Рекс Стаут - A Right to Die

Wolfe nodded and put his glass down. “Obviously, if it were that simple, but it isn’t. The telling point is that if you saw the message you knew it was fairly certain that Whipple wouldn’t arrive until around nine o’clock. During the two hours between six and eight you might have learned — no matter how, there are various possibilities — that Miss Brooke had changed her plans and would get there earlier. You might even have met her, by design or accident, and gone to the apartment with her on some pretext.”

“Possible.” Oster pursed his lips, considering it, then jerked his chin up, and I thought he had decided to take charge. But he only said, “Are you going to ignore the fact that someone besides Miss Tiger knew about the message?”

“No. I was keeping that for later, but if you want it now...” Wolfe’s eyes went right. “He means you, of course, Miss Jordan. You left the office at five-thirty. How did you spend the next three hours?”

There was a flash in her eyes that I didn’t know she had. “I didn’t spend it killing anybody,” she snapped.

“Good. Nor, I hope, at any other mischief. You must have told the police; why not tell me? Miss Tiger did.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you. What I told them. I stopped at three places on the way home to buy some things — a book, and stockings, and cream and bread and pickles — and went home and cooked my supper, and ate it, and read the book until I went to bed.”

“What book?”

“The Group. By Mary McCarthy.”

Wolfe made a face. He had read two chapters and ditched it. “Where do you live?”

“I have a little apartment on Forty-seventh Street near Lexington Avenue. I’m alone in the world.”

“At least you’re aware of it. Many people aren’t. Now, madam, a point we haven’t dealt with yet. What is your feeling about a Negro marrying a white woman?”

The flash again. “That’s none of your business.”

“My personal business, no. But it’s of urgent concern to me as the man hired by Mr. Whipple to find out who killed Susan Brooke. If you have a reason to refuse to answer, I—”

“I have no reason. It’s impertinent, that’s all. Everyone at the ROCC knows how I feel about it, and other people too. Anyone has a right to marry anyone. It’s a right Marrying the woman of your choice or the man of your choice is a God-given right.”

“Then you didn’t resent the relationship between Mr. Whipple and Miss Brooke?”

“It was none of my business. Except I thought if she married him all her money would be devoted to the cause, and that would be wonderful.”

“We all thought that,” Cass Faison said. “Or nearly all.”

“Not me,” Adam Ewing said. “I’m the exception. From the public-relations viewpoint, I thought it would be unwise. I knew it would be. I can say here exactly how I feel, I’ve said it to bigger crowds than this, and some of them mixed. Sex and money are at the bottom of all the opposition to civil rights, just as they’re at the bottom of everything else. Black and white marrying is like a red rag to a bull.” He gestured. “But I wouldn’t kill a woman to stop it. I’m not a killer. Let the opposition do the killing.”

“I’m an exception too,” Beth Tiger said. “I didn’t think it would be wonderful.”

“You agree with Mr. Ewing?”

“That’s not it. I just say I didn’t think it would be wonderful. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Miss Kallman?”

Rae Kallman shook her head but didn’t open her mouth.

“Does that mean you disapproved?”

“No. It means I said to Susan what I had to say. She was the only one I had any right to say it to, and she’s dead. The police couldn’t drag it out of me, and neither can you.”

“Then I won’t try. Mr. Henchy?”

He cleared his throat. If I had been with him on the bourbon, I would have had to clear mine twice. “On the whole, I approved. Marriage is a very personal matter, but insofar as the interests of the organization were concerned I was in agreement with Mr. Faison. I thought the advantages would outweigh the disadvantages. In my position I must be realistic. Miss Brooke was a very wealthy woman.” He reached for his glass.

“And you, Mr. Oster?”

The lawyer cocked his head. “You know, Wolfe, I’m sitting here taking it in. I’m giving you all the rope you want. But asking me how I feel about a Negro marrying a white woman — how remote can you get? I’ll send you a copy of a magazine with an article I wrote four years ago. Every civilized strain of mankind on earth is the result of interbreeding. Evidently nature approves of it, so I do. I’m not going to indict nature.”

“You had no special feeling about this particular instance?”

“Certainly not.”

Wolfe poured beer, emptying the bottle. He put it down and looked left and right. “I admit,” he said, “that much of what has been said has probably been a waste of time. I hope it has, for in spite of Miss Jordan’s conviction I will not discard the guess that the telephone call was not made by Miss Brooke. I like it; its attractions are many and manifest.” His eyes settled on my assistant bartender. “Miss Kallman, you said that Miss Brooke had a five-o’clock meeting that day. Do you know where it was to be held?”

“It was at NYU, but I don’t know which building or room.”

“Can you find out?”

“Yes, easily.”

“And the names of some of the people who were there?”

“I can tell you one name now. Bill Magnus. William Magnus. I have his address and phone number at the office. He could give you other names. I saw him last week. Many people have wanted to see me, since Susan—”

“The meeting took place and Miss Brooke was there?”

“Yes.”

“Can Mr. Goodwin call you in the morning and get Mr. Magnus’s address?”

“I had better call him. I’m never sure just when I’ll be there.”

“Will you do so?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve talked with Magnus,” Oster said. “So have the police, naturally. You won’t get anything conclusive, one way or the other.”

Wolfe was swallowing beer. It was turning into a big beer night, three bottles instead of the usual one or two. He put the glass down and licked his lips. “There’s always a chance of a hint, and Mr. Goodwin is good at hints. I can’t say about you, but the police were surely satisfied to have it that Miss Brooke made that call, and I am not. If there’s any—”

The phone rang, and I turned and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s resi—”

“Saul, Archie. I’ve got a slice of maybe bacon.”

“We could use some. We have company. Hold it.”

“Sure.”

I pressed a button, rose, detoured around the chairs, passing only eight inches from Miss Tiger’s shoulder, went to the kitchen, and got at the phone on my breakfast table.

“Goodwin speaking.”

“You sound more like Lieutenant Rowcliff.”

“I do not. I don’t stutter. Well?”

“It cost twenty bucks. Some garage attendants have delusions of grandeur. The Brookes have two cars, Herons, a sedan and a station wagon. Mr. Brooke uses the wagon every day, Monday to Friday; he drives to his laboratory in Brooklyn. He returned it to the garage that Monday evening, March second, around midnight. Mrs. Brooke came and got the sedan that evening between seven and eight. His guess is about a quarter to eight. She brought it back about an hour later, maybe an hour and a half.”

“Saul, I love you, except at the poker table. Will he tell her?”

“No. He would deny he told me. I had to swear he wouldn’t be quoted. I merely wanted the information, you know?”

“Yeah. How much chance is there that he made it up to give you your money’s worth?”