Rex Stout - Plot It Yourself

I was not actually determined to get tossed in the coop. I thought I might find something helpful in Rennert’s nice big room. I knew from past experience that Wolfe would have approved, but if I had told him in advance he would have been responsible, me being his agent, and it was fair for him to share the risk of my law-breaking when it was his idea, but not when it was mine. I wasn’t hoping to find evidence that Rennert was X, but there was a chance of digging up something to indicate that X had instigated his claim against Mortimer Oshin, or that he hadn’t. Either one would help a little, and I might get more.

After pushing the Rennert button in the vestibule three times, with waits between, and getting no reaction, I started to work on the door. My position on locks is about the same as on fingerprints — I couldn’t qualify as an expert witness, but I have picked up a lot of pointers. Of course I had noticed on my previous visit that the street-door lock and the one upstairs were both Hansens. Anywhere and everywhere you go you should always notice the kind of lock, in case it becomes necessary at some future time to get in without help.

Hansens are good locks, but I had a good assortment. I was under no pressure; if someone had appeared from either direction, I was merely using the wrong key. In three minutes, maybe less, I got it and was inside. The elevator wasn’t there; I pushed the button to bring it down, entered, and pushed the “4” button. The door to the apartment took longer than the one downstairs because I was too stubborn in trying to make the same key do, but finally I had it I swung the door gently six inches and stood with my ear cocked At that hour Sunday morning Rennert might have ignored the phone and the doorbell. Hearing nothing except traffic sounds from the street, I swung the door farther and entered the nice big room.

He was lying on the nice big couch, on his back. One swift glance, even from a distance, was enough to show that he wasn’t asleep. His face was so swollen that no one would have dreamed of calling him handsome, and the handle of a knife was protruding from his chest, which was bare because the dressing gown he had on was open in front down to the belt. I crossed over. The skin of his belly was green. I pressed a finger on the skin at a couple of spots below the ribs; it was tight and rubbery. I put on the rubber gloves and removed one of his slippers and tried the toes; they were flabby. I bent over to get my nose an inch from his open mouth and inhaled; once was enough. He had been dead at least two days, and probably three or four.

I looked around; no sign of a disturbance or search. On a stand near the head of the couch were a half-full bottle of bourbon, two tall glasses, a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches with the flap open, and an ashtray with nothing in it. Having made a guess, that a guy of Rennert’s build and condition wouldn’t lie quietly on his back while someone stuck a knife in him unless he had been somehow processed, which was sound, I stopped to smell the glasses, which was dumb. The best-known drug for a Mickey Finn has almost no taste or odor, and even if it had, it couldn’t be detected by the naked nose after three or four days.

The knife handle was brown plastic. I made another guess, as to why the weapon had been left in place this time, and to check it I crossed to an arch through which a refrigerator could be seen, and looked in. It was a nice little kitchenette. The second drawer I opened contained, among other items, two knives with brown plastic handles, one with a three-inch blade and one with a five-inch. The blade in Rennert’s chest was probably seven-inch. That supported my other guess. You don’t sneak a knife from your host’s kitchen drawer and take it to the living room to kill him with if his eyes are open and his muscles usable.

Having made two good guesses, I decided that would do for a Sunday morning. The idea of spending a couple of hours going over the place, even with rubber gloves, didn’t appeal to me. Being found in a man’s castle which you have entered illegally can be embarrassing, but if he is there with you with a knife in his chest, even if he has started to decompose, it can be really ticklish. I decided that I hadn’t really meant it when I thought it would be more interesting to be in jail. Besides, I had told Fritz I would be back in an hour or so.

I left. I used my handkerchief to wipe the only things I had touched with my bare fingers: the knob of the apartment door, the elevator door, and the button in the elevator. Before starting the elevator down I took off the rubber gloves and stuffed them in my pocket. Everything under control. I would wipe the button on the panel downstairs.

But I didn’t. When the elevator stopped at the bottom, naturally I took a look through the square of glass before I opened the door. No one was in view in the lobby, but in a tenth of a second there would be. The door to the vestibule was being pushed open from the outside by a little guy in his shirt sleeves, and towering behind him was the big square face of Sergeant Purley Stebbins. At a moment like that you don’t use your head because there isn’t time. You use your finger, to press the “2” button in the elevator. Which I did. Electricity is wonderful; the elevator started up. When it stopped at the second floor, I stepped out. When the door closed, the elevator started down, showing that someone had pushed the button in the lobby. Really wonderful.

I stood in the little hall. It was now a question of odds. There was one chance in a thousand trillion that Purley would get out at the second floor, but if he did all the gods in heaven obviously had it in for me and I was sunk no matter what I did. The elevator went on by, and I made for the stairs. There was one chance in a thousand that the shirt-sleeved guy, who had to be the janitor — I beg his pardon, building superintendent — had stayed in the lobby instead of going up with Purley to let him in Rennert’s apartment, but if so only a couple of minor gods were against me, and I could cope with them. I descended and found the lobby empty. Now the odds were the other way. It was fifty to one that there was a police car outside with a man in it, and ten to one that if I emerged to the sidewalk he would see me. That was simple; I didn’t emerge. I went to the vestibule and pressed the button by Rennert’s name and took the receiver from the hook. In a moment a voice came. “Who is it?”

I told the grill, “It’s Archie Goodwin, Mr. Rennert. You may remember I was here ten days ago. You didn’t like the deal I offered, but I’ve got a new angle that makes it different. I think you ought to hear it. I’m pretty sure it will appeal to you.”

“All right, come on up.”

The buzz sounded, and I opened the door and entered, went to the elevator, and pushed the button to bring it down. That button wouldn’t have to be wiped now. When it came I stepped in and pushed the “4” button. When I got out at the fourth floor my face was ready with a friendly grin for Rennert, but at sight of Sergeant Stebbins my mouth opened in shocked surprise and I gawked.

“Not you ,” I said.

“This is just too goddam pat,” he said. He sounded a little hoarse. He whirled to Shirt-sleeves, who was in the doorway. “Take a look at this man. Have you seen him hanging around?”

“No, Sergeant, I haven’t.” The building superintendent looked a little sick. “I never saw him before. Excuse me, I’ve got to—”

“Don’t touch anything in there!”

“Then I’ve got to—” He dashed to the stairs and was gone.

“I wish I had been hanging around,” I said. “I might have seen the murderer enter or leave, or both. How long has Rennert been dead?”