Rex Stout - Where There's a Will

“Yeah, I saw that. They certainly were shocked.”

“Indeed they were.” Wolfe frowned. “Then aren’t you supporting the theory that Hawthorne was killed because he had ruined Mr. Dunn’s career with that Argentina loan business? I thought you fellows had that all cooked and ready to serve.”

“I’m not a cook, I’m a cop. If anybody uses this murder to grease someone’s pants, it won’t be me. I’m supposed to be looking for a murderer. From what Dunn tells me, so are you.”

“I am.”

“Okay. Let’s find him or her. I’m going to be frank with you. I like the idea of Miss Karn. Personally. You don’t need to tell Skinner that. She inherits seven million dollars, and there have been plenty of murders for a hell of a lot less than that. Since she was intimate with Hawthorne, of course she knew where he was going that day and who would be there. She drives a car. She went there to get him, probably with a gun. She went there to do it because she knew there were a dozen people there who would be good suspects for one reason or another. She had a piece of luck and saw him from the road, there by the edge of the woods, with a shotgun. She walked across the field and chinned with him, maneuvered him around to the corner of the woods that can’t be seen from the road, made some excuse to get hold of the shotgun, and killed him. She didn’t even have to use her own weapon. Then she wiped the shotgun with a bunch of grass, put his prints on it, and beat it.”

Wolfe grumbled, “Anyone of a million people could have done all that.”

“Uh-huh. But it only took one to do it. I’m enthusiastic about the idea of Miss Karn, especially after the talk I had with her this morning. Of course I’m not subtle like you, but I know a two-legged female tiger when I see one. She’s a dangerous baby, that Karn woman is. It’s in her eyes. Incidentally, you can have this for nothing, she has no alibi for Tuesday afternoon. She thinks she has, but that kind is two for a nickel.”

The inspector lowered his chin and elevated his cigar. “Now just suppose. Andy Dunn and the Fleet girl, and Dunn himself and that Stauffer, were the first ones at the scene when the body was found. Suppose they looked around out of curiosity and one of them found something. A lady’s compact or a pack of cigarettes or a handkerchief — anything. Maybe they knew it belonged to Miss Karn and maybe not. Maybe Stauffer did — he knows her. Maybe they just decided to ditch it on general principles, thinking no lady should be involved. Then they got a sock in the eye when the will was read. The whole pile, except a measly half million, to Miss Karn! So they put their heads together, and if you ask me, Prescott was in it too. But it was too ticklish for him to handle it himself. They went to you and showed you the compact or whatever it was. Maybe they already knew it belonged to Miss Karn, or maybe it was part of your job to prove that. Anyhow you were to put the screws on her.

“And now that the murder’s out, where are they and where are you? They can’t open the bag even if they wanted to, without admitting that they concealed knowledge of a crime and evidence of it. And they wouldn’t want to even if they could, because if she was tried and convicted the estate would be divided by the court, and if she was tried and acquitted it would all be hers and they could whistle. Don’t you think that’s logical?”

Wolfe nodded. “Perfect,” he declared. “I congratulate you. I don’t see a loophole in it anywhere. Did you suppose all that without any help?”

“I did. For help I’m coming to you. Here I am and there it is. I’m making you a proposition. Cough it up, and get them to do the same, and I guarantee no trouble and no publicity on that angle of it for anybody concerned. I guarantee to handle Skinner. I realize you’ll have to consult them first, and I’ll give you until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Wolfe said in a silky voice, “It’s regrettable. Nearly every order you place with me is something I haven’t in stock. Good day, sir, Archie—”

“Wait a minute.” Cramer’s eyes had narrowed. “This time you’re going to lose. This time, thank God, I’ve got more than you to work on. I can crack one or more of that outfit wide open, and I’m going to. Then you know where you’ll be. I’ve come to you with an absolutely fair offer—”

“You’ve charged me,” Wolfe snapped, “with being a knave and a nincompoop. Good day, sir.”

I’ll give you until—”

“Don’t give me anything. I don’t want it.”

“You’re a damn bullheaded boob.”

Inspector Cramer got up and walked out of the room. Wolfe winced when the door slammed.

“It’s a funny thing and a sad thing,” I observed, “that the purer our motives are, the worse insults we get. Do you remember the time—”

“That will do, Archie. Get Mrs. Hawthorne.”

I groaned. “I don’t want her.”

“I do. Get her.”

I departed. In the hall I met the maid coming to get our trays, and she informed me that Mrs. Hawthorne’s apartments were on the floor above, so I sought the stairs and mounted another flight. I knocked on the right door if the maid knew what she was talking about, the third time good and loud, but with no result. Ordinarily I would have opened the door for a look, but I didn’t like the errand I was on anyway, so I moved on to the next one and tried that. No go. I ventured across the hall and tapped on another one, beyond which there seemed to be faint hum of voices, received an invitation to come in, pushed it open and entered.

I had interrupted a conference. They stopped it to look at me. Andy Dunn and Celia Fleet were side by side on a sofa, holding hands, and seated next to them was May Hawthorne, in a faded old blue house gown, with her hair making for her right eye. I’d hate to say what she looked like. Standing in front of them was Glenn Prescott, spruce and cool-looking in a white linen suit with a yellow flower in his buttonhole that was no dianthus superbus; but beyond that I wouldn’t say. On a chair at his right was Daisy Hawthorne, in the same gray outfit, including veil, she had worn for her now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t in the living room that morning.

I bowed gracefully. “Excuse me, Mrs. Hawthorne. Mr. Wolfe asks if you will kindly come to the library.”

Prescott frowned. “I would like to have a talk with Mr. Wolfe myself. Mr. Dunn tells me he has engaged him—”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell him you’re here. Right now he wants to see Mrs. Hawthorne — If you please?”

She got up and moved.

“Very well,” Prescott conceded. “I’ll be here or below in the music room with Mr. Dunn.”

I opened the door for Daisy to precede me, and followed her downstairs and let her into the library. Wolfe, greeting her, made his customary excuse for failing to arise as she crossed to the chair Cramer had vacated. She said, in her high-pitched voice with a distortion too faint to be called an impediment of speech:

“I don’t know what you expect to learn from me. Do you think I can tell you anything?”

“No, Mrs. Hawthorne, I don’t,” Wolfe told her politely. “I doubt if anyone here is going to tell me anything. I’m just shuffling around in the dark with my hand in front of my face. If you will tell me briefly—” He frowned, turning. “Come in!”

It was the butler. “A man to see you, sir. Durkin.”

“Please send him up at once.”

I expected this to be diverting enough to take my mind off the veil, for more than three hours had passed since I had phoned Fred to come to 67th Street at once. But as it turned out, the diversion came from another quarter. Fred started talking loud and fast as he came through the door: