think not.”

“It might be important. This isn’t for publication.”

Her eyes frowned again, but the hesitation was brief. “Very well. He asked me if I cared enough for Estelle Bowen — Mr. Bowen’s wife — to make a considerable sacrifice for her. I said no.”

“Did he tell you what he meant?”

“No.”

“All right. That’s all. You haven’t slept any.”

“No.”

Ordinarily I’ve got as much to say as there’s time for, but on that occasion no more observations suggested themselves. I told her thank you, and she nodded without moving her head, which sounds unlikely but I swear that’s what she did, and I beat it. As I went out through the foyer I paused for another glance at one or two details, such as the location of the light switch by the double door.

On my way downtown I phoned Wolfe again. I told him what I had gathered from Mrs. Burton, and he told me that he and Andrew Hibbard were playing cribbage.

It was twenty minutes past noon when I got to Perry Street. It was deserted for Sunday. Sidewalks empty, only a couple of cars parked in the whole block, and a taxi in front of the entrance to 203. I let the roadster slide to the curb opposite, and got out. I had noted the number on the taxi’s license plate and had seen the driver on his seat. I stepped across to the sidewalk and went alongside; his head was tilted over against the frame and his eyes were closed. I put a foot on the running-board and leaned in and said:

“Good morning, Mr. Scott.”

He came to with a start and looked at me. He blinked. “Oh,” he said, “it’s little Nero Wolfe.”

I nodded. “Names don’t bother me, but mine happens to be Archie Goodwin. How’s tips?”

“My dear fellow.” He made noises, and spat out to the left, to the pavement. “Tips is copious. When was it I saw you, Wednesday? Only four days ago. You keeping busy?”

“I’m managing.” I leaned in a little further. “Look here, Pitney Scott. I wasn’t looking for you, but I’m glad I found you. When Nero Wolfe heard how you recognized Andrew Hibbard over a week ago, but didn’t claim the five grand reward when it was offered, he said you have an admirable sense of humor. Knowing how easy it is to find excuses for a friendly feeling for five grand, I’d say something different, but Wolfe meant well, he’s just eccentric. Seeing you here, it just occurred to me that you ought to know that your friend Hibbard is at present a guest up at our house. I took him there yesterday in time for dinner. If it’s all the same to you, he’d like to stay under cover for another couple of days, till we get this whole thing straightened out. If you should happen to turn mercenary, you won’t lose anything by keeping your sense of humor.”

He grunted. “So. You got Andy. And you only need a couple of days to straighten it all out. I thought all detectives were dumb.”

“Sure, we are. I’m so dumb I don’t even know whether it was you that took Dora Chapin up to Ninetieth Street last evening and brought her back again. I was just going to ask you.”

“All right, ask me. Then I’ll say it wasn’t.” He made noises and spat again — another futile attack on the imaginary obstruction in the throat of a man with a constant craving for a drink. He looked at me and went on, “You know, brother — if you will pardon the argot, I’m sore at you for spotting Andy, but I admire you for it too because it was halfway smart. And anyway, Lorrie Burton was a pretty good guy. With him dead, and Mr. Paul Chapin in jail, the fun’s gone. It’s not funny any more, even to me, and Nero Wolfe’s right about my sense of humor. It is admirable. I’m a character. I’m sardonic.” He spat again. “But to hell with it. I didn’t drive Mrs. Chapin to Burton’s last night because she went in her own coupé.”

“Oh. She drives herself.”

“Sure. In the summertime she and her husband go to the country on picnics. Now that was funny, for instance, and I don’t suppose they’ll ever do that again. I don’t know why she’s using me today, unless it’s because she doesn’t want to park it in front of the Tombs — there she comes now.”