Rex Stout: Black Orchids

“So I understand,” Cramer grunted.

“And I have responsibilities here as the Honorary Chairman of the Committee. Without any wish to interfere with the performance of your duties, I feel that Miss Tracy, who is only a young girl, should properly be protected from any undue annoyance or unpleasantness—”

“Allow me, Hewitt,” W. G. Dill had got up and walked over. He faced Cramer. “I’m Miss Tracy’s employer and I suppose I ought to look after her. If you don’t mind I’ll go along with her.”

I was keeping tabs on Anne, knowing that the best time to get the lowdown on a woman is when she’s under stress. I thought she was doing fine. After four straight days in a glaring spotlight as the star attraction of a flower show, with such by-products as having her picture taken with Billy Rose and dining out with Lewis Hewitt, here she was kerplunk in the mire with murder-mud ready to splatter all over her, and so far she had done nothing to forfeit my respect, even when I had explained how you could pull a trigger with your toes. But at this juncture she wasn’t so hot. She might have spoken up with something suitable about being armored in her virtue and not needing to be looked after by any sourpuss employer or millionaire orchid fancier, but all she did was deadpan W. G. Dill without opening her trap. I began to suspect she either had depths I hadn’t plumbed or was a bit limited in the mental area — but don’t get me wrong, I was still faithful. Even as a deadpan, the sight of her face — for the mental side of life you can go to the library.

She went off with Cramer. Cramer informed both Hewitt and Dill that it wasn’t necessary for them to protect her against annoyance, and took her and Murphy through the door that had been indicated to an inner room. But not without another brief delay.

“Mr. Cramer! If you please?”

It was Nero Wolfe speaking. I concealed a grin. Of course he was going to request, or demand, depending on which he thought would work best, that I be allowed to drive him home. I hope Cramer would say yes. Then, after we got in the sedan and he started raving, I would let him rave, and when he was through I would stick my little dagger in his ribs and give it a twist. It wasn’t often I had a chance like that.

Cramer had turned. “What do you want?”

“I want,” Wolfe said, “to finish a discussion I was having with Mr. Hewitt about orchids.”

“Go ahead—”

“And not in a menagerie. In decent privacy. We can find a room somewhere.”

“Go ahead. I said the rest of you could go—”

“And Mr. Goodwin must be present to take notes. He will be available when you want him. You can’t legally detain him, anyhow, unless you are prepared—”

Cramer snorted in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake. Discuss orchids. All I want is Goodwin when I want him.”

He crossed the sill with the other two, and the door was closed behind them. I glared at Wolfe without any attempt to cover it, and Purley Stebbins gazed at him suspiciously. Neither of us was making any impression on Wolfe, who had got up from his chair and was speaking to Lewis Hewitt in an undertone. Hewitt, frowning, nodded without enthusiasm, and moved toward the door to the anteroom with Wolfe at his heels.

“Come, Archie,” Wolfe said.

Purley blocked me. “Where you going?”

“The other end of the anteroom,” Hewitt said. “A room there.”

Purley hated it. He did hate it. Me detained and going through doors like that. He didn’t even smile when I playfully stuck a thumb in his ribs as I went by.

The room at the other end of the anteroom wasn’t much more than a cubbyhole, with one window, a couple of small wooden tables, and four wooden chairs. The sad woman in the anteroom came in and turned on the light and went out again and closed the door. Wolfe scowled at the skimpy chairs and darted a glance at me, but I ignored it because I was in no mood to lug in the comfortable seat he had left in the other room. He compressed his lips and sat down, taking care to center himself on what seat there was.

“Sit down, Mr. Hewitt,” he invited.

Hewitt stood. “This is an odd performance.” He looked at me and back at Wolfe. “What you can possibly have to say to me so confidential as to require—”

“I have,” Wolfe said brusquely. “I assure you.”

“About orchids? That seems hardly—”

“Not orchids. Murder. I know who shot that man.”

Hewitt’s eyes opened wide. “You know who shot him?”

“I do.”

“But my dear Mr. Wolfe.” Hewitt was displeased but courteous. “That is scarcely a matter to discuss confidentially with me. The proper authorities—”

“I prefer to discuss it with you first. I suggest that we keep our voices as low as possible. It’s quite possible that a policeman has his ear at the door—”

“Bosh! This melodramatic—”

“Please, Mr. Hewitt. Don’t sneer at melodrama; that’s only a point of view. I wish to give you a fresh point of view on the death of Harry Gould. The shot was fired by my assistant, Mr. Goodwin. — Please let me finish. First to establish the fact. Archie?”

I had sat down. The fat bum had taken my dagger away from me. I looked at him and said bitterly, “What if I let you down?”

“You won’t. Anyway, you can’t. I saw the piece of string you brushed off of it. And I wish to say that your performance this afternoon has been satisfactory. Completely satisfactory throughout. Was there a tug when you picked it up? That’s the only detail I lack.”

“What the devil is all this?” Hewitt demanded without courtesy. “If you actually—”

“Please, Mr. Hewitt. And keep your voice down. I’ll state the situation as briefly as possible. Should I report it to Mr. Cramer—”

“There was a tug,” I said. “A little jerk. I didn’t especially notice it at the time because I was sore as hell.”

Wolfe nodded. “I know you were. My report to Mr. Cramer would be this: that Lewis Hewitt said he had lost his cane. A little later, in the corridor on the third floor, we saw the cane lying on the floor with its crook against the crack under the door leading to the Rucker and Dill exhibit. That was at twenty minutes past four. Mr. Goodwin picked up the cane, and as he did so felt a tug. He calls it a little jerk, but he is exceptionally strong and was in a savage emotional state. Looped on the crook of the cane was a piece of green string which he brushed off before he handed it to its owner.”

“I saw no string,” Hewitt snapped.

“Maybe not,” Wolfe admitted. “People who inherit wealth don’t have to bother to see things. But certainly Mr. Goodwin saw it, and so did I, and he felt the tug. The tug was unquestionably the pulling of the trigger and the breaking of the string. That would be my report to Mr. Cramer, since those are the facts.”

“I tell you I saw no string!”

“But we did. Keep your voice down, Mr. Hewitt. And Mr. Goodwin touched it. Surely you don’t suppose we cooked this up?”

“I don’t—” Hewitt looked at the door, and then at me, and then back at Wolfe. “No. I don’t suppose you did. But it’s inconceivable—” He stopped and stared. “What’s that?”

“The piece of string,” Wolfe said.

The son of a gun had pulled it out of his vest pocket. I got up for a look, and it was it. I said, “Good here,” and sat down. Hewitt sat down too. He looked as if he had to do something and that was all he could think of.

“You and Mr. Dill and Mr. Goodwin left me there,” Wolfe said. “Standing there alone. He left those plants there on the floor — and by the way, I have better hassellis than those, much better, my own growing. At a certain point my head began to work, which was remarkable under the circumstances. I don’t say that I foresaw this moment precisely, but I saw enough to impel me to go to the corridor and find this piece of string on the floor and pick it up. It is indubitably the piece that was looped on the crook of your cane. By comparing it with the piece left attached to the trigger, Mr. Cramer can establish our surmise as a certainty. That is, he can if I let him have it. Do you think I should do that?”