Rex Stout - Not Quite Dead Enough

It would have been a swell break if the door had been unlatched, but it wasn’t, so I pushed the Chack-Amory button, not daring to risk one of the others, and in about five seconds the click sounded. That might have been either good or bad, and there was no time to speculate. I entered and went down the hall, and there was Roy standing in the open door of the Chack apartment, his face pasty and twitching, trembling all over. Before he could say anything I shoved him inside and closed the door, touching it only with a knuckle. He looked as if he might start screaming. I steered him out of the little hall into a room and to a chair, and pushed him into it.

“She’s dead,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t — look at her.”

“Keep quiet,” I commanded him. “Understand? Keep quiet. I know things about this you don’t know.”

I made a survey. There was no disorder, no sign of a scrap. I didn’t blame Roy for not being able to look at Ann, because it wasn’t actually Ann. It was only what was left, and it didn’t resemble Ann at all. Lily had mentioned the two main aspects, the tongue and the eyes. The upper part of the body was sort of propped up against the front of an upholstered chair, and the blue woolen scarf around the throat had a knot under the left ear. Approaching and kneeling down, it took me ten seconds to make sure that it was a body and not a girl. It was still as warm as life.

I returned to Roy. He was slumped in the chair with his head hanging, and I doubted if there was enough stiffness in his spine to lift his head to look at me, so I lowered myself to one knee to look at him.

“Listen, Roy,” I said, “we’ve got to do some things. How long ago did you get here?”

He stared at me. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I came straight here.”

“How did you get in?”

“In where? Oh — my key—”

“No, in here. This apartment.”

“The door was open.”

“Wide open?”

“I don’t know — no, not wide open. Just open a little.”

“Did you see anybody? Did anybody see you?”

“No, I didn’t see anybody.”

“You didn’t call anyone, phone anyone? A doctor? The police?”

“A doctor?” He squinted at me. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, she’s dead. You didn’t call the police?”

He shook his head vaguely. “I didn’t — I wasn’t—”

“Okay. Hold it. Stay where you are.” I got erect and glanced around, and through an open door saw a corner of a bed. I crossed over and into the bedroom, sat down on a stool at a dressing-table, got my notebook and pencil from my inside breast pocket, and wrote on a sheet of the book:

Dear Ann—

Sorry, I’ll have to change the arrangement. Don’t come to Nero Wolfe’s place at seven. Instead, I’ll come for you around 5:80.

I tore out the sheet and folded it and crinkled it a little, then leaned closer to the mirror to see better, separated a lock of my hair from the mop I wore, maybe eight or ten hairs, twisted them around my finger, and yanked them out. Returning to the living-room, I squatted in front of the body, shoved the folded paper down the front of the dress, next to the skin, and tucked the lock of hair behind the scarf around the throat, under the right jaw. The scarf was so tight it took force to do it. I patted her on the shoulder and murmured at her, “All right, Ann, we’ll get the bastard. Or bitch, as the case may be.” Then I straightened up and proceeded to make fingerprints. Three sets would be enough, I thought, one on the arm of a chair, one on the edge of the table, and one on the cover of a magazine on the table. My watch said 6:37. If Mrs. Chack happened to return early from squirrel-feeding, she might come any minute, and it would be a crime to spoil it now.

I went over to Roy. “How are you? Can you walk?”

“Walk?” He had quit trembling. “Where is there to walk to? We’ve got to get—”

“Look here,” I said. “Ann’s dead. Somebody killed her. We want to find out who did it. Don’t we?”

“Yes.” He showed his teeth. It was like a dog snarling in its sleep. “I do.”

“Then come along.” I took hold of his arm. “We’re going somewhere.”

“But we can’t — just leave her—”

“We can’t help her any. We’ll notify the police, but not from here. I tell you I know something about this. Come on, let’s get going.”

I hefted his arm, and he got to his feet, and I headed him for the door. I had decided against fingerprints there, so I used my hankerchief for wiping the knob and turning it, and the same on the outside. The hall was deserted and there was no sound of life. I hustled Roy along, got him out to the street, and turned toward Christopher, taking a normal pedestrian gait. My heart was pumping. I admit it. It looked as if I was going to put it over, with only one item left, to dispose of Roy for 24 hours.

I took him into a bar on Seventh Avenue, got him onto a chair at a table, ordered two double Scotches, told him I’d be back in a minute, and went to the phone booth and dialed a number.

“Lily? Me. Are you packing?”

“Yes, damn you. What—”

“Me talking. No time for explanations. All for now is, don’t leave till I phone you again. Okay?”

“Did you go—”

“Sorry. Busy. Stay there till I phone you.”

Back at the table, Roy was fingering his glass and beginning to tremble again. I saw that he got the drink down, all of it, and then leaned forward to him:

“Now listen, Roy. Get this. You can trust me. You know who I am, and you know who Nero Wolfe is. That ought to be enough. We’re going to find out who killed Ann, and you’ve got to help us. You want to, don’t you?”

He was frowning. The kick of the drink was putting color in his face. “But the police—” he began.

“Sure, the police will be on it any minute, as soon as Mrs. Chack gets home. And I’ll phone them myself, and I’ll be working with them. But I’ve got a line on this that I don’t dare tell them about. Do you know Lily Rowan? By sight?”

“No, I’ve never seen her.”

“Well, I think she’s going to skip. I’m sure of it. She lives at the Ritz. We’ll go there now, and if she comes out with luggage I’ll point her out to you, and you follow her. Hang onto her no matter where she goes. Will you do that?”

His cheeks were flushed. Apparently he was no soak. He said, “I’ve never followed anybody. I don’t know how.”

“All it takes is intelligence, and you’ve got that.” I got out my wallet, extracted five twenties, and handed them to him. “I would do it myself, only I must do something else. And this is important, remember this: don’t try to report to me until Thursday morning at nine o’clock, and then report by telephone, no matter where you are, and then either to Nero Wolfe or to me. Nobody else.” I finished my drink. “You’ve got to do this, Roy. I’ll make a phone call and then we’ll go. Well? Have you got it in you?”

He nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good for you. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I went to the phone booth and dialed the number again.

“Lily, my angel? Me. Get this. In twenty minutes, maybe less, I’ll be on the sidewalk at the Madison Avenue entrance of the Ritz, and Roy Douglas will be with me. He’s the guy that was there when you arrived at Wolfe’s house. I’ll point you out to him and he’ll follow you, tail you. I want him out of town for a day or so, and this is the only way I can work it. When you take a taxi to the railroad station—”

“I’m not going to a railroad station. I’m going to the Worthington at Greenwich, and I’m going to drive—”