Rex Stout - Plot It Yourself

“How do you know he’s dead?”

“Now come. Not only you here and the mood you’re in, but also him looking for somewhere to puke. Was it today? Was he stabbed like the others?”

He advanced a step, to arm’s length. “I want to know exactly why you came here at exactly this time.” He was hoarser. “I had been at that Jacobs place five minutes, and there you came. I’ve been here three minutes, and here you come. You didn’t come to see Rennert. You’d ring his number first to see if he was here. You knew damn well it wasn’t him that asked you who it is. You knew it was me. You’re good on voices. And you’re good at lies, and I’ve had enough of ’em. You puke. Puke a little truth.”

“You would too,” I said.

“I would too what?”

“Ring his number first. And when you ring a number and get no answer, do you always assume that the ringee is dead and go to see? I should hope not. Why did you come here at exactly this time?”

His jaw worked. “Okay, I’ll tell you. The janitor got a phone call Friday from the people where Rennert was supposed to go for the weekend, and another one yesterday. He thought Rennert had just decided to go somewhere else, and he didn’t want to enter the apartment, but he phoned the Missing Persons Bureau. They thought it was just another false alarm, but this morning someone at the bureau remembered he had seen Rennert’s name on a report and called us. Now it’s your turn, and by God, I want it straight! And fast!”

I was frowning thoughtfully. “It’s too bad,” I said, “that I always seem to rub you the wrong way. As sore as you are, the best thing you could do would be to take me down and book me, but I don’t know what for. It’s not even a misdemeanor to ring a man’s doorbell. What I would like to do is help, since I’m here. If you’ve only been here three minutes you haven’t had time to try all the tests, and maybe he’s not dead. I’d be glad to—”

“Get going!” His hands were fists, and a muscle at the side of his neck was working. “Get!”

I didn’t take the elevator. Purley knew that the natural thing would be for me to find the janitor and pump him, so I took the stairs. He had made it all the way to the basement. I found him there, pale and upset. He was too sick to talk, or too scared, or he may have thought I was the murderer. I told him the best thing was strong hot tea, no sugar, found my way to the sidewalk, and headed for home. I walked, taking my time. There was no point in disturbing Wolfe in the plant rooms, since there was no emergency. Rennert’s belly had already turned green, and another half an hour wouldn’t matter.

I had returned the keys and rubber gloves to the drawers, and fixed myself a gin and tonic because I wanted to swallow something and the idea of milk or water didn’t seem to appeal to my stomach, and was looking at the sports section of the Times when Wolfe came down. We exchanged good mornings, and he went to the only chair in the world he really approved of, sat, rang for beer, and said I might as well go for a walk. He has some sort of an idea that my going for a walk is good for him.

“I already have,” I told him. “I found another corpse, this time in an advanced condition. Kenneth Rennert.”

“I’m in no mood for flummery. Take a walk.”

“No flummery.” I put the paper down. “I dialed Rennert’s number and got no answer. I walked to his address and rang the bell and got no answer. Happening to have keys and rubber gloves with me, and thinking I might find something interesting, I went in and up to his apartment. For three or four days he has been lying on a couch with a knife in his chest, and is still there. So is the knife. He was probably fed a dose in a drink before—”

I stopped because he was having a fit. He had closed his right hand to make a fist and was hitting the desk with it, and he was bellowing. He was roaring something in a language that was probably the one he had used as a boy in Montenegro, the one that he and Marko Vukcic had sometimes talked. He had roared like that when he heard that Marko had been killed, and on three other occasions over the years. Fritz, entering with beer, stopped and looked at me reproachfully. Wolfe quit bellowing as abruptly as he had started, glared at Fritz, and said coldly, “Take that back. I don’t want it.”

“But it will do—”

“Take it back. I shall drink no beer until I get my fingers around the creature’s throat. And I shall eat no meat.”

“But impossible! The squabs are marinating!”

“Throw them out.”

“Wait a minute,” I objected. “What about Fritz and Theodore and me? Okay, Fritz, We’ve had a shock. I shall eat no boiled cucumbers.”

Fritz opened his mouth, closed it again, turned, and went. Wolfe, his fists on the desk, commanded me, “Report.”

Six minutes would have been enough for it, but I thought it would be well to give him time to calm down a little, so I stretched it to ten, and when I ran out of facts I continued, “I would want full price, no discount, for my two guesses — that the knife came from his; kitchen drawer, and that he was drugged, unconscious, when he was stabbed. I have another guess on which I’d allow five per cent off for cash, no more — that he had been dead eighty hours. Between eighty and eighty-five. He was killed late Wednesday night. X went straight to him after killing Jane Ogilvy. If he had put it off until after the news about Jane Ogilvy was out, Rennert would have been too much on his guard to let X put something in his drink. Rennert may or may not have suspected that X had killed Simon Jacobs, since nothing had been published connecting his death with the plagiarism charge he had made three years ago. But if Rennert had known about Jane Ogilvy too, he certainly would have suspected. Hell, he would have known. So X couldn’t wait, and he didn’t. He went to Rennert to discuss their claim against Mortimer Oshin, knowing that Rennert would offer him a drink. He offered me one before I had been in his place three minutes.”

I stopped for breath. Wolfe opened his fists and worked his fingers.

“Three comments,” I said. “First, one question is answered — whether Rennert’s operation was independent or was one of X’s string. X has answered that for us. I admit it doesn’t help any, with Rennert dead, but it makes it neater, and you like things neat. Second, with Rennert dead, his claim against Mortimer Oshin is dead too, and Oshin may want his ten grand back, and the committee may fire you tomorrow, and the Alice Porter surveillance is costing over three hundred bucks a day. Third, your beer and meat pledge. We’ll ignore it. You were temporarily off your nut. This is tough enough as it is, and with you starving and dying of thirst it would be impossible.” I left my chair. “I’ll bring the beer.”

“No.” He made fists again. “I have committed myself. Sit down.”

“God help us,” I said, and sat.

We were in conference, off and on, all the rest of the day, with time out for meals. The meals were dismal. Squab marinated in light cream, rolled in flour seasoned with salt, pepper, nutmeg, clove, thyme, and crushed juniper berries, sautéed in olive oil, and served on toast spread with red currant jelly, with Madeira cream sauce poured over it, is one of Wolfe’s favorite tidbits. He ordinarily consumes three of them, though I have known him to make it four. That day I wanted to eat in the kitchen, but no. I had to sit and down my two while he grimly pecked away at his green peas and salad and cheese. The Sunday-evening snack was just as bad. He usually has something like cheese and anchovy spread or pâté de foie gras or herring in sour cream, but apparently the meat pledge included fish. He ate crackers and cheese and drank four cups of coffee. Later, in the office, he finished off a bowl of pecans, and then went to the kitchen for a brush and pan to collect the bits of shell on his desk and the rug. He sure was piling on the agony.