Rex Stout - If Death Ever Slept

I went to him and spoke. “Mr. Jarrell gave me a key.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he around?”

“In the library, sir, I think.”

“They’re playing cards?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you’re not tied up I cordially invite you to my room for some gin. I mean gin rummy.”

He batted an eye. “Thank you, sir, but I have my duties.”

“Some other time. Is Mrs. Wyman Jarrell on the terrace?”

“I think not, sir. I think she is in the studio.”

“Is that on this floor?”

“Yes, sir. The main corridor, on the right. Where you were with Mrs. Jarrell this afternoon.”

Now how the hell did he know that? Also, was it proper for a butler to let me know he knew it? I suspected not. I suspected that my gin invitation, if it hadn’t actually crashed the sound barrier, had made a dent in it. I headed for the corridor and for the rear, and will claim no credit for spotting the door because it was standing open and voices were emerging. Entering, I was in semi-darkness. The only light came from the corridor and the television screen, which showed the emcee and the panel members of “Show Your Slip.” The voices were theirs. Turning, I saw her, dimly, in a chair.

“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she said, barely loud enough. That was all she said. I moved to a chair to her left, and sat.

I have no TV favorites, because most of the programs seem to be intended for either the under-brained or the over-brained and I come in between, but if I had, “Show Your Slip” wouldn’t be one of them. If it’s one of yours, you can assume you have more brains than I have, and what I assume is my own affair. I admit I didn’t give it my full attention that evening because I was conscious of Susan there within arm’s reach, and was keeping myself receptive for any sinister influences that might be oozing from her, or angelic ones either. I felt none. All that got to me was a faint trace of a perfume that reminded me of the one Lily Rowan uses, but it wasn’t quite the same.

When the windup commercial started she reached to the chair on her other side, to the control, and the sound stopped and the picture went. That made it still darker. The pale blur of her face turned to me. “What channel do you want, Mr. Green?”

“None particularly. Mr. Jarrell finished with me, and the others were playing cards, and I heard it going and came in. Whatever you want.”

“I was just passing the time. There’s nothing I care for at ten-thirty.”

“Then let’s skip it. Do you mind if we have a little light?”

“Of course not.”

I went to the wall switch at the door, flipped it, and returned to the chair, and her little oval face was no longer merely a pale blur. I had the impression that she was trying to produce a smile for me and couldn’t quite make it.

“I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “If I’m in the way—”

“Not at all.” Her low voice, shy or coy or wary or demure, made you feel that there should be more of it, and that when there was you would like to be present to hear it. “Since you’ll be living here it will be nice to get acquainted with you. I was wondering what you are like, and now you can tell me.”

“I doubt it. I’ve been wondering about it myself and can’t decide.”

The smile got through. “So to begin with, you’re witty. What else? Do you go to church?”

“I don’t know because I don’t know you yet. I don’t go as often as I should. I noticed you didn’t eat any salad at dinner. Don’t you like salad?”

“Yes.”

“Aha!” A tiny flash came and went in her eyes. “So you’re frank too. You didn’t like that salad. I have been wanting to speak to my mother-in-law about it, but I haven’t dared. I think I’m doing pretty well. You’re witty, and you’re frank. What do you think about when you’re alone with nothing to do?”

“Let’s see. I’ve got to make it both frank and witty. I think about the best and quickest way to do what I would be doing if I were doing something.”

She nodded. “A silly question deserves a silly answer. I guess it was witty too, so that’s all right. I would love to be witty — you know, to sparkle. Do you suppose you could teach me how?”

“Now look,” I protested, “how could I answer that? It makes three assumptions — that I’m witty, that you’re not, and that you have something to learn from me. That’s more than I can handle. Try one with only one assumption.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize. But I do think you could teach me— Oh!” She looked at her wristwatch. “I forgot!” She got up — floated up — and was looking down at me. “I must make a phone call. I’m sorry if I annoyed you, Mr. Green. Next time, you ask questions.” She glided to the door and was gone.

I’ll tell you exactly how it was. I wasn’t aware that I had moved until I found myself halfway to the door and taking another step. Then I stopped, and told myself, I will be damned, you might think she had me on a chain. I looked back at the chair I had left; I had covered a good ten feet before I realized I was being pulled.

I went and stood in the doorway and considered the situation. I started with a basic fact: she was a little female squirt. Okay. She hadn’t fed me a potion. She hadn’t stuck a needle in me. She hadn’t used any magic words, far from it. She hadn’t touched me. But I had come to that room with the idea of opening her up for inspection, and had ended by springing up automatically to follow her out of the room like a lapdog, and the worst of it was I didn’t know why. I am perfectly willing to be attracted by a woman and to enjoy the consequences, but I want to know what’s going on. I am not willing to be pulled by a string without seeing the string. Not only that; my interest in this particular specimen was supposed to be strictly professional.

I had an impulse to go to the library and tell Jarrell he was absolutely right, she was a snake. I had another impulse to go find her and tell her something. I didn’t know what, but tell her. I had another one, to pack up and go home and tell Wolfe we were up against a witch and what we needed was a stake to burn her at. None of them seemed to be what the situation called for, so I found the stairs and went up to bed.

By Wednesday night, forty-eight hours later, various things had happened, but if I had made any progress I didn’t know it.

Tuesday I took Trella to lunch at Rusterman’s. That was a little risky, since I was well known there, but I phoned Felix that I was working on a case incognito and told him to pass the word that I mustn’t be recognized. When we arrived, though, I was sorry I hadn’t picked another restaurant. Evidently everybody, from the doorman on up to Felix, knew Mrs. Jarrell too, and I couldn’t blame them for being curious when, working on a case incognito, I turned up with an old and valued customer. They handled it pretty well, except that when Bruno brought my check he put a pencil down beside it. A waiter supplies a pencil only when he knows the check is going to be signed and that your credit is good. I ignored it, hoping that Trella was ignoring it too, and when Bruno brought the change from my twenty I waved it away, hoping he wouldn’t think I was setting a precedent.

She had said one thing that I thought worth filing. I had brought Susan’s name into the conversation by saying that perhaps I should apologize for being indiscreet the day before, when I had mentioned the impression I had got that Jarrell felt cool about his daughter-in-law, and she said that if I wanted to apologize, all right, but not for being indiscreet, for being wrong. She said her husband wasn’t cool about Susan, he was hot. I said okay, then I would switch from cool to hot and apologize for that. How about what?