Rex Stout - If Death Ever Slept

I turned a hand over. “That’s it. Any instructions?”

He made a face. “How the devil can I have instructions?”

“You might. For instance, instruct me to take Lois out tonight. Or take Trella to lunch tomorrow. Or stick around until Sunday and take Susan to church.”

“Pfui. Give me a plain answer for once. How likely is it that you’ll accomplish anything up there?”

“One in a million, if you mean fairly soon. Give me until Thanksgiving and I might show you something. However, there’s one little teaser. Its name is Eber, James L. Eber. He was upset about something when I found him in the studio with Susan, and so was she. Wyman was upset when I told him Eber had been there. When it was mentioned at the lunch table Roger was upset, and maybe one or two of the others. Jarrell was upset when Nora told him about it. And it was only an hour or so later that the gun was taken. There might be something to be pried out of Eber. I’ve been prying for three days without breaking off a splinter, and as a last resort he might have one loose. He just might have something interesting to say to the guy who took his job.”

He grunted. “I doubt if any of those people has anything interesting to say to anyone.”

“I said I did too but that Eber should have a chance and I would go and give him one after dinner.

Orrie Cather dined with us. I went upstairs two flights to tell my room hello, and when I went back down Orrie was there, and we had time to exchange some friendly insults before Fritz announced dinner. The main dish was shad roe with creole sauce. Shad roe is all right, and Fritz’s creole sauce is one of his best, but the point is that with that item Fritz always serves bread triangles fried in anchovy butter; and since he knew four hours ago that I would be there, and he was aware of my attitude toward bread triangles fried in anchovy butter, he had proceeded beyond the call of duty. Again I passed up a salad, but only because there wasn’t room for it.

Back in the office, with coffee, Orrie, who had been told that I was going on an errand, asked if I needed any help, and I said I hoped not. When he saw me getting a ring of keys from a drawer he said I might need a lookout, and I repeated that I hoped not. When he saw me getting a shoulder holster and a gun from another drawer he said I might need a loader, and I told him he ought to know better, that if six wasn’t enough what I would need would be a meat basket to bring me home in.

I had no reason to think there would be any occasion for the gun, but ever since Jarrell had opened the drawer and found his gone I had felt unfurnished. A man who — I beg your pardon — a woman who steals a loaded gun deserves to be treated with respect. As for the keys, they were routine equipment when calling on a stranger who might have useful information and who might or might not be home. There would probably be no occasion for them either, but I dislike waiting in dark halls with nothing to sit on.

The address, which I got from my notebook, on 49th Street between Second and Third avenues, was above the door of an old five-story building that was long past its glory if it had ever had any. In the vestibule, I found EBER in the middle of the row of names, and pushed the button. No click. I pushed it five times, with waits in between, before giving up. I certainly wasn’t going to do my waiting there, if any, and the old Manson lock was no problem, so I got out the keys, selected one, and in less than a minute was inside. If the position of his name in the row was correct he was two flights up, and he was — or his name was on the jamb of a door in the rear, with a button beside it. When I pushed the button I could hear the ring inside.

I was in the dark hall with nothing to sit on that I don’t like to wait in. Since there might be some information inside, in some form or other, that I could get more easily with him not there, I was sorry I hadn’t brought Orrie along, because with a lookout there would have been nothing to it, but in three minutes I was glad I hadn’t. That was how long it took me to decide to go on in, to get the lock worked, to enter, to see him sprawled on the floor, and to check that he was dead. Then I was glad Orrie hadn’t come.

He was backside up, so I didn’t have to disturb him in order to see the hole in the back of his head, a little below the center. When I spread the hair it looked about the right size for a .38, but I wasn’t under oath. Standing up, I looked around, all the way around. There was no gun in sight, and it couldn’t very well be under him. I didn’t have to sniff to get the smell of powder, but there were no open windows, so it would take it a while to go.

I stood and considered. Had I been seen by anybody who might identify me later? Possibly, but I doubted it. Certainly by no one inside, or even in the vestibule. Was it worth the risk to give the dump a good going over to see what I could find? Maybe; but I had no gloves, and everything there would be tried for prints; and it would be embarrassing if someone came before I left. Had I touched anything besides his hair? You can touch something without knowing it — the top of a table, for instance, as you cross a room. I decided I hadn’t.

It was a pity that I had to wipe the doorknob and the surface around the keyhole outside, since there might be prints there that Homicide could use, but there was no help for it. I did it thoroughly but quickly. I hadn’t liked the idea of hanging around the hall before, and I liked it much less now. At the top of the stairs I listened three seconds, and, descending, did the same on the next landing. My luck held, and I was down, out to the sidewalk, and on my way without anyone to notice me. I was thinking that items of routine that become automatic through habit, though they are usually wasted, can be very useful — for instance, my having the taxi drop me at 49th Street and Third Avenue instead of taking me to the address. Now, not caring to have anything at all to do with a taxi on the East Side, I walked crosstown all the way to Ninth Avenue before flagging one. I needed a little walk anyway, to jolt my brain back into place. It was 8:57 when I stood up after looking at the hole in Jim Eber’s head. It was 9:28 when the taxi pulled up at the curb in front of the old brownstone on West 35th Street.

When I entered the office Orrie was in one of the yellow chairs over by the big globe, with a magazine. I noted that with approval, since it showed that he fully appreciated the fact that my desk was mine. At sight of me Wolfe, behind his desk with a book, dropped his eyes back to the page. I hadn’t been gone long enough to get much of a splinter.

I tossed my hat on my desk and sat. “I have a comment to make about the weather,” I said, “privately. Orrie hates to hear the weather mentioned. Don’t you, Orrie?”

“I sure do.” He got up, closing the magazine. “I can’t stand it. If you touch on anything you think I’d be interested in, whistle.” He went, closing the door behind him.

Wolfe was scowling at me. “What is it now?”

“A vital statistic. Ringing James L. Eber’s bell several times and getting no reaction, and finding the door was locked, I used a key and entered. He was on the floor facedown in the middle of the room, with a bullet hole in the back of his head which could have been made by a thirty-eight. He was cooling off, but not cold. I would say, not for quotation, that he had been dead from three to seven hours. As you know, that depends. I did no investigating because I didn’t care to stay. I don’t think I was seen entering or leaving.”

Wolfe’s lips had tightened until he practically didn’t have any. “Preposterous,” he said distinctly.

“What is?” I demanded. “It’s not preposterous that he’s dead, with that hole in his skull.”