Rex Stout - Bullet for One

“How do you do, sir,” Wolfe rumbled. “Good heavens, I’ve shaken hands with — how many murderers, Archie?”

“Oh — forty,” I estimated.

“At least that. That’s Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Talbott.”

Evidently Vic figured I might be squeamish too, for he gave me a nod but extended no hand. Then he turned to face the guests. “What about it, folks? Have you hired the great detective?”

“Nuts,” Wayne Safford squeaked at him. “You come prancing in, huh?”

Ferdinand Pohl had left his chair and was advancing on the gate-crasher. I was on my feet, ready to move. There was plenty of feeling loose in the room, and I didn’t want any of our clients hurt. But all Pohl did was to tap Talbott on the chest with a thick forefinger and growl at him, “Listen, my boy. You’re not going to sell anything here. You’ve made one sale too many as it is.” Pohl whirled to Wolfe. “What did you let him in for?”

“Permit me to say,” Broadyke put in, “that it does seem an excess of hospitality.”

“By the way, Vic” — it was Dorothy’s soft voice — “Ferdy says I was your accomplice.”

The remarks from the others had made no visible impression on him, but it was different with Dorothy. He turned to her, and the look on his face was good for a whole chapter in his biography. He was absolutely all hers unless I needed an oculist. She could lift her lovely brows a thousand times a day without feeding him up. He let his eyes speak to her and then wheeled to use his tongue for Pohl. “Do you know what I think of you, Ferdy? I guess you do!”

“If you please,” Wolfe said sharply. “You don’t need my office for exchanging your opinions of one another; you can do that anywhere. We have work to do. Mr. Talbott, you asked if I’ve accepted a job that has been offered me. I have. I have engaged to investigate the murder of Sigmund Keyes. But I have received no confidences and can still decline it. Have you a better offer? What did you come here for?”

Talbott smiled at him. “That’s the way to talk,” he said admiringly. “No, I have nothing to offer in the way of a job, but I felt I ought to be in on this. I figured it this way: they were going to hire you to get me arrested for murder, so naturally you would like to have a look at me and ask me some questions — and here I am.”

“Pleading not guilty, of course. Archie. A chair for Mr. Talbott.”

“Of course,” he agreed, thanking me with a smile for the chair I brought, and sitting down. “Otherwise you’d have no job. Shoot.” Suddenly he flushed. “Under the circumstances, I guess I shouldn’t have said ‘shoot.’”

“You could have said ‘Fire away,’ “Wayne Safford piped up from the rear.

“Be quiet, Wayne,” Audrey Rooney scolded him.

“Permit me—” Broadyke began, but Wolfe cut him off.

“No. Mr. Talbott has invited questions.” He focused on the inviter. “These other people think the police are handling this matter stupidly and ineffectively. Do you agree, Mr. Talbott?”

Vic considered a moment, then nodded. “On the whole, yes,” he assented.

“Why?”

“Well — you see, they’re up against it. They’re used to working with clues, and while they found plenty of clues to show what happened, like the marks on the bridle path and leading to the thicket, there aren’t any that help to identify the murderer. Absolutely none whatever. So they had to fall back on motive, and right away they found a man with the best motive in the world.”

Talbott tapped himself on the necktie. “Me. But then they found that his man — me — that I couldn’t possibly have done it because I was somewhere else. They found I had an alibi that was—”

“Phony!” From Wayne Safford.

“Made to order.” From Broadyke.

“The dumbheads!” From Pohl. “If they had brains enough to give that switchboard girl—”

“Please!” Wolfe shut them up. “Go ahead, Mr. Talbott. Your alibi — but first the motive. What is the best motive in the world?”

Vic looked surprised. “It’s been printed over and over again.”

“I know. But I don’t want journalistic conjectures when I’ve got you — unless you’re sensitive about it.”

Talbott’s smile had some bitterness in it. “If I was,” he declared, “I’ve sure been cured this past week. I guess ten million people have read that I’m deeply in love with Dorothy Keyes or some variation of that. All right, I am! Want a shot — want a picture of me saying it?” He turned to face his fiancée. “I love you, Dorothy, better than all the world, deeply, madly, with all my heart.” He returned to Wolfe. “There’s your motive.”

“Vic, darling,” Dorothy told his profile, “you’re a perfect fool, and you’re perfectly fascinating. I really am glad you’ve got a good alibi.”

“You demonstrate love,” Wolfe said dryly, “by killing your beloved’s surviving parent. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Talbott asserted. “Under certain conditions. Here was the situation. Sigmund Keyes was the most celebrated and successful industrial designer in America, and—”

“Nonsense!” Broadyke exploded, without asking permission to say.

Talbott smiled. “Sometimes,” he said, as if offering it for consideration, “a jealous man is worse than any jealous woman. You know, of course, that Mr. Broadyke is himself an industrial designer — in fact, he practically invented the profession. Not many manufacturers would dream of tooling for a new model — steamship, railroad train, airplane, refrigerator, vacuum cleaner, alarm clock, no matter what — without consulting Broadyke, until I came along and took over the selling end for Sigmund Keyes. Incidentally, that’s why I doubt if Broadyke killed Keyes. If he had got that desperate about it he wouldn’t have killed Keyes, he would have killed me.”

“You were speaking,” Wolfe reminded him, “of love as a motive for murder under certain conditions.”

“Yes, and Broadyke threw me off.” Talbott cocked his head. “Let’s see — oh, yes, and I was doing the selling for Keyes, and he couldn’t stand the talk going around that I was mostly responsible for the big success we were having, but he was afraid to get rid of me. And I loved his daughter and wanted her to marry me, and will always love her. But he had great influence with her, which I did not and do not understand — anyway, if she loved me as I do her that wouldn’t have mattered, but she doesn’t—”

“My God, Vic,” Dorothy protested, “haven’t I said a dozen times I’d marry you like that” — she snapped her fingers — “if it weren’t for Dad? Really, I’m crazy about you!”

“All right,” Talbott told Wolfe, “there’s your motive. It’s certainly old-fashioned, no modern industrial design to it, but it’s absolutely dependable. Naturally that’s what the police thought until they ran up against the fact that I was somewhere else. That got them bewildered and made them sore, and they haven’t recovered their wits, so I guess my good friends here are right that they’re being stupid and ineffective. Not that they’ve crossed me off entirely. I understand they’ve got an army of detectives and stool pigeons hunting for the gunman I hired to do the job. They’ll have to hunt hard. You heard Miss Keyes call me a fool, but I’m not quite fool enough to hire someone to commit a murder for me.”

“I should hope not.” Wolfe sighed. “There’s nothing better than a good motive. What about the alibi? Have the police given up on that?”

“Yes, the damn idiots!” Pohl blurted. “That switchboard girl—”

“I asked Mr. Talbott,” Wolfe snapped.

“I don’t know,” Talbott admitted, “but I suppose they had to. I’m still trembling at how lucky I was that I got to bed late that Monday night — I mean a week ago, the night before Keyes was killed. If I had been riding with him I’d be in jail now, and done for. It’s a question of timing.”