Rex Stout - If Death Ever Slept

Jarrell snapped at his daughter-in-law, “Where is it, Susan?”

“No,” Wolfe snapped back at him, “that won’t do. You have admitted you have no proof. I am conducting this conference at your request, and I won’t have you bungling it. These people, including you, are jointly in jeopardy, at least of severe harassment, and I insist on making the appeal to them jointly.” His eyes went right and left. “I appeal to all of you. Mrs. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mrs. Otis Jarrell.” Pause. “Miss Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Green.” Pause. “Mr. Foote.” Pause. “Miss Kent.” Pause. “Mr. Brigham.”

Lois twisted around in her chair to face me. “He’s good at remembering names, isn’t he?” she asked. Then she made two words, four syllables, with her lips, without sound. I am not an accomplished lip reader, but there was no mistaking that. The words were “Archie Goodwin.”

I was arranging my face to indicate that I hadn’t caught it when Corey Brigham spoke. “I don’t quite see why I have been included.” His well-trained smile was on display. “It’s an honor, naturally, to be considered in the Jarrell family circle, but as a candidate for taking Jarrell’s gun I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”

“You were there, Mr. Brigham. Perhaps I haven’t made it clear, or Mr. Green didn’t. The photograph, taken automatically when the door opened, showed the clock above the door at sixteen minutes past six. You were a dinner guest that evening, Wednesday, and you arrived shortly after six and were in the lounge.”

“I see.” The smile stayed on. “And I rushed back to the library and worked the great rug trick. How did I get in?”

“Presumably, with a key. The door was intact.”

“I have no key to the library.”

Wolfe nodded. “Possession of a key to that room would be one of the many points to be explored in a laborious and prolonged inquiry, if it should come to that. Meanwhile you cannot be slighted. You’re all on equal terms, if we ignore Mr. Jarrell’s specification without evidence, and I do.”

Roger Foote’s voice boomed suddenly, louder than necessary. “I’ve got a question.” There were little spots of color beneath the cheekbones of his big wide face — at least there was one on the side I could see. “What about this new secretary, this Alan Green? We don’t know anything about him, anyway I don’t. Do you? Did he know Eber?”

My pal. My pet panhandler. I had lent the big bum sixty bucks, my money as far as he knew, and this was what I got for it. Of course, Peach Fuzz hadn’t won. He added a footnote. “He had a key to the library, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Mr. Foote, he did,” Wolfe conceded. “I don’t know much about him and may have to know more before this matter is settled. One thing I do know, he says he was in his room alone at a quarter past six Wednesday afternoon, when the gun was taken. So was Mr. Jarrell, by his account. Mr. Green has told you of Mr. Jarrell’s coming for him, and what followed. Mr. Brigham was in the lounge. Where were you, Mr. Foote?”

“Where was I when?”

“I thought I had made it plain. At a quarter past six Wednesday afternoon.”

“I was on my way back from Jamaica, and I got home — no. No, that was yesterday, Thursday. I must have been in my room, shaving. I always shave around then.”

“You say ‘must have been.’ Were you?”

“Yes.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No. I’m not Louis the Fourteenth. I don’t get an audience in to watch me shave.”

Wolfe nodded. “That’s out of fashion.” His eyes went to Trella. “Mrs. Jarrell, we might as well get this covered. Do you remember where you were at that hour on Wednesday?”

“I know where I am at that hour every day — nearly every day, except week ends.” I could see one of her ears, but not her face. “I was in the studio looking at television. At half past six I went to the lounge.”

“You’re sure you were there on Wednesday?”

“I certainly am.”

“What time did you go to the studio?”

“A little before six. Five or ten minutes before.”

“You remained there continuously until six-thirty?”

“Yes.”

“I believe the studio is on the main corridor. Did you see anyone passing by in either direction?”

“No, the door was closed. And what do you take me for? Would I tell you if I had?”

“I don’t know, madam; but unless we find that gun you may meet importunity that will make me a model of amenity by comparison.” His eyes went past Wyman to Susan. “Mrs. Jarrell? If you please.”

She replied at once, her voice down as usual, but firm and distinct. “I was in my room with my husband. We were there together, from about a quarter to six, for about an hour. Then we went down to the lounge together.”

“You confirm that, Mr. Jarrell?”

“I do.” Wyman was emphatic.

“You’re sure it was Wednesday?”

“I am.”

Wolfe’s eyes went left and were apparently straight at me, but I was on a line with Lois, who was just in front. “Miss Jarrell?”

“I think I’m it,” she said. “I don’t know exactly where I was at a quarter past six. I was out, and I got home about six o’clock, and I wanted to ask my father something and went to the library, but the door was locked. Then I went to the kitchen to look for Mrs. Latham, but she wasn’t there, and I found her in the dining room and asked her to iron a dress for me. I was tired and I started for the lounge to get a quick one, but I saw Mr. Brigham in there and I didn’t feel like company, so I skipped it and went up to my room to change. If I had had a key to the library, and if I had thought of the rug stunt, I might have gone there in between and got the gun, but I didn’t. Anyway, I hate guns. I think the rug stunt was absolutely dreamy.” She twisted around. “Don’t you, Ar — Al — Alan?”

A marvelous girl. So playful. If I ever got her on a dance floor again I’d walk on her toes. She twisted back again when Wolfe asked a question.

“What time was it when you saw Mr. Brigham in the lounge? As near as you can make it.”

She shook her head. “Not a chance. If it were someone I’m rather warm on, for instance Mr. Green, I’d say it was exactly sixteen minutes after six, and he would say he saw me looking in and he looked at his watch, and we’d both be out of it, but I’m not warm on Mr. Brigham. So I won’t even try to guess.”

“This isn’t a parlor game, Lois,” her father snapped. “This may be serious.”

“It already is, Dad. It sounds darned serious to me. You notice I told him all I could. Didn’t I, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Yes, Miss Jarrell. Thank you. Will you oblige us, Miss Kent?”

I was wondering if Nora would rip it. Not that it would have been fatal, but if she had announced that the new secretary was Archie Goodwin, that Wolfe was a damn liar when he gave them to understand that he had had no finger in the Jarrell pie until that afternoon, and that therefore they had better start the questions going the other way, it would have made things a little complicated.

She didn’t. Speaking as a competent and loyal stenographer, she merely said, “On Wednesday Mr. Jarrell and I left the library together at six o’clock, as usual, locking the door. We took the elevator upstairs together and parted in the hall. I went to my room to wash and change, and stayed there until half past six, and then I went down to the lounge.”

Wolfe leaned back, clasped his fingers at the highest point of his central mound, took in a bushel of air and let it out, and grumbled, “I may have gone about this wrong. Of course one of you has lied.”

“You’re damn right,” Jarrell said, “and I know which one.”