Рекс Стаут - A Right to Die

“Yes.”

“Were you alone with him?”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No. None of us had ever seen him before.”

“How long was he with you?”

“Not more than three or four minutes. I wasn’t timing it. Possibly five.”

“What was said?”

“He said the same thing to all of us. He wanted to know how intimate Miss Brooke had been with Mr. Whipple. We all said the same thing to him. We said we didn’t know. He didn’t want to believe that. He said someone there must know. He was all — he was in a fret. I sent him to Mr. Ewing.”

Wolfe’s lips were tight. He turned to me. “This is farcical.”

“Yes, sir. They talked it out for two hours with Mr. Henchy.”

“Bring them.”

It occurred to me as I crossed to the door that I might as well get a little personal satisfaction. I would put Miss Tiger in the red leather chair. But Wolfe might himself interfere with that, so when I opened the door I asked Henchy to come and took him to the red leather chair, and then summoned the others. Since Saul had moved up enough chairs for all, I was free to enjoy the look on Oster’s face when he saw I had foxed him. That settled my relations with Harold R. Oster. We were enemies for life, and that suited me fine.

Wolfe took them in, from Henchy at the far left to Maud Jordan at the far right, nearest me. “I’m through,” he said. “I’m through with you for today, but not with the job I’m doing. The situation is unaltered. I have learned nothing whatever from Mr. Henchy, Mr. Oster, or Mr. Faison, except that you are presenting a solid front. You are maintaining that your exchanges with Mr. Vaughn yesterday were identical. I don’t believe it. I believe—”

“I’m not!” It was Maud Jordan.

Wolfe’s eyes went to her. “Not what, Miss Jordan?”

“What you said about identical exchanges. I know what that man, Vaughn, asked the rest of them, but he didn’t ask me anything. He merely said he wanted to see Mr. Henchy.”

“When he entered.”

“Yes.”

“And gave you his name.”

“Of course.”

“And when he departed?”

“He didn’t say anything.” She upped her chin and a half. “I want to say something now. You’re hounding these people, and I think it’s outrageous. You’re bullying them just because they’re Negroes. And who are you? Where were you born?”

She was only the switchboard, but nobody shushed her, not even a murmur or two. She was a volunteer, and she had given half a grand to the fund for Medgar Evers’s children. Wolfe’s head turned left. “Do you wish to support that indictment, Mr. Henchy?”

“No. I think you’re wrong, but no, I wouldn’t call it bullying.”

“Do you wish to add anything, Miss Jordan?”

“No. I mean what I said.”

“Mr. Ewing, I haven’t spoken with you. Have you anything to say?”

“No, only that I agree with Mr. Henchy. If you think one of us is a murderer, you’re wrong, but I wouldn’t call it bullying. I know what it will be like if the police find out he came there yesterday morning. Are you going to tell them?”

“Miss Tiger. Do you wish to say anything?”

“No,” she said, barely audible.

“Then we’re through. For today. I may see all of you again, and I certainly expect to see one of you; I would give something to know which one. To answer Mr. Ewing’s question, I shall not tell the police of Mr. Vaughn’s ill-fated visit. I bid you good afternoon merely as a civility.” He leaned back, laced his fingers at his center mound, and closed his eyes.

I was surprised at Oster. Not a word. He got up and headed for the hall. Saul Panzer, who was on a chair over by the bookshelves, followed him out, and as the others rose and moved, no one saying anything, I stayed put. Saul was there. I don’t especially mind holding a coat for a murderer, but I like to know when I’m doing it. I looked at my watch: 5:19. Wolfe could still have forty minutes with the orchids, but apparently he preferred to take a nap. I sat and watched his big chest rise and fall, expecting, and I admit hoping, to see the lip exercise start, but it didn’t. When the sounds from the hall ended with the closing of the front door and Saul came and took the yellow chair nearest me, he was still just sitting and breathing.

“In a way,” I told Saul, “I’m glad you’ve seen her. I’ll be doing a lot of talking about her in the future and you’ll appreciate it better. I’m sure you’ll agree that the best way to handle it is to cherish and covet her at a distance, but the question is what distance. A mile is a distance, but so is a yard or even an inch. I wish I knew more about poetry. If I could turn out—”

“Shut up!” Wolfe bellowed.

I turned and said, “Yes, sir. I was only remarking about the one single aspect of the party that struck me as worthy of remark. Was there any other?”

“No.” He had straightened up.

“Then there’s no argument. I might as well go on remarking about Miss Tiger. Two days ago I said there wasn’t one sensible thing anybody could do. Now it’s even worse; there’s not even one unsensible thing.”

“Confound it, don’t sit there inventing grotesque words!”

“Shall I go?” Saul asked.

“No. When Archie exhausts inanity he may have a suggestion. I won’t. It’s hopeless. Whatever Vaughn saw or heard there yesterday is buried beyond recovery. One of those six people either killed him or knows who did, but that key to his identity is undiscoverable. There’s another one somewhere, but a hundred men might not find it in a hundred days. Saul?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Archie?”

“Sorry and sad.”

He glared. “Two highly trained and highly skilled men, and what good are you? Go somewhere. Do something. Am I to sit here another evening, and go up to bed, contemplating frustration? Reflecting, in desperation, as I did day before yesterday, on a diphthong?”

Saul and I exchanged glances. Our genius was going potty on us. To humor him I inquired, “A diphthong?”

“Yes. Tenuous almost to nullity, it was unworthy of consideration. It still is. But I’m bereft, and it’s a fact. Get Mr. Vaughn.”

For half a second I thought he was worse than potty; then, realizing that there was a Mr. Vaughn who was still alive, and that diphthongs might be his hobby, I got at the phone. With his son not yet buried, Samuel Vaughn probably wouldn’t be at Heron Manhattan, Inc., but I tried it on the chance, was told that he wasn’t in today, and dialed his home number. He wasn’t accessible until I made it clear that Nero Wolfe wanted to ask him a question — I didn’t say about a diphthong — and in a couple of minutes I had him, and Wolfe took his phone.

“I presume to disturb you, Mr. Vaughn, only because I am concerned with the death of your son in connection with my investigation of the death of Susan Brooke, and I need a bit of information you may be able to supply. According to the published accounts, your son graduated from Harvard in nineteen fifty-nine. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“To lead to the next question. I’d rather not elucidate now, but it’s possible that this will be helpful in identifying a murderer. Do you know if your son was acquainted with a fellow student named Richard Ault? A-U-L-T. Perhaps a classmate?”

“I’m afraid I don’t— Wait a minute... yes, I do. That was the name of the boy that committed suicide that summer, after they graduated. My son told me about it. Yes, he knew him rather well; they took the same courses. But I don’t understand... what possible connection...”

“There may be none. If I find one, you’ll understand then. Do you know if your son ever visited Richard Ault at his home — perhaps at vacation time?”