Rex Stout - If Death Ever Slept

They left in a bunch, not a lively bunch. I accompanied them to the hall, and opened the door, but no one paid any attention to me except Lois, who offered a hand and frowned at me — not a hostile frown, but the kind you use instead of a smile when you are out of smiles for reasons beyond your control. I frowned back to show that there was no hard feeling as far as she was concerned.

I watched them down the stoop to the sidewalk through the one-way glass panel, and when I got back to the office Wolfe was there behind his desk. As I crossed to mine he growled at me, “Get Mr. Cramer.”

“You’re riled,” I told him. “It might be a good idea to count ten first.”

“No. Get him.”

I sat and dialed WA 9-8241, Manhattan Homicide West, asked for Inspector Cramer, and got Sergeant Purley Stebbins. He said Cramer was in conference downtown and not approachable. I asked how soon he would be, and Purley said he didn’t know and what did I want.

Wolfe got impatient and picked up his receiver. “Mr. Stebbins? Nero Wolfe. Please tell Mr. Cramer that I shall greatly appreciate it if he will call on me this evening at half past nine — or, failing that, as soon as his convenience will permit. Tell him I have important information for him regarding the Eber and Brigham murders... No, I’m sorry, but it must be Mr. Cramer... I know you are, but if you come without Mr. Cramer you will not be admitted. With him you will be welcome... As soon as he can make it, then.”

As I hung up I spoke. “One thing, anyhow, there is no longer—”

I stopped because I had turned and seen that he had leaned back and shut his eyes, and his lips had started to go in and out. He was certainly desperate. It was only fifteen minutes until dinner time.

I would say that Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins weigh about the same, around one-ninety, and little or none of it is fat on either of them, so you would suppose their figures would pretty well match, but they don’t. Cramer’s flesh is tight-weave and Stebbins’ is loose-weave. On Cramer’s hands the skin follows the line of the bones, whereas on Stebbins’ hands you have to take the bones for granted, and presumably they are like that all over, though I have never played with them on the beach and so can’t swear to it. I’m not sure which of them would be the toughest to tangle with, but some day I may find out, even if they are officers of the law.

That was not the day, that Monday evening. They were there by invitation, to get a handout, and after greeting Wolfe and sitting — Cramer in the red leather chair and Purley near him, against the wall, on a yellow one — they wore expressions that were almost neighborly. Almost. Cramer even tried to be jovial. He asked Wolfe how he was making out with his acceptable process of reason.

“Not at all,” Wolfe said. He had swiveled to face them and wasn’t trying to look or sound cordial. “My reason has ceased to function. It has been swamped in a deluge of circumstance. My phone call, to tell you that I have information for you, was dictated not by reason but by misfortune. I am sunk and I am sour. I just returned a retainer of ten thousand dollars to a client. Otis Jarrell. I have no client.”

You might have expected Cramer’s keen gray eyes to show a gleam of glee, but they didn’t. He would swallow anything that Wolfe offered only after sending it to the laboratory for the works. “That’s too bad,” he rumbled. “Bad for you but good for me. I can always use information. About Eber and Brigham, you said.”

Wolfe nodded. “I’ve had it for some time, but it was only today, a few hours ago, that I was forced to acknowledge the obligation to disclose it. It concerns an event that occurred at Mr. Jarrell’s home last Wednesday, witnessed by Mr. Goodwin, who reported it to me. Before I tell you about it I need answers to a question or two. I understand that you learned from Mr. Jarrell that he had hired me for a job, and that it was on that job that Mr. Goodwin went there as his secretary under another name. I also understand that he declines to tell you what the job was, on the ground that it was personal and confidential and has no relation to your inquiry; and that the police commissioner and the district attorney have accepted his position. That you have been obliged to concur is obvious, since you haven’t been pestering Mr. Goodwin and me. Is that correct?”

“It’s correct that I haven’t been pestering you. The rest, what you understand, I can’t help what you understand.”

“But you don’t challenge it. I understand that too. I only wanted to make it clear why I intend to tell you nothing about the job Mr. Jarrell hired me for, though he is no longer my client. I assume that the police commissioner and the district attorney wouldn’t want me to, and I don’t care to offend them. Another question, before I— Yes, Mr. Stebbins?”

Purley hadn’t said a word. He had merely snarled a little. He set his jaw.

Wolfe resumed to Cramer. “Another question. It’s possible that my piece of information is bootless because your attention is elsewhere. If so, I prefer not to disclose it. Have you arrested anyone for either murder?”

“No.”

“Have you passable grounds for suspicion of anyone outside of the Jarrell family?”

“No.”

“Now a multiple question which can be resolved into one. I need to know if any discovered fact, not published, renders my information pointless. Was someone, presumably the murderer, not yet identified, seen entering or leaving the building where Eber lived on Thursday afternoon? The same for Brigham. According to published accounts, it is assumed that someone was with him in the backseat of his car, which was parked at some spot not under observation, that the someone shot him, covered the body with the rug, drove the car to Thirty-ninth Street near Seventh Avenue, from where the subway was easily and quickly accessible, parked the car, and decamped. Is that still the assumption? Has anyone been found who saw the car, either en route or while being parked, and can describe the driver? To resolve them into one: Have you any promising basis for inquiry that has not been published?”

Cramer grunted. “You don’t want much, do you? You’d better have something. The answer to the question is no. Now let’s hear it.”

“When I’m ready. I am merely taking every advisable precaution. My information carries the strong probability that the two murders were committed by Otis Jarrell, his wife, Wyman Jarrell, his wife, Lois Jarrell, Nora Kent, or Roger Foote. Or two or more of them in conspiracy. So another question. Do you know anything that removes any of those people from suspicion?”

“No.” Cramer’s eyes had narrowed. “So that’s what it’s like. No wonder you got from under. No wonder you gave him back his retainer. Let’s have it.”

“When I’m ready,” Wolfe repeated. “I want something in return. I want a cushion for my chagrin. You will be more than satisfied with what I give you, and you will not begrudge me a crumb of satisfaction for myself. After I give you my information I want some from you. I want a complete report of the movements of the seven people I named, and I want the report to cover a considerable period: from two o’clock Thursday afternoon to three o’clock Sunday afternoon. I want to know everywhere they went, with an indication of what has been verified by your staff and what has not. I’m not asking for—”

“Save it,” Cramer rasped. “You asking! You’re in a hell of a position to ask. You’ve been withholding material evidence, and it’s got too hot for you and you’ve got to let go. Okay, let go!”

He might not have spoken as far as Wolfe was concerned. He took up where he left off. “I’m not asking for much. You already have some of that and will now be getting the rest of it, and all you need to do is let Mr. Goodwin copy the reports of their movements. That will reveal no departmental secrets, and that’s all I want. I’m not haggling. If you refuse my request you’ll get what you came for anyway; I have no choice. I make the request in advance only because as soon as I give you the information you’ll be leaving. You’ll have urgent business and you wouldn’t wait to hear me. Will you oblige me?”