Rex Stout - Bullet for One

It was her complexion that made it hard to believe she was as scared as she said she was.

“Maybe I haven’t made it clear,” she persisted, twisting her fingers some more though I had asked her to stop. “I’m not making anything up, really I’m not. If they framed me once, isn’t that a good enough reason to think they are doing it again?”

If her cheek color had been from a drugstore, with the patches showing because the fear in her heart was using extra blood for internal needs, I would probably have been affected more. But at first sight of her I had been reminded of a picture on a calendar hanging on the wall of Sam’s Diner on Eleventh Avenue, a picture of a round-faced girl with one hand holding a pail and the other hand resting on the flank of a cow she had just milked or was going to milk. It was her to a T, in skin tint, build, and innocence.

She quit the finger-twisting to make tight little fists and perch them on her thigh fronts. “Is he really such a puffed-up baboon?” she demanded. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes, and I’ve got to see him first!” Suddenly she was out of the chair, on her feet. “Where is he, upstairs?”

Having suspected she was subject to impulses, I had, instead of crossing to my desk, held a position between her and the door to the hall.

“Give it up,” I advised her. “When you stand up you tremble, I noticed that when you came in, so sit down. I’ve tried to explain, Miss Rooney, that while this room is Mr. Wolfe’s office, the rest of this building is his home. From nine to eleven in the morning, and from four to six in the afternoon, he is absolutely at home, up in the plant rooms with his orchids, and bigger men than you have had to like it. But, what I’ve seen of you, I think possibly you’re nice, and I’ll do you a favor.”

“What?”

“Sit down and quit trembling.”

She sat down.

“I’ll go up and tell him about you.”

“What will you tell him?”

“I’ll remind him that a man named Ferdinand Pohl phoned this morning and made a date for himself and four others, to come here to see Mr. Wolfe at six o’clock, which is sixteen minutes from now. I’ll tell him your name is Audrey Rooney and you’re one of the four others, and you’re fairly good-looking and may be nice, and you’re scared stiff because, as you tell it, they’re pretending they think it was Talbott but actually they’re getting set to frame you, and—”

“Not all of them.”

“Anyhow some. I’ll tell him that you came ahead of time to see him alone and inform him that you have not murdered anyone, specifically not Sigmund Keyes, and to warn him that he must watch these stinkers like a hawk.”

“It sounds crazy — like that!”

“I’ll put feeling in it.”

She left her chair again, came to me in three swift steps, flattened her palms on my coat front, and tilted her head back to get my eyes.

“You may be nice too,” she said hopefully.

“That would be too much to expect,” I told her as I turned and made for the stairs in the hall.

Ferdinand Pohl was speaking.

Sitting there in the office with my chair swiveled so that my back was to my desk, with Wolfe himself behind his desk to my left, I took Pohl in. He was close to twice my age. Seated in the red leather chair beyond the end of Wolfe’s desk, with his leg-crossing histing his pants so that five inches of bare shin showed above his garterless sock, there was nothing about him to command attention except an unusual assortment of facial creases, and nothing at all to love.

“What brought us together,” he was saying in a thin peevish tone, “and what brought us here together, is our unanimous opinion that Sigmund Keyes was murdered by Victor Talbott, and also our conviction—”

“Not unanimous,” another voice objected.

The voice was soft and good for the ears, and its owner was good for the eyes. Her chin, especially, was the kind you can take from any angle. The only reason I hadn’t seated her in the chair nearest mine was that on her arrival she had answered my welcoming smile with nothing but brow-lifting, and I had decided to hell with her until she learned her manners.

“Not unanimous, Ferdy,” she objected.

“You said,” Pohl told her, even more peevish, “that you were in sympathy with our purpose and wanted to join us and come here with us.”

Seeing them and hearing them, I made a note that they hated each other. She had known him longer than I had, since she called him Ferdy, and evidently she agreed that there was nothing about him to love. I was about to start feeling that I had been too harsh with her when I saw she was lifting her brows at him.

“That,” she declared, “is quite different from having the opinion that Vic murdered my father. I have no opinion, because I don’t know.”

“Then what are you in sympathy with?”

“I want to find out. So do you. And I certainly agree that the police are being extremely stupid.”

“Who do you think killed him if Vic didn’t?”

“I don’t know.” The brows went up again. “But since I have inherited my father’s business, and since I am engaged to marry Vic, and since a few other things, I want very much to know. That’s why I’m here with you.”

“You don’t belong here!”

“I’m here, Ferdy.”

“I say you don’t belong!” Pohl’s creases were wriggling. “I said so and I still say so! We came, the four of us, for a definite purpose, to get Nero Wolfe to find proof that Vic killed your father!” Pohl suddenly uncrossed his legs, leaned forward to peer at Dorothy Keyes’ face, and asked in a mean little voice, “And what if you helped him?”

Three other voices spoke at once. One said, “They’re off again.”

Another, “Let Mr. Broadyke tell it.”

Another, “Get one of them out of here.”

Wolfe said, “If the job is limited to those terms, Mr. Pohl, to prove that a man named by you committed murder, you’ve wasted your trip. What if he didn’t?”

Many things had happened in that office on the ground floor of the old brownstone house owned by Nero Wolfe during the years I had worked for him as his man Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

This gathering in the office, on this Tuesday evening in October, had its own special angle of interest. Sigmund Keyes, top-drawer industrial designer, had been murdered the preceding Tuesday, just a week ago. I had read about it in the papers and had also found an opportunity to hear it privately discussed by my friend and enemy Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Homicide, and from the professional-detective slant it struck me as a lulu.

It had been Keyes’ custom, five days a week at six-thirty in the morning, to take a walk in the park, and to do it the hard and silly way by walking on four legs instead of two. He kept the four legs, which he owned and which were named Casanova, at the Stillwell Riding Academy on Ninety-eighth Street just west of the park. That morning he mounted Casanova as usual, promptly at six-thirty, and rode into the park. Forty minutes later, at seven-ten, he had been seen by a mounted cop, in the park on patrol, down around Sixty-sixth Street. His customary schedule would have had him about there at that time. Twenty-five minutes later, at seven-thirty-five, Casanova, with his saddle uninhabited, had emerged from the park uptown and strolled down the street to the academy. Curiosity had naturally been aroused, and in three-quarters of an hour had been satisfied, when a park cop had found Keyes’ body behind a thicket some twenty yards from the bridle path in the park, in the latitude of Ninety-fifth Street. Later a .38-caliber revolver bullet had been dug out of his chest. The police had concluded, from marks on the path and beyond its edge, that he had been shot out of his saddle and had crawled, with difficulty, up a little slope toward a paved walk for pedestrians, and hadn’t had enough life left to make it.