Рекс Стаут: A Right to Die

He turned to the father. “Mr. Whipple. The best service I could render you, and your son, would be to feed you. Say an omelet with mushrooms and watercress. Twenty minutes. Do you like watercress?”

Whipple blinked his bleary eyes. “Then you’re not going to help us.”

“There’s nothing I can do. I can’t fend the blow; it has landed. Your assumption that your son will be charged with murder is probably illusory. You’re distraught.”

Whipple’s mouth twitched. “Mushrooms and watercress. No, thank you.” His hand went inside his jacket and came out with a checkfold. He opened it. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I owed you.”

“Mr. Goodwin’s trip. To Racine.”

“You didn’t authorize it. I sent him.” Wolfe pushed his chair back and stood up. “You will excuse me. I have an appointment. I’m sorry I undertook that job; it was frivolous. And I deplore your misfortune.” He headed for the door.

He was fudging. It was 3:47, and his afternoon session in the plant rooms was from four to six.

Fifty hours went by.

Like you and everyone else, I have various sources of information about what goes on: newspapers, magazines, radio, television, taxicab drivers, random talk here and there, friends, and enemies. I also have two special ones: Lon Cohen, confidential assistant to the publisher of the Gazette , and a woman who is on intimate terms, not familial, with a certain highly distinguished citizen, for whom I once did a big favor. But the news of the arrest of Dunbar Whipple came from none of those sources; it came from Inspector Cramer of Homicide South, whom I couldn’t exactly call an enemy and wouldn’t presume to call a friend.

During the two days I had not only read the newspapers but had also phoned Lon Cohen a couple of times to ask if there was anything hot about the Susan Brooke murder that wasn’t being printed. There wasn’t, unless you would call it hot that her brother Kenneth had socked an assistant district attorney on the beak, or that there was nothing to the rumor that it was being hushed up that she had been pregnant. She hadn’t been. Of course a lot was being printed: that her handbag, on a table in the apartment, had had more than a hundred dollars in it; that an expensive gold pin had been on her dress and a ring with a big emerald had been on her finger (I had seen the ring); that she had bought a bottle of wine at a package store, and several items at a delicatessen, shortly before eight o’clock; that her mother was prostrated and inaccessible; that everyone at the ROCC had been or was being questioned; and so on. The News came out ahead on shots of Susan Brooke, with one in a bikini on a Puerto Rico beach, but the Gazette had the best one of Dunbar Whipple. Handsome and jaunty.

I wasn’t surprised when, at 6:05 Thursday afternoon, Inspector Cramer showed. I had been expecting him or Sergeant Purley Stebbins, or at least a phone call, since Wednesday noon, when Lily Rowan had phoned to tell me she had had an official caller. Of course they had done a routine check on Susan Brooke’s recent activities, of course someone at the ROCC had told them about her lunch with Miss Lily Rowan and Lily’s contribution to the cause, of course they had called on Miss Rowan, and of course Lily had told the caller about me, since someone else would — for instance, the hallman — if she didn’t. So I had been expecting company, and when the doorbell rang and I saw Cramer’s burly figure and round red face and battered old felt hat on the stoop, I went and opened up and said, peeved, “You took your time. We’ve been expecting you for days.”

He spoke to me as he entered. Sometimes he doesn’t; he just tramps down the hall. The fact that he spoke, and even thanked me for taking his hat and coat, showed that he had come not to claim but to ask. When he entered the office, naturally he didn’t offer a hand, since he knows that Wolfe is not a shaker, but before he lowered his fanny onto the red leather chair he uttered a polite greeting and actually made a try at being sociable by asking, “And how are the orchids?”

Wolfe’s brows went up. “Passable, thank you. A pot of Miltonia roezli has fourteen scapes.”

“Is that so.” Cramer sat and pulled his feet in. “Busy? Am I interrupting something?”

“No, sir.”

“No case and no client?”

“Yes. None.”

“I thought possibly you were on a job for Dunbar Whipple. I thought possibly he hired you when he was here Tuesday with his father.”

“No. It didn’t seem to me that he was sufficiently menaced to require my services.”

Cramer nodded. “That’s possible. It’s also possible that it seemed to you he was a murderer, so you bowed out. I say ‘bowed out’ because you did have a client. His father.”

“Did I?”

“Sure. We know all about that, including Goodwin’s trip to Racine. Since you’re out of it, I might as well be frank. He’s at the district attorney’s office and when he leaves he’ll be taken to a cell. He’ll be formally charged in the morning. I’ll—”

“Murder?”

“Yes. I’ll frankly admit that if you had told me you had taken him on I would have expected answers to a lot of questions, and Goodwin would have been wanted downtown. Now he may not have to go.” He turned to me. “In your check on Susan Brooke, what did you find out about her relations with Dunbar Whipple?”

I looked at Wolfe. He shook his head and looked at Cramer. “If you please. Is the decision definite to hold Dunbar Whipple without bail on a murder charge?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

“Has he a lawyer?”

“Yes. He’s at the district attorney’s office now.”

“His name, please?”

“Why?”

Wolfe turned a palm up. “Must I get it from the morning paper?”

Cramer turned both palms up. “Harold R. Oster. A Negro. Counsel for the Rights of Citizens Committee.”

Wolfe’s eyes came to me. “Archie, get Mr. Parker.”

I got the phone. I didn’t have to consult the book for either of the numbers, office or home, of Nathaniel Parker, the member of the bar. Knowing he was often at his office after hours I tried that one first and got him. Wolfe took his phone, and I stayed on.

“Mr. Parker? I need some information confidentially. You will not be quoted. Do you know a lawyer named Harold R. Oster?”

“I know of him. I’ve met him. He’s with the Rights of Citizens Committee. He handles civil rights cases.”

“Yes. How efficient would he be as counsel for a man charged with murder?”

“Oh.” Pause. “Dunbar Whipple?”

“Yes.”

“Are you on that?”

“I merely want information.”

“You usually do. Well... confidentially, I would say no. He has ability, no doubt of that, but in my opinion he might take a wrong line in a case where — a Negro killing a white woman. I mean charged with killing her. If I were Dunbar Whipple, I would want a different kind of man. Of course I may be completely wrong, but—”

“Enough, Mr. Parker, wrong or not. Thank you. You won’t be quoted.” Wolfe hung up and turned. “Archie. Did Dunbar Whipple kill Susan Brooke?”

I know him so well. Anyone might suppose he was showing off to Cramer, showing him how eccentric and unique he was, but no. He merely wanted to know what I would say. If we had been alone I would have told him that one would get him ten that Dunbar was innocent, but with Cramer there I preferred to skip the odds.

“No,” I said.

He nodded. “Get Mr. Whipple.”

Before turning to the phone I shot a glance at Cramer. Chin down, eyes narrowed, and lips tight, he was glued to Wolfe. He knows him fairly well too, and he suspected what was coming.