Rex Stout - If Death Ever Slept

“And you came on the run immediately? Only stopping at my door on the way?”

“You’re damn right I did.”

“Then add another minute. That makes four minutes from the time the rug came in to the time we got here, and probably less, and he was gone. So he didn’t have time for much more than turning off the switch.”

“We ought to find out who it was,” Horland’s said. “While it’s hot.”

He certainly worked his brain, that bird. Obviously it had been a member of the household, and how and when to find out who it was was strictly a family affair. Jarrell didn’t bother to tell him so. He merely gave him a chore, to unlock and open the door of a metal box that was set in the wall facing the entrance. Its door had a round hole for the lens to see through, and inside was the camera. Horland’s took the camera out, extracted the film and put in a new one, returned the camera and locked the door, and departed.

Jarrell regarded me. “You realize it could have been anybody. We may know more when we see the picture. But with that rug in front of her, she could have held it up high with her hands not showing, nothing at all showing, and you couldn’t tell.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “she could. Anybody could. One pronoun is as good as another. As I said, she didn’t have time for much more than turning off the switch, but you might look around. Is any little item missing?”

He moved his head from side to side, got up, went and tried the knobs of the safes, crossed to the battery of cabinets and pulled at the handles of the drawers in the two end tiers, which had locks on them, went and opened the top drawer of Nora Kent’s desk and took a look, and then came back to his own desk and opened the top drawer of it. His face changed immediately. He pulled the drawer wide open, moved things around, and pushed it shut. He looked at me.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess.”

He took a breath. “I keep a gun in there, a Bowdoin thirty-eight. It’s gone. It was there this afternoon.”

“Loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Whoever got it knew you had it. He — I beg your pardon — she came straight to the desk, turned off the switch, grabbed the gun, and ran. That’s all there was time for.”

“Yes.”

“Horland’s was right about one thing. If you want to find out who it was, the sooner the better, while it’s hot. The best way would be to get them all in here, now, and go to it.”

“What good would that do?” His hands were fists. “I know who it was. So do you.”

“I do not.” I shook my head. “Look, Mr. Jarrell. Suspecting her of cheating your son and diddling you, without any evidence, that’s your privilege. But saying that I know she came in here and took a loaded gun, when I don’t, that is not your privilege. Of course you have a permit for it?”

“Certainly.”

“The law says when a gun is stolen it must be reported. It’s a misdemeanor not to. Do you< want to report it?”

“Good God, no.” The fists relaxed. “How about this? I’ll get her in here, and Wyman too, and I’ll keep them here while you go up and search their rooms. You know how to search a room.”

One of two things, I thought. Either he is sure it was her, for some reason or no reason, or he took it himself and planted it in her room. “No good,” I declared. “If she took it, the last place she would hide it would be in her room. I could find it, of course, in a couple of days, or much quicker if I got help in, but what if it turned up in one of the tubs on the terrace? You’d have the gun back, that’s true, if that’s what you want.”

“You know damn well what I want.”

“Yes, I ought to, but that’s not the point now, or not the whole point. Anyone going to all that trouble and risk to get hold of a gun, he must — I beg your pardon — she must intend to use it for something. I doubt if it’s to shoot a squirrel. It might even be to shoot you. I would resent that while I’m employed as your secretary. I advise you to get them in here and let me ask questions. Even better, take them all down to Mr. Wolfe and let him ask questions.”

“No.”

“You won’t?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see. I’ll have to think.” He looked at his wrist. “They’re in the lounge.” He stood up. “I’ll see.”

“Okay.” I stood up. “I’d rather not appear barefooted. I’ll go up and put on my shoes and socks.”

As I said before, that added a new element to the situation.

When Nero Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock Thursday afternoon I was at my desk in the office, waiting for him. Growling a greeting, if you can call it that, as he crossed to his chair, he lowered his bulk and got it properly disposed, rested his elbows on the chair arms, and glared at me.

“Well?”

I had swiveled to him. “To begin with,” I said, “as I told you on the phone, I’m not asking you to exert yourself if you’d rather not. I can hang on up there if it takes all summer, and with Orrie here you certainly don’t need me. Only I didn’t want you to have a client shot from under you with no warning from me. By the way, where is Orrie?”

“He stepped out. Who is going to shoot Mr. Jarrell?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know he’s going to be the target. Do you care to hear about it?”

“Go ahead.”

I did so. Giving him only a sketchy outline of my encounters and experiences up to 6:15 p.m. Wednesday, when Jarrell had opened my door and yelled at me to come on, from there I made it more detailed. I reported verbatim my conversation with Jarrell after Horland’s had gone.

Wolfe grunted. “The man’s an ass. Every one of those people would profit by his death. They need a demonstration, or one of them does. He should have corralled them and called in the police to find the gun.”

“Yeah. He’s sure his daughter-in-law took it, or pretends he is. As I said on the phone Monday night, he may have an itch he can’t reach and is not accountable. He could have pulled the rug act himself, answered the phone call from Horland’s there in the library, raced upstairs to get me, and raced down again. He could have taken the gun earlier. I prefer it that way, since in that case there will probably be no bullets flying, but I admit it’s not likely. He is not a nitwit.”

“What has been done?”

“Nothing, actually. After dinner we played bridge, two tables — Trella, Lois, Nora, Jarrell, Wyman, Roger Foote, Corey Brigham, me. Incidentally, when I finally got down to the lounge before dinner Brigham was there with them, and I learned from Steck that he had come early, shortly after six o’clock, so I suppose it could have been him that got the gun, provided he had a key to the library. It was around midnight when we quit, and—”

“You didn’t include the daughter-in-law.”

“Haven’t I mentioned that she doesn’t play bridge? She doesn’t. And we went to bed. Today I saw four of them at breakfast — Jarrell, Wyman, Lois, and Nora — but not much of anybody since, except Susan and Trella at lunch. Jarrell mentioned at lunch that he would be out all afternoon, business appointments. At two-thirty, when I went around looking for company, they were all out. Of course Roger had gone to Jamaica, with the sixty bucks I gave him — by the way, I haven’t entered that on the expense account. At three o’clock I went for a walk and phoned you, and when I got back there was still nobody at home except Nora, and she is no — oh, I forgot. The pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Sure, from the camera. A Horland’s man brought them while I was out phoning you, and when I got back Nora had them. She wasn’t sure whether she should let me look at them, but I was. That woman sure plays them close to her chin; I don’t know now whether Jarrell had told her about the rug affair or not. If not, she must have wondered what the pictures were all about. There were three of them; the camera takes one every two seconds until the door is shut. They all showed the rug broadside, coming straight in. He must have kicked the door shut. That rug is seven by three, so it could have been a tall man holding the top edge a little above the top of his head, or it could have been a short woman holding it as high as she could reach. At the bottom the rug was just touching the floor. At the top its edge was turned back, hiding the hands. I was going to bring the pictures along to show you, but would have had to shoot Nora to get away with them. Jarrell wasn’t back when I left at five-thirty.”