Рекс Стаут - The Final Deduction

“That’s not true,” she said. It barely got out through her tight throat, and she repeated it. “That’s not true!”

“I advised you to say nothing, madam. That would be condemned even—”

“But it’s not true! It wasn’t the money!” She was gripping the chair arms. “He could have had the money. I told him he could. He wouldn’t. It was Dinah. He was going to leave me because I had — because of Dinah. That was why — it wasn’t the money.”

“I prefer it that he demanded the money.”

“No!”

“He threatened to expose you as a murderer?”

“No. He said he wouldn’t. But he was going to leave me, and I loved him.” Her mouth worked, and her fingers clawed at the chair arms, scratching at the leather. “I loved him, and he was going to leave me.”

“And of course that might mean your exposure.” Wolfe’s voice was low, down almost to a murmur. “Away from you, no longer enjoying your bounty, there was no telling what he might do. So he had to die. I offer you my apology. I concede that your end was not sordid, that you were in mortal danger. Did you try to gull him, did you deny that you had killed Dinah Utley?”

“No, he knew I had.” She made fists. “I was insane, I must have been. You’re right, I knew what would happen if he left me, but that wasn’t it. I must have been insane. Later that night I went down to the library again and stayed there with him until—”

She jerked up straight. “What am I saying? What did I say?”

“Enough.” Not a murmur. “You said what I expected you to say when I accused you of killing your husband merely for money. That was absurd, but no more absurd than your attack on Mr. Goodwin and me after we found the money. You intended, of course, to put the onus on your deceased husband — to have it inferred that he had arranged the kidnaping to get the money for himself, with Dinah Utley as an accomplice, that he had killed her, and possibly even that he had killed himself through fear or remorse, though that would be rather farfetched — a man would hardly choose that method of committing suicide. But you should have known that you would arouse—”

He stopped because his audience was walking out on him. When she shifted her feet to get up, her bag slipped to the floor, and I went and picked it up and handed it to her and followed her out. Having circled around her in the hall to get in front, I had the door open by the time she reached it, and I went out to the stoop to watch her go down the steps. If she went home and finished up the chloral hydrate, that would be her funeral, but I didn’t want her stumbling and breaking her neck on our premises. She wasn’t any too steady, but she made it to the sidewalk and turned right, and I went back in.

Going to the kitchen, I got the tape and the playback from the cupboard and took them to the office. Wolfe sat and scowled at me as I got things ready, switched it on, ran it through to what might be the spot, and turned on the sound. Wolfe’s voice came.

“... in the instant heat of uncontrollable passion. But killing your husband is another matter. That was planned and premeditated and ruthlessly executed; and for a sordid end. Merely for money. You killed him in cold blood because he was going to deprive you of the fruit of your swindle. That, I submit, was execrable. That would be condemned even by—”

“That’s not true. That’s not true!”

“I advised you to say nothing, madam. That would be condemned even—”

“But it’s not true! It wasn’t the money! He could have had the money. I told him he could. He wouldn’t. It was Dinah. He was going to leave me because I had — because of Dinah. That was why — it wasn’t the money.”

It went on to the end, good and clear, as it should have been, since that installation had cost twelve hundred smackers. As I turned it off Wolfe said, “Satisfactory. Take it to Mr. Cramer.”

“Now?”

“Yes. That wretch may be dead within the hour. If he isn’t at his office, have him summoned. I don’t want him storming in here tomorrow to bark at me for delaying delivery of a confession of a murderer.”

I reached for the tape.

She not only wasn’t dead within the hour; she’s not dead yet. That was three months ago, and last week a jury of eight men and four women stayed hung for fifty-two hours and then gave up. It stood seven for conviction of first-degree murder and five for acquittal. Whether this report gets published or not depends on the jury at the second trial. If it hangs too, or acquits, the script will have to go into a locked drawer in my room, with several others to keep it company.

If you care about whether I took another trip to White Plains, I did — Tuesday noon, escorted by Ben Dykes. By then Mrs. Vail had been taken to the District Attorney’s office, but everyone was too busy to worry about me. I was out on bail by five o’clock, but I had had my fingerprints taken for the nineteenth time. It took a week before the charge was quashed, and the cost of the bail cut Wolfe’s hundred grand down to $99,925. Even so, I’m having plenty of time to go for walks, getting angles on people and things. Having reached that bracket by the first of May, Wolfe relaxed and has stayed relaxed. If you offered him ten thousand bucks to detect who swiped your hat at a cocktail party yesterday he wouldn’t even bother to glare at you.