Рекс Стаут: A Right to Die

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms I reported. He listened with his eyes open, showing that he was hearing nothing that called for concentration. It was obvious that he had decided, for some reason too subtle for me to appreciate, possibly because he didn’t want to see her again if he could avoid it, that Dolly Brooke wasn’t it. When I suggested that it wouldn’t hurt to try to find Vaughn and pry it out of him, he said pfui, Mr. Vaughn was manifestly an ass, since he hadn’t even had enough gumption to slough his illusion about Miss Brooke. That was a fitting end to the day. I had enough gumption to go up to my room, ring Lucy Valdon, and invite her to dine at Rusterman’s. She suggested that we eat at her house instead. Sometimes that suggestion is welcome, and it was then. It was nice and quiet there and we could laugh louder and longer. I certainly needed someone to laugh with. If Vaughn phoned, Wolfe could tell him where to get me. I stripped and got under the shower.

My morning fog begins to let little streaks of light through as I sip orange juice, and with my second cup of coffee it’s all clear, so when I go to the office around nine-thirty I’m set for the day. But there are exceptions, and that Thursday morning was one. First, it was ten-thirty instead of nine-thirty. Second, I had got home at three o’clock and had had two hours’ less sleep than my regulation eight. Third, there was nothing to be set for. If there had been any word from Peter Vaughn it hadn’t been worth mentioning, since there had been no note on my desk when I got home. Evidently it was going to be more of the same. I had a notion to go up and get Wolfe’s toothbrush and put it on his desk, on top of the mail, but that would only make it worse. I would go for a walk and not be there when he came down. That appealed to me. My watch said 10:52. I went to the kitchen and told Fritz, and to the rack in the hall for my coat, and as I was reaching for it some object dimmed the light from the glass in the door, and I turned. The object was Inspector Cramer. Good. Anything and anybody was welcome, even him, even if he had somehow learned about Dolly Brooke and intended to take us for obstructing justice. I opened the door as he started his hand for the button, and said, “Greetings. I was standing here waiting for you.”

No comment. He was not only out of sorts, he was out of words. He took his coat off and put it on the bench, dropped his hat on it, marched to the office, looked at his watch, and stood facing the door to the hall. Going to my desk, I had a splendid view of his broad burly shoulders and his king-size fanny, motionless for a good three minutes until Wolfe entered, stopped two steps in, and glared. Cramer wheeled and went to the red leather chair. Wolfe switched the glare to me, and as he went to his desk I said, “There wasn’t time to buzz you, he just came.” He put a raceme of Vanda suavis in the vase, sat, and started looking through the mail, no hurry.

“Take your time,” Cramer said, icy. “Take my time. We’ve got all day. You’re going to tell me every word anyone has said in this room, including you and Goodwin, about the murder of Susan Brooke. Start with Peter Vaughn. How often has he been here, and when, and what was said?”

So it was Dolly Brooke. Her statement, all three copies, was in the safe. A safe is safer than a locked drawer.

Wolfe pushed the mail aside and swiveled. “This is extraordinary,” he said, not a protest, merely an observation. “You have your murderer in custody. I have been, and am, acting in his interest as instructed by his legal attorney. Surely you don’t expect to get evidence that will help convict him from me. Even if I had any I should not and would not disclose it to you. Extraordinary. Could I be wrong about the legal position? Shall I get Mr. Oster here?”

It sounded impressive, but Cramer wasn’t impressed. “I know the legal position,” he said, still icy. “You’re not acting for Peter Vaughn, and Oster isn’t his attorney. I want to know when and where you and Goodwin have seen Vaughn and what was said.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Nonsense. You’re rattled, and that’s extraordinary too. We have seen Mr. Vaughn only in our capacity as agents for Mr. Whipple and his lawyer, and you are here in your capacity as Mr. Whipple’s legal nemesis.”

“No.”

Wolfe’s brows went up. “No?”

“I’m here in my capacity as the head of Homicide South, but not about the murder of Susan Brooke. About the murder of Peter Vaughn.”

If he was after an effect he got it. My head jerked left, to Wolfe, and his jerked right, to me. From his look at me it might have been deduced that he thought I had killed Vaughn, and from my look at him it might have been deduced that I thought he had, so Cramer must have been confused.

Wolfe’s head turned back. “I presume this isn’t flummery; that would be fatuous. The particulars?”

“About three hours ago a passer-by looked in the window of a parked car on Second Avenue near Thirty-second Street and told a patrolman what he had seen, and the patrolman went to look. The body of a man was on the floor in front, doubled up, the head and shoulders shoved down to the floor. He had been shot on the right side, four inches below the armpit, one shot that went between his ribs and got his heart. If death had been quick, as it almost certainly had, the shot had been fired between nine o’clock and midnight. The body has been identified. Peter Vaughn. The car is the property of his father’s firm, Heron Manhattan, Inc. No weapon found. Yes, I know the legal position.”

I thought, Now he’ll never have to answer for lying to the police. I thought that, because at the moment there was no other thought worth thinking.

Wolfe’s eyes had closed. They opened. “And Dunbar Whipple was in custody from nine o’clock to midnight?”

“You know damn well he was.”

“When will he be released?”

“Nuts.”

Wolfe nodded. “It’s embarrassing, certainly. You know the annals of homicide. It’s conceivable that another hand killed Peter Vaughn; it’s even conceivable that there was no connection between his death and Susan Brooke’s; but you don’t believe it, and neither do I. You don’t dare hold him. Confound it. This will make—”

Cramer smacked the chair arm. “Damn it, don’t sit there and smirk at me! Talk! When did you last see Vaughn?”

“You don’t mean ‘smirk.’ I am not doing what you think ‘smirk’ means. I’m reacting not to your discomfiture but to my own vexation. Now you need a murderer; but so do I. Coming here with a startling piece of news and barking at me is futile, and you know it.” He leaned back, shut his eyes, and tightened his lips.

Cramer sat and regarded him and breathed.

Wolfe straightened up and cocked his head. “Mr. Cramer. I have no information for you. Don’t explode; let me explain. We — I am including Mr. Goodwin — have seen and spoken with Mr. Vaughn twice. Last Friday evening he was here for less than an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Brooke. None of them gave us any information that you did not already have. Day before yesterday, Tuesday morning, he came alone and spoke with Mr. Goodwin, again for less than an hour. I wasn’t present, but Mr. Goodwin has reported to me. Mr. Vaughn had disclosed certain facts you don’t know about, but it is my considered opinion that they have no bearing on his death. There are—”

“That’s for me to say.”

“It is not. There are two points. First, in our talks with Mr. Vaughn, Mr. Goodwin and I were the agents of Mr. Oster, and therefore the communications were privileged. Second, even if they weren’t privileged we would reserve them, because we have reason to believe that they have no connection with his death. If the event should prove us wrong we would of course be called to account. However—”