Рекс Стаут: A Right to Die

“Yes, but you haven’t moved.”

“I move now. What or who is the point. What would be eating him when he caught up on sleep? He had got Dolly Brooke off his conscience, and now two questions were nagging him: who killed Susan, and had she been emotionally involved — his words — with Dunbar Whipple, or hadn’t she? As for who killed her, he thought it possible, maybe probable, that Dolly Brooke had, but that was merely an unanswered question that other people were working on. It was the second question that really hurt, and he wanted to know.”

I gestured. “All right, where would he go? In a way he was a simple, direct kind of guy, and he might have gone straight to Dunbar Whipple, but he was in the can. There was no point in going to Dolly Brooke; he had heard all she had to say, he knew she didn’t really know, whether she had killed Susan or not. There were only two possibilities, as far as he knew: Whipple’s father and mother, or the people at the ROCC. That’s where he went. To Paul Whipple, or the ROCC, or both. I suggest that you phone Whipple, and if you get a no, I go to the ROCC and ask Maud Jordan what time Peter Vaughn got there yesterday.”

Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “It can do no harm. Even if—”

The doorbell rang. I went to the hall for a look, turned my head to tell Wolfe, “Whipple,” and proceeded to the front. It was a pleasant walk, those dozen steps; I was absolutely certain that I had more than made up for the two hours I had wasted on Dolly Brooke. What else could have brought Whipple in the middle of a working day? When I opened the door and offered a hand I’m afraid I overdid it a little. I am not a knuckle-crusher, but I do have a grip, and I guess he felt it. I took him to the office, and I hope I wasn’t smirking as he took the red leather chair and told Wolfe he had come instead of phoning because he had to tell him something that might make trouble for people that they didn’t deserve. Wolfe asked what people, and Whipple raised a hand to adjust his glasses. Cheaters are useful that way; they give you an excuse for moving your eyes and taking a few seconds to pick words.

“You may not know,” Whipple said. “That young man, Peter Vaughn, has been murdered.”

Wolfe nodded. “I do know.”

“His body was found in a parked car. He was shot.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you know—” It came out husky, and he cleared his throat and started over. “You know that in all this trouble I have been absolutely candid with you.”

“I have no reason to doubt it.”

“I have been. Absolutely candid. I have told you everything that you might need to know. Now there’s something that I don’t want to tell you, but I know I must. It will make trouble for people who are friends of mine — not only friends, they are important people in the — to my race. But to ask your help, and accept it, and then keep facts from you that you should know — that would be contemptible.”

“You could tell me to quit.”

“I don’t want you to quit!” His voice rose, almost a shriek, and he clamped his teeth on his lip. In a moment he went on. “You’ll have to make allowances. When I first came to you my nerves were none too good, and now I can’t control them.” His head jerked up. “This is childish. Yesterday he came to me, Peter Vaughn, and asked me to tell him what I knew of the relations that existed between my son and that girl, Susan Brooke. He wasn’t—”

“What time yesterday?”

“In the morning. He was at the college waiting when I arrived. He wasn’t very intelligent, was he? I told him I knew nothing about it beyond the fact of their association in their work, that I could neither confirm nor deny any of the things that have been printed. What else could I say? He was insistent, but so was I, and he left. Then during the lunch hour I received a phone call from Tom Henchy of the ROCC. He said that Peter Vaughn had been there and had insisted on seeing him and some of the others, and he wanted to know what I had told him. Then today, about an hour ago, Tom Henchy phoned again. He told me that Peter Vaughn had been murdered last night, and he asked me to say nothing to anyone about his having been at the ROCC yesterday. He said they had agreed that it would be inadvisable to mention it, and they didn’t want me to. I said I would call him back, and I did, in a few minutes. During those few minutes what was mostly in my mind was what you said to us that night at Kanawha Spa. That was about murder too. I called him and told him I had decided I must tell you. He wanted me to come or meet him somewhere and discuss it, but I wouldn’t. I came here. There it is. I hope to heaven...” He let it hang and left the chair. “I don’t expect you to say anything, I don’t want you to.” He turned and was going, but Wolfe’s voice stopped him.

“If you please! Who knows about this?”

“No one. I haven’t told anybody, not even my wife.”

“Not even about his coming to you?”

“No. And I won’t. You must excuse me. It has been painful, telling you this. Very painful.” He went.

I was on my feet, but Wolfe shook his head at me and I stayed put. My stepping to the hall for a look after the sound came of the front door closing was automatic, a habit ever since the day a bozo shut it from inside and stood near the open office door for half an hour, listening to us discuss his affairs.

I stepped back in. “Do I bother to sit?”

A corner of Wolfe’s mouth was up. “You know, Archie, the most revealing manifestation of your self-esteem is not an action but an exclusion. You never crow. Nevertheless, accept my compliments.”

“With pleasure. I won’t deduct the twenty-two bucks. Do I sit down?”

“No. Bring them.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Mr. Cramer might get to them at any moment.”

“It’s a quarter to three. Even if I deliver them in half an hour, which is doubtful, you can’t possibly do them in forty-five minutes.”

“I know I can’t, confound it. I owe all this to that outlandish trip to Kanawha Spa.”

“But you got the recipe for saucisse minuit.”

“I did indeed. Bring them. Everyone Mr. Vaughn saw or spoke with, no exceptions. First ring Saul. We need him immediately.”

As I went and started dialing, I was figuring whether it was the fourth time in history he had permitted his afternoon session with the orchids to be gummed up or only the third.

Maybe I seldom crow, and I’m all for self-esteem, but I have some flaws, and one of them showed when I walked into the office of the ROCC and crossed over to Maud Jordan at the switchboard and asked, “What time did Peter Vaughn get here yesterday morning?” That had been my suggestion to Wolfe just before Paul Whipple rang the doorbell, and using it verbatim appealed to one of my flaws, I’m not sure which one.

It wasn’t answered. She looked down her long thin nose at me and asked, “Whom do you wish to see?”

I didn’t press her, since Whipple had made it unnecessary. I told her Mr. Henchy, and it was urgent. She used the phone and told me to go on in, and as I went down the hall Harold R. Oster appeared in the doorway of the corner room. I would have preferred to have Henchy alone because lawyers always complicate things, but didn’t make an issue of it. He didn’t offer a hand, and neither did Henchy when Oster nodded me in and closed the door. Neither of them nodded me to a chair.

I said, standing, to Henchy at his desk, “Paul Whipple has told Nero Wolfe — not on the phone, in person — what he told you he would, about Peter Vaughn, and Mr. Wolfe wants to see you. Now. Everybody who spoke with Vaughn yesterday.”