Рекс Стаут - Blood Will Tell

I shook my head. “I don’t count. Skip me.”

“With pleasure.” To Vance: “I came to ask you something, and now I can ask everybody. Do you know that the cops have got one of your neckties with a spot on it?”

Vance nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“Where did they get it? Why are they riding me about it? Why did they ask me if I had taken it or one like it out of your closet? Did you tell them I had?”

“Certainly not. I told them one was missing, that’s all.”

Kirk blurted, “And you told them you gave one like it to me.”

Vance frowned at him. “Damn it, Martin, I had to, didn’t I? They would have found out anyway. Other people knew about it.”

“Of course you had to,” Kirk said. “I know that. But that one is missing too. I just looked for it and it’s gone. It was taken from my room here before I left, because I took everything with me and it’s not there. I came to ask you if you know—”

“Can it,” Paul cut in. “You’ve got a nerve to ask anybody anything. Why are you loose? Okay, you killed her, she’s dead. What kind of a dodge are you trying with one of Jimmy’s neckties with a spot on it?”

“No,” Kirk said. “I didn’t kill her.”

“Oh, can it. I was thinking maybe you do have some guts after all. She decorated you with one of the finest pairs of horns on record, and you never moved a finger. You just took it lying down — or I should say standing up. I thought it would be hard to find a poorer excuse for a man, but yesterday when I heard what had happened—”

Of course I had heard and read of a man slapping another man, but that was the first time I had ever actually seen it — a smack with an open palm on the side of the head. Kirk said nothing, he merely slapped him, and Paul Fougere said nothing either, he merely started a fist for Kirk’s jaw. I didn’t move. Since Fougere was four inches broader and twenty pounds heavier, I fully expected to see Kirk go down, and in any situation I am supposed to take any necessary steps to protect the interests of a client, but if Wolfe wanted that client protected he could come and do it himself.

But I got a surprise and so did Fougere. He landed once, a glancing blow on the shoulder as Kirk twisted and jerked his head back, but that was all. Not that Kirk had any technique. I would guess that the point was that at last he was doing something he had really wanted to do for a long time, and while spirit isn’t all, it’s a lot. He clipped Fougere at least twenty times, just anywhere — face, neck, chest, ribs — never with enough steam to floor him or even stagger him. But one of the wild pokes got the nose fair and square, and the blood started. It was up to me because Vance was busy keeping Rita off, and when the blood had Fougere’s mouth and chin pretty well covered I got Kirk from behind and yanked him back and then stepped in between.

“You’re going to drip,” I told Fougere. “I suppose you know where the bathroom is.”

He was panting. He put his hand to his mouth, took it away, saw the blood, and turned and headed for the rear. I pivoted. Kirk, also panting, was on a chair, head down, inspecting his knuckles. They probably had no skin left Vance was staring at him, apparently as surprised as Fougere had been. Rita was positively glowing. With color in her face she was more than attractive. “Should I go?” she asked me. “Does he need help?”

That’s true love. Martin the Great had hit him, so he must be in a bad way. It would have been a shame to tell her it had been just pecks. I said no, he’d probably make it, and went to help Kirk examine his knuckles. They weren’t so bad.

“Why didn’t you stop them?” Vance demanded.

“I thought I did,” I said. “With a mauler like Kirk you have to time it.”

“I wouldn’t have thought...” He let it go. “Did you say he went to Nero Wolfe?”

“No, he did. But I can confirm it, I was present. He has hired Nero Wolfe. That’s why I’m here. I am collecting information that will establish the innocence of Mr. Wolfe’s client. Have you got any?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t.” He was frowning. “But of course he is innocent. What Paul Fougere said, that’s ridiculous. I hope he didn’t tell the police that. But with their experience, I don’t suppose—”

The bell tinkled. Vance went to the door and opened it, and in came the law. Anyone with half an eye would know it was the law even if they had never seen or heard of Sergeant Purley Stebbins. Two steps in he stopped for a look and saw me.

“Yeah,” he said, “I thought so. You and Wolfe are going to be good and sick of this one. I hope you try to hang on.” His eyes went right. Fougere had appeared at the rear of the room. “Everybody, huh? I’m sorry to interrupt Mr. Vance.”

He moved. “You’re wanted downtown for more questions, Mr. Kirk. I’ll take you.”

Rita made a noise. Kirk tilted his head to look up at the tough, rough face. “My God, I’ve answered all the questions there are.”

“We’ve got some new ones. I might as well ask one of them now. Did you buy a typewriter at the Midtown Office Equipment Company on July nineteenth and trade in your old one?”

“Yes. I don’t know — July nineteenth — about then, yes.”

“Okay. We want you to identify the one you traded in. Come along.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“If you prefer it that way I can. Material witness. Or if you balk I’ll phone for a warrant and keep you company till it comes, maybe an hour. With Goodwin here I’ve got to toe the line. He’s hell on wheels, Goodwin is.”

Kirk made it to his feet. “All right,” he mumbled. He had been without sleep for thirty hours and maybe more. Rita Fougere aimed those eyes at me.

I bowed out. Being hell on wheels is fine and dandy if you have anywhere to steer for, but I hadn’t I went and opened the door and on out, took the elevator down, exchanged no greeting with the driver of the police car out front, though we had met, walked till I found a taxi, and told the hackie 618 West 35th Street; and when he said that was Nero Wolfe’s house I actually said such is fame. That’s the shape I was in.

Wolfe was at table in the dining room, putting a gob of his favorite cheese on a wafer. When I entered he looked up and said politely, “Fritz is keeping the kidneys warm.”

I stopped three steps in. “Many thanks,” I said even more politely. “You were right as usual; the conversation was futile. They had a tail on Kirk, here and to the hotel and on to Horn Street. When Purley Stebbins arrived at Vance’s apartment he knew Kirk was there and he wasn’t surprised to see me. He had come for your client and took him. They have found the typewriter that addressed that envelope to me and the message. It belonged to Kirk, but on July nineteenth he traded it in on another one. Since you don’t talk business at meals, I’ll eat in the kitchen.”

I wheeled, hell on wheels, and went to the kitchen.

Nearly four hours later, at six o’clock, Mr. and Mrs. Paul Fougere were in the office, waiting for Wolfe to come down from the plant rooms — she in the red leather chair and he in one of the yellow ones in front of Wolfe’s desk. To my surprise he had two marks, a red slightly puffed nose and a little bruise under his left eye. I hadn’t thought Kirk had shown that much power, but of course with bare knuckles it doesn’t take much.

Nothing had happened to change my attitude or opinion. When I went to the office after finishing with the kept-warm kidneys and accessories Wolfe permitted me to report on the conversation and slugging match at Vance’s apartment, leaning back and closing his eyes to show he was listening, but he didn’t even grunt when I told the Stebbins part, though ordinarily it gets under his skin, way under, when a client is hauled in. When I was through I said it was a good thing he knew Kirk was innocent since otherwise the typewriter development might make him wonder.