Рекс Стаут - The Final Deduction

“I did not refuse to listen to you.”

“Nuts. You know as well as I do how it stood. You had said we didn’t care what had happened to Dinah Utley and we were not concerned. Will it help to chew at that?”

“No.”

“Okay. What I had got had made me decide that Jimmy had probably kidnaped himself, and he had killed Dinah Utley, and he was making monkeys of us. So I was stuck. I had to give in and say, please Mr. Wolfe, put your book down for a while and kindly permit me to tell you what happened yesterday so you can decide what to do. When you came down at eleven o’clock. You know how I liked that. I wasn’t going to sit here on my rump all morning looking forward to it, so I went for a walk, and at eighteen minutes past eleven I heard a man tell another man that Jimmy Vail had been found dead on the floor of the library, where I had been yesterday afternoon.”

I paused for dramatic effect. “So where was I? If Homicide hadn’t already learned that I had been there yesterday in conference with the whole damn family, they soon would. Cramer himself might already be here ringing the bell. When he asked me what I was doing there, if I told him, I would be ditching our commitment to Mrs. Vail, and if I didn’t tell him. I would be in for a picnic and the least I could expect would be losing my license. It wouldn’t help any to come and say, please, Mr. Wolfe, even if you’re not concerned kindly permit me to tell you what has happened because I’m in a jam. What could you do? I had to handle it myself, and I did. I went and did something you had told me not to do. I told Lon Cohen about the kidnaping. Then I came and saw that Cramer or Stebbins wasn’t here, since there was no police car out front, and entered. Now you fire me and I go. Fast. One will get you a thousand that no one will find me before eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, the deadline.” I arose.

“Sit down,” he growled.

“No. Cramer or Stebbins may be here any minute.”

“He won’t be admitted.”

“They’ll cover the house front and back and come back with a warrant.” I moved.

“Stop!” he bellowed. “Very well,” he said. “You leave me no choice. I concede that we care what happened to Miss Utley and we are concerned. Report in full.”

“If I’m fired why should I report?”

“You are not fired. Confound you, report!”

“It’s too late. I’d be interrupted. The doorbell might ring any second.”

He glared at me, then turned his head to glare at the clock. He made fists of his hands and glared at them, then used them to push his chair back. He got up and headed for the door, and when he reached the hall he roared, “Fritz!” The door to the kitchen swung open, and Fritz appeared. Wolfe was moving to the front, to the rack. He got his coat off the hanger and turned.

“Are the mussels open?”

“No, sir. It’s only—”

“Don’t open them. Keep them. Archie and I are going out. We’ll be back for lunch tomorrow. Keep the door bolted.”

Fritz gawked. “But — but—” He was speechless.

“If anyone inquires, you can’t tell tell him where we are, since you won’t know.” He found the armholes of the coat I had taken and was holding. “Lunch at the usual time tomorrow.”

“But you must have a bag—”

“I’ll manage. Tell Theodore. You know what a search warrant is. If a policeman comes with one admit him, and stay with him. Archie?”

I had my coat on and the door open. He crossed the sill, and as I followed I shut the door. As we descended the stoop I asked, “The car?” and he said no, and at the bottom he turned right, toward Ninth Avenue. But we didn’t reach Ninth Avenue. Halfway there he turned right and started up a stoop of a brownstone the same size and color and age as his, but it had a vestibule. He had used his vestibule to enlarge the hall years ago. He pushed the button, and in a moment the door was opened by a dark-haired woman with fine frontage to whom we had sent orchids now and then for the past ten years. She was a little startled at sight of us.

“Why, Mr. Wolfe... Mr. Goodwin... come in. You want to see the doctor?”

We entered, and she closed the door. “Not professionally,” Wolfe said. “And briefly. Here will do.”

“Of course. Certainly.” She was flustered. I had been there off and on, but Wolfe hadn’t; Doc Vollmer had come to him when required. She went down the hall and opened a door and disappeared, and in a minute Vollmer came — a sad-looking little guy with lots of forehead and not much jaw. He had once taken twenty-two stitches in my side where a character with a knife had gone wide enough but not deep enough.

He approached. “Well, well! Come in, come in!”

“We have come to impose on you, Doctor,” Wolfe said. “We need a room to sit in the rest of today and beds for tonight. We need enough food to sustain us until tomorrow. Can you oblige us?”

Vollmer wasn’t startled; he was merely stunned. “Why — of course — you mean for you? You and Archie?”

“Yes. We expected a troublesome visitor, and we fled. By tomorrow he will be less troublesome. We want seclusion until then. If it would inconvenience you beyond tolerance...”

“No, of course not.” He smiled. “I’m honored. I’m flattered. I’m afraid the food won’t be quite... I have no Fritz. Will you need a phone in the room?”

“No, just the room.”

“Then, if you’ll excuse me — I have a patient in my office—”

He went back to the door and in, and in a couple of minutes the dark-haired woman, whose name was Helen Gillard, came out. She asked us to come with her, trying to sound as if it was perfectly natural for a couple of neighbors to drop in and request board and lodging, and led the way to the stairs. She took us up two flights and down a hall to the rear, and into a room with two windows and a big bed and walls covered with pictures of boats and baseball players and boys and girls. Bill Vollmer, whom I had once showed how to take fingerprints, was away at school. Helen asked, “Will you come down for lunch or shall I bring trays?”

“Later,” Wolfe said. “Thank you. Mr. Goodwin will tell you.”

“Can I bring you anything?”

Wolfe said no, and she went. She left the door open, and I went and closed it. We removed our coats, and I found hangers in a closet. Wolfe stood and looked around. It was hopeless. There were three chairs. The seats of two of them were about half as wide as his fanny, and the third one had arms and it would be a squeeze. He went to the bed, sat on the edge, took his shoes off, twisted around, stretched out with his head on the pillow, shut his eyes, and spoke.

“Report.”

At 12:35 p.m. Friday, Inspector Cramer of Homicide West, seated in the red leather chair, took a mangled unlit cigar from his mouth and said, “I still want to know where you and Goodwin have been and what you’ve done the past twenty-four hours.”

The only objection to telling him was that he would have gone or sent someone to check, and Doc Vollmer was a busy man, so it would have been a poor return for his hospitality. As for the hospitality, I had no kick coming, having been given a perfectly good bed in a spare room, but Wolfe had had a few difficulties. Books to read, but no chair upstairs big enough to take him, and he won’t read lying down. No pajamas big enough for him, so he had to sleep in his underwear. Grub not bad enough to take credit for facing up to hardship, but not good enough to please the palate; only one brand of beer, and not his. Pillows too soft to use only one and too thick to use two. Towels either too little or too big. Soap that smelled like tuberoses (he said), and he uses geranium. He really bore up well for his first day and night away from home in more than a year; he was glum, of course, as you would be if you were forced to skedaddle, without stopping to take a toothbrush, by circumstances you weren’t to blame for.