Rex Stout - If Death Ever Slept

“No racing at Jamaica now. It’s closed.”

“What about Belmont?”

“Open. Big day tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll see. You will act on this hypothesis: that Roger Foote took Jarrell’s gun and hid it in his room or elsewhere on the premises. Thursday afternoon he shot Eber with it. Since he intended to say he had spent the day at Jamaica, he went there so as to be seen, and he hid the gun somewhere there. To speculate as to why he hid it instead of disposing of it is pointless; we know he did hide it because it was used again on Sunday. Either he hid it at Jamaica or, having made an appearance there, he went to Belmont and hid it there. In either case, on Sunday he went and retrieved it, returned to New York, met Brigham by appointment, and killed him. Acting on that hypothesis, your job is to learn where he left the gun from Thursday to Sunday, and you may start either at Jamaica or at Belmont. It’s barely possible you’ll even find the gun. He may have thought he might have further use for it and went back and hid it again in the same place after killing Brigham. He didn’t get home Sunday until seven o’clock.”

I said — not an objection, just a fact — “Of course he had all of New York City too.”

“I know, but that’s hopeless. He had to go to Jamaica on Thursday and to Belmont on Sunday, to be seen, and since we know he was there we’ll look there. We know little or nothing of his movements in New York City; we know of no place particularly available to him where he could hide a gun and count on getting it again. First explore the possibilities at Jamaica and Belmont.”

I explored them for four straight days, equipped with five hundred bucks in small bills from cash reserve and eight pictures of Roger Foote, procured early Thursday morning from the files at the Gazette . I went to Jamaica first because Belmont would have such a mob on the holiday that I would merely have got trampled.

Meanwhile, throughout the four days, Wolfe presumably had the gang busy working on other hypotheses — including Dol Bonner — though he never told me who was after what, except that I gathered Saul Panzer was on Otis Jarrell himself. That was a compliment to the former client, since Saul’s rate was sixty bucks a day and expenses and he was worth at least five times that. Fred Durkin was good but no Saul Panzer. Orrie Cather, whom you have seen at my desk, was yes and no. On some tricks he was unbeatable, but on others not so hot. As for Dol Bonner, I didn’t know much about her firsthand, but the word around was that if you had to have a female dick she was it. She had her own office and a staff — with one of which, Sally Colt, I was acquainted.

By Sunday night I knew enough about Jamaica and Belmont, especially Belmont, to write a book, with enough left over for ten magazine articles. I knew four owners, nine trainers, seventeen stable boys, five jockeys, thirteen touts, twenty-eight miscellaneous characters, one lamb, three dogs, and six cats, to speak to. I had aroused the suspicions of two track dicks and become close friends with one. I had seen two hundred and forty-seven girls it would have been fun to talk to but was too busy. I had seen about the same number of spots where a gun could be hid, but could find no one who had seen Roger Foote near any of them. None of them held a gun at the time I called, nor could I detect any trace of oil or other evidence that a gun had been there. One of them, a hole in a tree the other side of the backstretch, was so ideal that I was tempted to hide my own gun in it. Another good place would have been the bottom of a rack outside Gallant Man’s stall, but there were too many eagle eyes around. Peach Fuzz wasn’t there.

Sunday night I told Wolfe there was nothing left to explore unless he wanted me to start looking in horses’ mouths, and he said he would have new instructions in the morning.

But he never gave them to me, for a little after ten on Monday a call came inviting me to visit the DA’s office, and, after buzzing Wolfe in the plant rooms to tell him where to find me, I went. After thirty minutes with Mandelbaum and a dick I knew one thing, that the several hundred city and county employees working on the case had got exactly as far as I had at Jamaica and Belmont. After another thirty minutes I knew another thing, that the police commissioner and the district attorney had decided it had become necessary to find out what I was doing at Jarrell’s under an assumed name, no matter how Jarrell felt about it. I said I wanted to phone Mr. Wolfe and was told that all the phones were busy. At noon I was taken in to the DA himself and had forty minutes with him that did neither of us any good. At one o’clock I was allowed to take my pick of ham or turkey in a sandwich; no corned beef. I insisted on milk and got it. At two-thirty I decided it had gone far enough and was walking out, but was stopped. Held as a material witness. Then, of course, they had to let me make a phone call, and within ten minutes there was a call for Mandelbaum from Nathaniel Parker, who is Wolfe’s lawyer when Wolfe is driven to the extremity of using one.

I didn’t get locked up at all. The DA had another try at me and then sent me into another room with a dick named O’Leary, and in two hours I won $3.12 from him at gin. I was perfectly willing to give him a chance to get it back, but someone came and took me to Mandelbaum’s room, and Nathaniel Parker was there. As I shook hands with him Mandelbaum warned me not to leave the jurisdiction, and I said I wanted it in writing, and he said to go to hell, and I said I didn’t know that was in the jurisdiction, and Parker steered me out.

Down on the sidewalk I asked him, “How high am I priced this time?”

“No bail, Archie. No warrant. I persuaded Mandelbaum that the circumstances didn’t call for it, and promised that you will be available when needed.”

I was a little disappointed because being out on bail is good for the ego. It gives you a sense of importance, of being wanted; it makes you feel that people care. However, I didn’t reproach Parker; he had acted for the best. We took a taxi together uptown, but he said he had a dinner appointment and didn’t get out when we reached the old brownstone on West 35th Street. So I thanked him for the rescue and the lift. As I crossed the sidewalk to the stoop my wrist watch said 6:23.

Wolfe, at his desk reading a book, lifted his eyes to grunt a greeting and returned them to the book. I went to my desk to see if there were any memos for me, found none, sat, and inquired, “Anything happen?”

He said no, without looking up.

“Parker said to give you his regards. I am not under bail. He talked Mandelbaum out of it.”

He grunted.

“They’ve decided that Jarrell’s private affairs are no longer private. They’ll be after you any time, in the morning at the latest. Do you want a report?”

He said no, without looking up.

“Any instructions?”

He lifted his eyes, said, “I’m reading, Archie,” and lowered them back to the book.

The best thing to throw at him would have been the typewriter, but I didn’t own it. Next best would have been the telephone, but I didn’t own that, either, and the cord wasn’t long enough. I got up and left, mounted the two flights to my room, showered, decided not to shave, put on a clean shirt and a lighter suit, and was sewing buttons on pajamas when Fritz called up that dinner was ready.

It was at the table that I caught on that something was up. Wolfe wasn’t being crusty because the outlook was dark; he was being smug because he had tasted blood, or was expecting to. He always enjoyed his food, whether in spite of circumstances or in harmony with them, and after ten thousand meals with him I knew all the shades. The way he spread pâté on a cracker, the way he picked up the knife to slice the filet of beef in aspic, the way he used his fork on the salad, the way he made his choice from the cheese platter — no question about it, he had something or somebody by the tail, or at least the tail was in sight.