Rex Stout - Where There's a Will

“Yes.”

“You might as well tell me about it. Maybe we can figure out a way of proving it.”

“You can’t. How can you? Osric Stauffer picked them in the garden and brought them and gave them to her and she stuck them in at her waist. She had on a green blouse and yellow slacks. We commented on the blue of the cornflowers with the other colors.”

“Did Mr. Stauffer keep one for himself?”

“Why, I—” She considered. “No, he didn’t.”

“Or give some to anyone else?”

“No. He gave them all to April.”

“Did she leave the gathering on the lawn before you? Or was she still there when you left?”

“She was still there. They all were except Noel and John.”

Scribbling along with my pen, I allowed myself a satisfied grin. Wolfe was working at last, picking up all the pieces he could find, methodically and patiently. He spent twenty minutes with her getting the complete picture of the tea party, and another ten with her in the field, collecting black-eyed susans, daisies to her and nothing at all to me. She had returned to the house with her arms full of them, more than an hour later, and was making arrangements in vases, when Celia Fleet burst in asking for Dunn in an agitated voice. She had followed Celia, unobtrusively, and had been within earshot when Dunn received the news of what Andy had found in the briar patch beyond the woods.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she declared, not defensively, merely imparting information. “I was later, when I heard Andy telling them about the cornflower. I actually saw it.”

Wolfe inquired, “What time was that?”

“It was late that evening, about eleven o’clock. Even then I — well, I won’t say I suspected that Noel had been murdered, but I knew of the feeling between him and John on account of that Argentina loan business, and other feelings there were around there, and I was curious and vaguely suspicious. So after the sheriff and doctor had gone away, I went to my room but I didn’t go to bed. I noticed some of them hadn’t come upstairs, and I went down without making any noise and out the back way. It was a hot night and windows were open everywhere, and there was a light from the dining room. I could hear low voices as I got closer, and then I could see them, John and June and Andy. Andy was telling them about finding the cornflower, and took it from his pocket and showed it to them. He said it had been there about fifteen feet from Noel’s body, caught on a branch of a rose briar, and he had taken it and put it in his pocket. He said it hadn’t occurred to him at the moment, but it had since, the idea that April had been there for a private talk with Noel and had lost it from the bunch she was wearing. But of course, he said, that wasn’t how it got there, because April had stated that she had been in her room taking a nap. John said calmly that it was true the cornflower couldn’t have been dropped by April, since she hadn’t been there, but that Andy had been quite right to bring it away and thereby avoid the possibility of a lot of unpleasant and irrelevant questions just because a cornflower had been found hanging on a briar. They were very casual about it, but they knew better. Their tone and the way they looked — they knew. And so did I. I knew then, as I went back up the dark stairs, that April had killed Noel.”

Wolfe wiggled a finger at her. “You knew nothing of the sort, madam.”

“But I tell you — it’s no wonder you — you’re on their side—”

“Rubbish. I’m not on anybody’s side; I’m hunting a murderer. I admit the cornflower is evidence, probably extremely important evidence, but of what? Of April’s guilt? Perhaps. Or of an attempt by the murderer to incriminate April by getting a cornflower from the garden and leaving it near the body? Perhaps. Rather inconclusive, but fairly ingenious at that. Do you by any chance know what happened to the cornflower?”

“No. I suppose John destroyed it. I said I couldn’t prove it. But you must believe — you must — you signed that paper promising to safeguard my interests—”

“Oh, I believe you all right. But my commitment in that paper was limited to the negotiations regarding the will. Please understand that. There is, after all, a remote possibility that you killed your husband yourself. I should think you might measure up to that cornflower trick.”

“Now you’re talking rubbish.”

“Perhaps. You ought to know. How long were the stems of the bouquet Stauffer presented to April?”

He got patient and methodical again. As I listened to them chewing away, putting down their syllables automatically on the unruled paper which had been the best I could find, I reflected that this appeared to be shaping up for a honey. The only nugget in the pouch so far was this cornflower on a briar, and that was certainly nothing to write home about, with a garden right there full of cornflower bushes, provided they grew on bushes. Not to mention the chance that Daisy had made it all up just to keep her brain occupied. I was idly considering alternatives when the phone buzzed, and I went and got it. It was Saul Panzer. By the time I got through taking his concise but detailed report, Wolfe had finished with Daisy and she was arising to leave.

I opened to door to let her out, and returned to the desk.

“If you ask me,” I remarked, “we would have been a hell of a sight better off if we had stuck to the last will and testament and let the murder go. Of all the—”

“That was Saul?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“He has been conferring with elevator operators and bootblacks et al. Johnny got orders for five beauty outfits before he was tossed out on his ear, and he had a date to buy a lady a dinner at the Polish Pavilion this evening. That will cost you dear. Davis is married and lives with his wife, at least nominally. He and Naomi had a romance when she was his secretary. The sort of thing May Hawthorne comprehends intellectually. L’amour. He has gone moody and taken to drink. So far information very sketchy; nothing particular on Prescott yet, except that he gives people expensive cigars, pays good salaries, and is not a knee-toucher. Saul has lines out that are promising. No start on Prescott’s confidential stenographer in March, 1938.”

Wolfe had his lips compressed. “I hate to waste Saul—” He shrugged. “It can’t be helped. What time is it?”

“Five after five. Would you care to go into the matter of the duplicate Daisy?”

“Not now. Mr. Prescott wants to see me. First some beer. Then see if Miss Karn is still down there, and who is with her. Then Mr. Prescott.”

I trotted out and descended to the main floor. There was no one around the entrance hall, so I opened a door leading to the rear of the house and yelled, “Turner!” In a moment a maid appeared and said he was upstairs, and I said all I wanted was to order three bottles of beer for Mr. Wolfe in the library. Then I proceeded to the living room for a glimpse of Naomi Karn.

But I didn’t get it. She was absent. The only person in the room was a man of about my build, pacing up and down with his fists making his pockets bulge. I stopped short and regarded him with surprise. He had put his pants on, but I recognized him anyway.

I said, “Hello.”

He quit pacing and scowled at me. Before he said a word I knew exactly the condition he was in, more from observation than from personal experience. You drink all night, and pass out, and someone takes you home and drops you on a bed. When you come to, there is no telling what day it is or when they started running the subway inside your head or how many people came to your funeral. But something drastic must be done immediately. You get your pants and shoes on and fight your way to the street and along to and into a place, order a double Scotch and gulp it down, spilling maybe a quarter of it. You spill much less of the second one, and by the time the third one comes along you have nearly stopped trembling and you don’t waste a drop. Then, while you still are not quite ready to tell the date on a calendar, you have a strong impression that you are prepared to cope with whatever it is that requires coping, and off you go.