Rex Stout - Where There's a Will

Davis didn’t reply. Wolfe went on:

“I’m not thinking about murder now, I’m thinking about that will. Where was it drawn? In the office of Dunwoodie, Prescott & Davis. Where was it kept? In a vault in that office. Who benefited by it? Chiefly Miss Karn. Did she know that? Yes; Mr. Prescott let her read it shortly after it was drawn, having been instructed to do so by Mr. Hawthorne. Did you know that? I don’t know. Did you?”

“No,” said Davis curtly. “It was none of my business. Prescott drew it.”

“But you have access to the vault?”

“I’m a lawyer, not a snoop, Mr. Wolfe.”

“But isn’t it plausible that Miss Karn told you about it? Couldn’t you have learned it that way?”

“It may be plausible, but she didn’t. I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about the terms of that will until Miss Karn told me last night. Has Prescott told you I did?”

“Oh, no. No one has told me anything, really. They’re all like you. I’ve sat in this confounded room over seven hours, and I know very little more than when I entered it. I don’t resent it that each of you people has something to conceal — everybody in the world has — but it has never taken me so long to find a loose end. Let’s start somewhere else. You say you are Miss Karn’s friend and lawyer and she consults you. Did you advise her to come here this afternoon to negotiate with Mrs. Hawthorne?”

“No. Why?”

“Because she came.”

“She came here?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know? Did you see her?”

“No. Mr. Goodwin did. He had a little talk with her. Down in the living room. I thought perhaps—”

He chopped it off because the door suddenly opened. There was no knock, but it swung wide and Glenn Prescott marched in.

The two counselors-at-law looked at each other. Prescott, having halted in his stride, advanced and said, “Hello, Gene.” Davis nodded but didn’t speak. I could see both their faces. Davis’s exhibited vigilance and contempt; Preseott’s, vigilance and a sort of exasperated solicitude.

“Relax!” Davis commanded. “Quit looking like the damned Salvation Army! I’m sober. These fellows jolted me sober. They know I was with Miss Karn last evening, and they know my name’s Dawson on 11th Street. So I’ve been answering questions. Nothing indiscreet. Just where I was Tuesday afternoon and things like that.”

Prescott said, “You’re a fool. You were a fool to come here. You could have been kept out of this. It can’t possibly be kept quiet longer than another day. When the papers start on it, and on you as a part of it — where are Dunwoodie, Prescott & Davis going to be?”

“The dear old firm,” Davis sneered.

“Yes, Gene, the dear old firm. We’ve made it, but it made us, too. You were headed for the top, you had it in you. You still have. I’m a pretty good lawyer and a hard worker, but you’re a lot more than that. You’re one of the rare ones, the kind that makes history. I don’t need to tell you that. And now you don’t even — you come here and step into this — oh, my God.”

He turned abruptly to Wolfe. “You’ve got us at your mercy. What are you going to do? Hand it over to the police?”

Wolfe shook his head. “No, sir. I might for a quid pro quo, but the police have nothing I want. Sit down; let’s talk it over. I was just asking Mr. Davis if he advised Miss Karn to come here to negotiate with Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“If he advised—” Prescott gawked. “Why did you ask him that?”

Davis forestalled Wolfe’s answer: “Because she came! She was here!” He was on his feet, confronting his partner. “And now I’m asking you! Did you bring her here?”

“You’re crazy, Gene. For God’s sake, have a little sense. I tell you, this is no time—”

“You brought her here!”

“You’re crazy! Why would I—”

“I’m going to find out,” Davis declared, and tramped from the room.

We all stared at the open door which he had disdained to close. Then Prescott said abruptly, “The damned idiot,” and out he went too. I was out of my chair, asking hopefully:

“Do you want ’em?”

“No, Archie.” Wolfe leaned back and sighed. “No, thank you.” He closed his eyes. “No, thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” I said politely, and sat down again without bothering to close the door. That was merely one more example of my self-control. Inwardly I was in a turmoil. I knew the signs. I knew that tone of his. It was the first symptom of the approach of a relapse. Unless I could bully him out of it, or unless the murderer came in and confessed within an hour, he would have a relapse as sure as ham loves eggs. What made it so ticklish was the fact that we weren’t at home. If we had been at the office I would have stood an even chance of jolting him loose, but there on alien territory I wasn’t so sure of myself. So I don’t know how long I might have sat there trying to decide the best line to take, beyond the ten minutes or so I did sit, if I hadn’t heard footsteps stopping at the doorway. I turned my head and saw it was the butler.

“Speak,” I said listlessly.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Dunn would like to see Mr. Wolfe in the living room.”

“Bring me a derrick.” I waved him away. “You’ve done your share. I’ll get him there if I can.”

He went. I waited a full minute and then demanded, “Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

No answer. I waited another minute. “Look here. You are not in your own home. You came here of your own volition. It’s not Dunn’s fault that this thing is turning into a plate of sour hash, unless he killed Hawthorne himself. He invited you here and you came. Either go down and see what he wants, or let’s go home and starve.”

He stirred, slowly opened his eyes, and pronounced a word in some foreign tongue which I have never bothered to ask him to translate, because it sounds as if it couldn’t be printed anyway. He got out of his chair, and he moved toward the door. I followed.

We found they were having a convention in the living room. The delegates consisted of John Charles Dunn, Glenn Prescott, Osric Stauffer, a wiry little squirt whom I recognized as Detective-Lieutenant Bronson of the police, and a six-footer in a hot and dignified three-piece suit who looked concentrated and uncomfortable. By the introduction, made by Dunn, he was identified as Mr. Ritchie of the Cosmopolitan Trust Company, executor of Noel Hawthorne’s estate.

Dunn also explained why we had been ousted from the library. The police had asked for permission to inspect the private papers of Hawthorne, most of which were in a safe built into the library wall, and the trust company had granted it, on condition that they should have a representative present. That was Mr. Ritchie. It was also thought desirable that Hawthorne’s personal attorney should be there. That was Mr. Prescott. And to protect, if necessary, the confidential affairs of Daniel Cullen and Company, they wanted a man there too. That was Mr. Stauffer.

Bronson, Stauffer, Prescott and Ritchie marched off upstairs to open the safe. I thought to myself, they’ll find another will as sure as water’s wet, and then we’ll have to solve the damn murder to get any fee at all.

John Charles Dunn was asking Wolfe if he had made any progress, and Wolfe was replying grumpily that he hadn’t. I knew better than to try any badgering in the presence of Dunn, but I thought I might as well try something, so I crossed the room to where the draperies were and pulled them open, thinking to show Wolfe where I had found Stauffer in ambush. But there was more than that there to show him, if he had been beside me, though I nearly missed it. She must have heard me, or seen me through a slit, approaching. All I saw was the back of the gray gown, and the back of her head, as she went through the door in the right rear corner.