Rex Stout - Prisoner's Base

“Miss Duday agreed to that?”

She answered me. “Certainly. If you thought, young man, that I was suggesting motives for murder acceptable to me, you misunderstood. I was merely giving you facts which will seem to you to be acceptable motives for murder. You were sure to discover them, and I was saving time.”

“I see. What else were you saying, Mr. Brucker?”

“We were considering what to do. Specifically, we were considering whether we should arrange at once to get legal advice, and if so whether our corporation counsel would do, or would it be better to have special counsel for this. Also we were discussing the murder itself. We agreed that we knew of no one with a reason for killing Miss Eads and capable of such a crime. We spoke of the letter received recently from Eric Hagh, Miss Eads’s former husband, by Perry Helmar — you know about that?”

“Yes, from Helmar. Claiming that he had a document that entitled him to half of her property.”

“That’s right. The letter was sent from Venezuela, but he could have come to New York by ship or plane — or he didn’t even have to come; he could have hired someone to kill her.”

“I see. Why?”

“We don’t know why. I don’t know. We were only trying to find some plausible explanation of the murder.”

I insisted. “Yeah, but how could you figure Eric Hagh? If she had lived a week longer he would still have his document and she would have a lot more property for him to claim half of.”

“One possibility,” Viola Duday suggested, “would be that she had denied that she had signed the document, or he thought she was going to, and he was afraid he would get nothing at all.”

“But she had stated that she had signed the document.”

“Had she? To whom?”

I couldn’t very well say to Nero Wolfe and me, so I went official on her. “I’m asking the questions, Miss Duday. As I said, this is only preliminary, so I’ll cover the rest of you on the routine.” I focused on Daphne. “Miss O’Neil, how did you spend your time last night between ten-thirty and two o’clock? You understand that—”

There was the sound of a door opening behind me, the one by which I had entered, and I turned my head to see. Three men were filing in, one of whom, the one in front, I knew only too well. Seeing me, he stopped, gawked, and said from from his heart, “Well, by God!”

There has never been a time when the sight of Lieutenant Rowcliff of Manhattan Homicide has done me good. Circumstances under which the sight of Rowcliff would do me good are not remotely imaginable. But if I had been keeping a list of the moments for him not to appear, that one would have been at the top, and there he was.

“You’re under arrest,” he said, nearly choking on it.

I controlled the impulse I always have when he comes in view, and which I will not describe. “In writing?” I inquired.

“I don’t need any writing. I’m taking—” He checked himself, advanced to my elbow, and looked at the Softdown quintet. “Which of you is Jay L. Brucker?”

“I am.”

“I’m Lieutenant George Rowcliff of the Police Department. Downstairs this man said he was a policeman. Did he—”

“Isn’t he?” Brucker demanded.

“No. Did he—”

“We’re a pack of fools,” Miss Duday snapped. “He’s a reporter!”

Rowcliff raised his voice a notch. “He’s no reporter. His name is Archie Goodwin, and he’s the confidential assistant of Nero Wolfe, the private detective. Did he say he was a policeman?”

Three of them said yes. He shifted his fishy popeyes to me. “I’m taking you in the act of impersonating an officer of the law, which is a felony and justifies severity. Handcuff him and search him, Doyle.”

His two colleagues came toward me. I thrust my hands deep in my pants pockets, slumped, and slid forward in my chair, so that more than half of me was beneath the table. To frisk and cuff a 180-pound man relaxed in that position takes a determined attitude and plenty of muscle, and I was sure that the colleagues would halt at least to take a breath.

“You may remember,” I told Rowcliff, “that on April third, nineteen forty-nine, by order of Commissioner Skinner, you signed a written apology to Mr. Wolfe and me. This one will be only to me, if I decide to accept one instead of hanging it on you.”

“I’m taking you in the act.”

“You are not. These people are nervous. Both downstairs and up here I identified myself with just two words, my name and the word ‘detective,’ and I showed my license, which no one took the trouble to examine. I didn’t say I was a policeman. I am a detective, and I said so. I asked questions, and they answered. Apologize now and get it over with.”

“What were you asking questions about?”

“Matters connected with the death of Priscilla Eads.”

“About a homicide.”

I conceded it. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“As an interested citizen.”

“What kind of interest? You lied to Inspector Cramer. You told him that Wolfe had no client, but here you are.”

“It wasn’t a lie. He had no client.”

“Then he’s got one since?”

“No. He has none.”

“Then what are you here for? What kind of interest?”

“My own. I am interested for personal reasons, and Mr. Wolfe has nothing to do with it. I’m strictly on my own.”

“For God’s sake.” From the tone of Rowcliff’s voice, he had reached the limit of exasperated disgust. From my slumped position I couldn’t see his face, but from a corner of my eye I had a view of his hand tightened into a fist. “So Wolfe has got a c-c-client.” When he reached a certain pitch of excitement he was apt to stutter. I usually tried to beat him to it, but this time missed the chance. “And a client he doesn’t dare to acknowledge. And you actually have the gall to try to cover for him by telling another outrageous lie, that you’re here on your own. Your insolence—”

“Look, Lieutenant.” I was earnest. “It has always been a pleasure to lie to you, and will be again, but I want to make it clear and emphatic that my interest in this case is strictly personal, as I said, and Mr. Wolfe is not concerned. If you—”

“That’s enough.” The fist was tighter and was quivering a little. Some day it would be too much for him and he would let fly, and my reaction would depend on the context. It couldn’t be taken for granted that I would break him in two. He went on. “It’s more than enough. Giving false information, withholding evidence, material witness, obstructing justice, and impersonating an officer of the law. Take him, Doyle. There’ll be someone here soon to t-t-t-turn him over to.”

He meant it. I considered swiftly. In spite of the current situation, I hoped and expected to have further dealings with some or all of the Softdown quintet, and it wouldn’t help any to have them sit and watch while a pair of bozos dragged me from under a table, unavoidably mussing me up. So I arose, sidled around to the back of my chair, and told Doyle, “Please be careful. I’m ticklish.”

At a quarter to six that afternoon I sat on a chair in a smallish room in a well-known building on Leonard Street. I was bored, disillusioned, and hungry. If I had known what was going to happen in sixty seconds, at fourteen minutes to six, my outlook would have been quite different, but I didn’t.

I had been bandied a good deal, though I had not yet been tossed in the coop or even charged. Escorted first to the Tenth Precinct on West Twentieth Street, where Cramer’s office is, I had sat neglected for half an hour, at the end of which I was told that if I wanted to see Inspector Cramer I would have to be taken elsewhere. I had expressed no desire to see Cramer, but I was tired of sitting, and when one in uniform invited me to accompany him I did so. He conveyed me in a taxi to 24 °Centre Street, took me up in an elevator, and gripped my arm on a long walk around halls, winding up at an alcove with a bench, where he told me to sit. He also sat. After a while I asked him who or what we were waiting for.