Рекс Стаут - The Final Deduction

The arrangement for the night was determined by two facts: one, there wasn’t room in the safe; and two, Noel didn’t want to take it home, which was understandable. So when bedtime came I got pajamas for him and took him up to the south room, which is above Wolfe’s, checked the towel supply and turned the bed down, and took the suitcase up another flight to my room. It wouldn’t go under my pillow, so I made room for it on the bed stand right against the pillow. We hadn’t counted the money.

It was counted Monday morning in a little room at the Continental Bank and Trust Company on Lexington Avenue, where Wolfe has had his account for twenty years. Present were an assistant vice-president, two tellers, and Noel and me. Of course Noel and I were merely spectators. They started on it a little after ten, and it was a quarter past twelve when they declared finally and positively that the figure was $489,000. Noel took twenty twenties for pocket money; $100,000 was deposited in Wolfe’s account; and an account was opened for Noel with a balance of $388,600. There would be no service charge, the assistant vice-president told Noel, with a banker’s smile at his own hearty joke. We had said nothing about where it had come from, and he had asked no questions, since Wolfe was an old and valued customer, but he must have had a guess if he ever looked at a newspaper. Of course the Gazette wasn’t out yet.

Noel and I shook hands in parting, out on the sidewalk. He took a taxi headed uptown. I didn’t hear what he said to the hackie, but I gave myself five to one that he was going straight to 994 Fifth Avenue. A nice little bank balance in his own name is very good for a man’s feet. I took a little walk to call on Lon Cohen.

I rather expected some kind of communication from Mrs. Vail or Andrew Frost before the day was out, but the afternoon went by without a peep. I also rather expected that Wolfe would put on a strutting act, his own special brand of strutting, explaining how simple it had been to dope out where the money was, but he didn’t, and I wasn’t going to pamper him by asking for it. I got back in time to dispose of the morning mail, which was skimpy, before lunch, and after lunch he finished his book and got another one from the shelf, and I got onto the germination and blooming records. There would soon be some new cards to add to the collection, with the bank balance where it now was.

When the doorbell rang at 5:55 and I took my feet down from the desk and went to see, there was Inspector Cramer.

That broke a precedent. Knowing Wolfe’s schedule as he does, he may come at 11:01 or 6:01, but never at 5:55. Did it mean he wanted five minutes with me first? It didn’t. When I let him in, all I got was a grunt as he went by, and when I joined him in the office he was in the red leather chair, his hat on the stand, his feet planted flat, and his jaw set. Not a word. I went to my chair, sat, planted my feet flat, and set my jaw. We were like that when Wolfe came in. As he passed the red leather chair he grunted, a perfect match for the grunt Cramer had given me. In his own chair, his bulk adjusted satisfactorily, he grunted again and asked, “How long have you been here?”

Cramer nodded. “So you can ride Goodwin for not telling you. Sure. You ride him, and he needles you. A damn good act. I’ve seen it often enough, so don’t waste it on me. You lied to me yesterday morning. You said you had an idea where the money was. Nuts. You knew where it was. How did you know?”

Wolfe’s brows were up. “Have you shifted from homicide to kidnaping?”

“No. If you knew where it was you knew who put it there. It must have been Jimmy Vail. He died Wednesday night. You told me yesterday that you had no evidence, either about the whereabouts of the money or Vail’s death. That was a barefaced lie. You used the evidence about the money to get your paws on it. Now you’re going to use the evidence about Vail’s death to pounce on something else, probably more money. How many times have I sat here and yapped at you about withholding evidence or obstructing justice?”

“Twenty. Thirty.”

“I’m not doing that now. This is different. I’m telling you that if the evidence you’ve got about Vail’s death is evidence that he was murdered, and if you refuse to give it to me here and now, whatever it is I’ll dig it up, I’ll get it, and I’ll hang an accomplice rap on you and Goodwin if it’s the last thing I do this side of hell.”

“Hhmmm,” Wolfe said. He turned. “Archie. I have a good memory, but yours is incomparable. Have we any shred of evidence regarding the death of Mr. Vail that Mr. Cramer lacks?”

I shook my head. “No, sir. He probably has a good deal, little details, that we lack.” I turned to Cramer. “Look. I certainly know everything that Mr. Wolfe knows. But yesterday he not only told you that he was convinced that Vail was murdered, I’m with him on that, he also said he was all but certain that he knew who had killed him. I’m not. Certain, my eye. I’d have to pick it out of a hat.”

“He didn’t say that. That was a question.”

Wolfe snorted. “A question only rhetorically. You said I was grandstanding — your word. Apparently you no longer think so, which isn’t surprising, since I have found the money. In effect, you are now demanding that I do your interpreting for you.”

“That’s another lie. I am not.”

“But you are.” Wolfe turned a palm up. “Consider. As I told you yesterday, my conclusions about the whereabouts of the money and Mr. Vail’s death were based on deductions and assumptions from the evidence at hand, and I have no evidence that you do not have. Yesterday you said you would leave me to my deductions and assumptions. Now you want them. You demand them, snarling a threat.”

“You’re twisting it around as usual. I didn’t snarl.”

“I’m clarifying it. I am under no necessity, either as a citizen or as a licensed detective, to share the product of my ratiocination with you. I am not obliged to describe the mental process by which I located the money and identified the murderer of Miss Utley and Mr. Vail. I may decide to do so, but it rests with my discretion. I shall consider it, and if and when—”

The doorbell rang. As I went to the hall I was considering whether it was Andrew Frost with a legal chip on his shoulder or some journalist after crumbs. It was neither. It was Ben Dykes of Westchester County and a stranger. It might or might not be desirable to let them join the party, so I only opened the door to the two-inch crack the chain permitted and spoke through it. “Back again?”

“With bells on,” Dykes said.

“You’re Archie Goodwin?” the stranger asked. He showed a buzzer, not Westchester. New York. “Open up.”

“It’s after office hours,” I said. “Give me three good reasons why I should—”

“Take a look at the bells,” Dykes said and stuck a paper through the crack.

I took it, unfolded it, and looked. Thoroughly. It was a little wordy and high-flown, but I got the idea. “Mr. Wolfe will want to see this,” I said. “He’s a great reader. Excuse me a minute.” I went to the office, waited until Wolfe finished a sentence, and told him, “Sorry to interrupt. Ben Dykes from Westchester with a New York dick for an escort, and with this.” I showed the paper. “A court order that Archie Goodwin is to be arrested and held on a charge of grand larceny. On a complaint by Mrs. Althea Vail. It’s called a warrant.” I turned to Cramer. “Got any more questions before I leave?”

He didn’t even glance at me. His eyes were fastened on Wolfe, who had just said that he had identified a murderer. Wolfe put out a hand, and I gave him the paper, and he read it. “She’s an imbecile,” he declared. “Bring them in.”