Рекс Стаут - A Right to Die

“Fifty dollars a year for the past seven years.” I slanted a glance at Miss Tiger to see if she was impressed. Apparently not.

“But that telephone call is a vital point, and if Miss Brooke made it I must know who might have learned about it. Mr. Oster, I told you that if you wished to object to anything I say, you have a tongue. Do you object to this?”

“No,” the lawyer said. “I think it’s immaterial, but this isn’t a courtroom.”

“It may be immaterial. Shall I repeat the question, Mr. Henchy?”

“No. I’ll answer for myself. I was in the room continuously until the conference ended.”

“I wasn’t,” Cass Faison said. I had him in profile, and the light glancing off his black cheek gave it a high gloss. “I had an appointment and left about a quarter to six.”

“Did you enter Mr. Whipple’s room?”

“No. I want to say, I doubt if Dunbar Whipple killed her, not with a club like that, but if he did I hope he gets the chair. Whoever killed Susan Brooke, whether he’s here in this room or not, I hope he gets it.”

“So do I,” Ewing snapped. “We all do.” He aimed his sharp brown eyes at Wolfe. “If Oster doesn’t object, I don’t. I was out of the room for a few minutes, to go to the men’s room, and it may have been after five-thirty. I don’t know. I didn’t enter Whipple’s room, and I knew nothing about the phone call or message.”

“Then I need not grill you. Mr. Oster, if you don’t object, you were at the conference?”

“Yes. Like Mr. Henchy, continuously. I learned about the phone call from Miss Jordan the next morning.”

“Miss Kallman. Did you enter Mr. Whipple’s room during the specified period?”

“I wasn’t there.” She put her glass down on the stand between her chair and Maud Jordan’s. “I wasn’t at the office much. I was usually out most of the day. I was that day.” All past tense, though Henchy had told me she was staying on. Probably immaterial.

“Were you with Miss Brooke that afternoon?”

“No. I was in Brooklyn, seeing some people. She had a five-o’clock meeting with some students at NYU.”

“When did you last see her?”

“That morning at the office. We often met there, especially Mondays, to plan for the day. But I think I should tell you—” She stopped.

“Yes?”

“I told the police. I often phoned her in the evening, if there was anything to report or ask about. That morning she told me she would be at the Wads-worth number that evening, and about half past eight, a little after half past, I dialed that number, but there was no answer.”

“The number of the apartment on One Hundred and Twenty-eighth Street?”

“Yes.”

Wolfe grunted. “The police probably assume she hadn’t arrived. I assume she was dead. Then you didn’t know of her call to the office at five-fifteen?”

“No.”

“You, Miss Tiger?”

Now it was in order to look at her straight, and that was a relief. I had never seen a package, anywhere, more glomable. With my eyes, which are good, free to stick, I decided that her long lashes were home-grown. She told Wolfe, in a tight low-pitched voice, “I saw the message. There on his desk. When I took some letters for him to sign.”

Wolfe’s eyes, on her, were precisely the same as when they were on Maud Jordan. Yet he’s a man. “Indeed,” he said. “Then you might as well tell me where you spent the next three hours.”

She didn’t object. “I was there until half past six, with the letters he had signed. Then I ate something in a restaurant. Then I went home and studied.”

“Studied?”

“Economics. I’m going to be an economist. Do you know where I live?”

“No. Where?”

“In that same building on One Hundred and Twenty-eighth Street. I have a room on the fourth floor. When Susan Brooke wanted to find an apartment in Harlem she asked me if I knew of any, and that one on the third floor happened to be vacant. If I had known...”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“You were in your room alone that evening?”

“Yes. From eight o’clock on. For a while the police thought I killed her. I didn’t. I never left the room, even after the police came. They wanted to take me somewhere to be questioned, but I refused to go unless they arrested me, and they didn’t. I know the rights of a citizen. I went to the district attorney’s office the next day. I want to ask you something. I have asked Mr. Oster but I’m not sure he’s right, and I want to ask you. If a person says she committed a murder she can’t be convicted just because she says she did it. There has to be some evidence. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be a witness and say I killed her. Mr. Oster says I would be cross-examined and discredited, but I don’t believe it. I can answer any question they ask me. Then he wouldn’t be convicted, and I couldn’t be. Isn’t that true?”

Wolfe’s lips were tight. He took a deep breath. Henchy and Oster both said something, but he ignored them. He took another breath. “You deserve a frank answer, madam. You are either a female daredevil or a jenny. If you killed her you would be risking disaster; if you didn’t kill her, you would be inviting derision. If you killed her, I advise you to say nothing to anyone, particularly me; if you didn’t, help me find the man who did. Or woman.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Then don’t be a lackwit. Is that apartment on the third floor directly below your room?”

“No, it’s in the rear. I’m at the front.”

“Did you hear any unusual sounds that evening between eight and nine o’clock?”

“No. The first unusual sounds were after the police came.”

“I presume Mr. Whipple knew that you lived there, on the floor above. He told me that he stayed in the apartment until the police arrived — more than half an hour after he discovered the body. It might be thought that at that crisis the impulse to confer with an associate, a friend, so near at hand, would be irresistible. But he didn’t?”

“No, he didn’t. I’m glad he didn’t.”

“Why glad?”

“Because I know — I think I would have gone down and put my fingerprints on the club.”

“Pfui. You think he would have let you?”

“He wouldn’t have known. He would have stayed in my room.”

“Then I’m as glad as you are that he didn’t go to you. This job is knotty enough without that. Archie, the glasses are empty.”

As I went to the bar for a bottle of beer and took it to him, a couple of them made remarks that can be skipped, and Miss Kallman got up to help. They all took refills except Miss Tiger. Her glass was still two-thirds full, with the ice gone, but she didn’t even want more ice. By the time the others had been served, Henchy had downed most of his refill, and I put the bourbon bottle on the stand between him and Oster, and he emptied his glass, picked up the bottle, and poured. It was twelve-year-old Big Sandy, which is worth stealing a little time for. As for me, I went to the kitchen and got a glass of milk. I would like to be loyal to Miss Tiger and say that what she didn’t want I didn’t want, but the truth is that ever since the time I missed an important point because I had had four martinis to be sociable I have limited myself to one dose when I’m working. When I returned to the office with the milk, Oster was speaking:

“...so I didn’t object, but it was immaterial. What does it matter who knew of the phone call or the message? Say I saw the message on Whipple’s desk. I would know that he probably wouldn’t be at the apartment until nine o’clock, but I would also know that Susan wouldn’t either. Therefore I wouldn’t go there at eight o’clock, to see her or kill her before Whipple came. Therefore it’s immaterial.”