Rex Stout: Not Quite Dead Enough

“Do you know Miss Amory?”

“Sure I know her. I live here. Two flights up.” He extended a hand. “My name’s Leon Furey.”

“Mine’s Archie Goodwin.” We shook hands. “Do you happen to know if Miss Amory is at home?”

“She’s up on the roof.” He was taking me in. “Not the Archie Goodwin that works for Nero Wolfe?”

“That used to. Before I changed clothes. What is Miss Amory doing—”

A voice cut in from up above:

“Who is it, Leon? Bring him up!”

It was a borderline husky voice, the kind that requires further evidence before deciding the question, man or woman. The young man’s head pivoted for a quick look up the stairs and then turned back to me, and his face broke into a grin. It seemed likely that he regarded it as an engaging grin, or maybe even charming. The vote for him in the Larchmont Women’s Club would have stood about 92 to 11. He came closer to me and lowered his voice.

“I suppose you know you’re in a bughouse? My advice is to beat it. I’ll take a message for Miss Amory—”

“Leon!” the voice came down. “Bring him up here!”

“I’d like to see Miss Amory now,” I said, and started to by-pass Leon, but he shrugged his shoulders with masculine charm and started back upstairs, with me following. In the hall one flight up, standing in an open door, was the owner of the voice. The clothes, a brown woolen dress that might have been worn at the inauguration of McKinley, apparently settled the man or woman question, but aside from that she was built to play end or tackle on the same team with Leon. Also she stood more like a soldier than I did or was likely to.

“What’s this?” she demanded as we approached. “I don’t know you. Come in here.”

Leon called her “Miss Leeds,” and informed her that I was Archie Goodwin, formerly Nero Wolfe’s assistant, now Major Goodwin of the United States Army, but there was no knowing whether she got it, because she had her back turned, marching inside the apartment, taking it for granted we would follow, which we did. The furniture of the big room she led us into must have dated from McKinley’s childhood, and there was plenty of it. I sat down because she told me to as if she meant it, taking in the museum with a glance. To finish it off, there was a marble-topped table in the center of the room, with nothing on it but a dead hawk with its wings stretched out. Not a stuffed hawk, just a dead one, just lying there. I guess I stared at it, because she said, “He kills them for me.”

I asked politely, “Are you a taxidermist, Miss Leeds?”

“Oh, no, she likes pigeons,” Leon said in an informative tone. He was sitting on a piano stool with a plush top. “There are seventy thousand pigeons in Manhattan, and about ninety hawks, and they kill the pigeons. The hawks keep coming. They live on the ledges of buildings, and I kill them for Miss Leeds. I got that one—”

“That’s none of your business,” Miss Leeds told me brusquely. “I heard you talking to Mrs. Chack and asking for Ann Amory. I want you to understand that I do not wish any investigation into the death of my mother. It is not necessary. Mrs. Chack is crazy. Both crazy and malicious. She tells people that I think she killed my mother, but I don’t. I don’t think anyone killed my mother. She died of old age. I have explained thoroughly that no investigation is necessary, and I want it understood—”

“He’s not a policeman,” Leon put in. “He’s an Army officer, Miss Leeds.”

“What’s the difference?” she demanded. “Army or police, it’s all the same.” She was regarding me sternly. “Do you understand me, young man? You tell the mayor I want this stopped. I own this house and I own nine houses on this block and I pay my taxes, and I don’t intend to be annoyed. My mother wrote the mayor and she wrote the papers a thousand times what they ought to do. They ought to keep the hawks out of the city. I want to ask you what is being done about that. Well?”

I should have smiled at her, but she just wasn’t anything to smile at. So I looked her in the eye and said, “Miss Leeds, you want facts. Okay, here’s three facts. One. This is the first I ever heard of hawks. Two. This is the first I ever heard of your mother. Three. I came here to see Ann Amory, and Leon tells me she’s up on the roof.” I stood up. “If I see any hawks up there, I’ll catch ’em alive and wring their necks. And I’ll tell the mayor what you said.”

I walked out to the hall and along that to the next flight of stairs.

The hall above and the one above that were each lit by a single unshaded bulb in a wall socket, but when I opened the door at the stairs to the roof, and passed through and closed it behind me, I was in darkness. I felt my way up with my feet on the wooden treads, found a latch at the top and opened a door, and was on the roof. Blinking at flakes of snow the wind was tossing around, and seeing nothing anywhere that might have been called Ann Amory, I headed for what looked like a penthouse to my left. Light was showing at the edges of a shaded window, and when I got to the door I could make out a sign painted on it:

Since it said keep out, naturally my impulse was to go on in, but I restrained it and knocked. A man’s voice came asking who it was, and I called that it was company for Miss Amory, and the door swung open.

That house seemed to be inhabited exclusively by conclusion-jumpers. Without giving me a chance to introduce myself the young man who had opened the door, and closed it again after I entered, began telling me that he couldn’t possibly spare any more for at least four months, that he was willing and eager to do anything he could to help win the war but he had already sent me 40 birds and had to keep his stock for breeding, and he didn’t see why the Army didn’t understand.

Meanwhile I was surveying. Boxes and bags were stacked around, and shelves were cluttered with various kinds of items that I had never seen before. A door in the far wall had a sign on it: Do Not Open. A wire cage, more like a coop, with a pigeon in it, was on a table, and on a chair by the table was a girl. She was looking up at me with wide-open brown eyes. As for the young man, he wasn’t in Leon Furey’s class as a physical specimen, and they had short-changed him a little on his chin, but he would pass. I stopped him in the middle of his speech.

“You’re wasting it, brother. I’m not a pigeon collector. My name is Archie Goodwin and I came to see Miss Amory.” I put out a hand. “You’re Roy Douglas?” We shook. “Nice chilly place you’ve got here. Miss Amory?”

“I don’t know you,” the girl said in the kind of voice I like, “do I?”

“You do now,” I assured her. “Anyhow, you don’t need to, because I’m only a messenger boy. Lily Rowan wants you to come and have dinner with her, and sent me to get you.”

“Lily Rowan?” The brown eyes looked puzzled. “But why — she sent you for me?”

“Right.” I made it casual. “Since you know Lily, you may be surprised she didn’t send a brigadier general, but there was nothing around but majors.”

Ann laughed, and it was the kind of laugh I like. Then she looked at the pigeon in the coop, and at Roy, and back at me. “I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “I’ve already had dinner. You mean she wants to see me?” She got up. “I suppose I’d better—” She made up her mind. “But I can go — You don’t need to bother—”

I got her out of there. Evidently Roy did not regard the proceeding with enthusiasm, and neither did the pigeon, but she came, after a little more discussion. Roy lighted us down to the top floor with a flashlight and then returned to his loft. On the ground floor I waited in the hall while Ann went in to speak to her grandmother and get a coat, and when she required less than five minutes for it I liked that too. On the street she didn’t take my arm and she didn’t try to keep step. So far she was batting a thousand. We got a taxi at the corner.