Rex Stout: Eeny Meeny Murder Mo

“All that is mere conjecture.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t present. But it fits. If you have one that fits better I do shorthand.”

“The police have covered everything here for fingerprints.”

“Sure. But it was below freezing outdoors and I suppose the members of your firm wear gloves.”

“You say that he learned she hadn’t seen Wolfe, but she had talked with you.”

“She didn’t tell him that she had told me. It wouldn’t take many words for him to learn that she was alone and hadn’t seen Mr. Wolfe. Either that, or she did tell him but he went ahead anyhow. The former is more probable and I like it better.”

He studied me a while, then he closed his eyes and his head tilted again. When his eyes opened he put them at Wolfe. “Mr. Wolfe. I reserve comment on your suggestion that I would be moved by personal considerations to balk justice. You ask me to help you. How?”

“By giving me information. By answering questions. Your mind is trained in inquiry; you know what I will ask.”

“I’ll know better when I hear you. Go ahead and we’ll see.”

Wolfe looked at the wall clock. “It’s nearly an hour past midnight, and this will be prolonged. It will be a tiresome wait for Miss Paige.”

“Of course,” Otis agreed. He looked at me. “Will you ask her to step in?”

I got up and crossed to the door to the front room. As I entered, words were at the tip of my tongue, but that was as far as they got. She wasn’t there. Through a wide-open window cold air was streaming in. As I went to it and stuck my head out I was prepared to see her lying there with one of my neckties around her throat, though I hadn’t left one in the room. It was a relief to see that the areaway, eight feet down, was unoccupied.

A roar came from the office. “Archie! What the devil are you up to?”

I shut the window, glanced around to see if there were any signs of violence or if she had left a note, saw neither, and rejoined the conference.

“She’s gone,” I said. “Leaving no message. When I—”

“Why did you open a window?”

“I didn’t. I closed it. When I took her in there I locked the door to the hall so she couldn’t wander around and hear things she wasn’t supposed to, so when she got tired waiting the window was the only way out.”

“She climbed out a window?” Otis demanded.

“Yes, sir. It’s a mere conjecture, but it fits. The window was wide open, and she’s not in the room, and she’s not outside. I looked.”

“I can’t believe it. Miss Paige is a level-headed and reliable—” He bit it off. “No. No! I no longer know who is reliable.” He rested his elbow on the chair arm and propped his head with his hand. “May I have a glass of water?”

Wolfe suggested brandy, but he said he wanted water, and I went to the kitchen and brought some. He got a little metal box from a pocket, took out two pills, and washed them down.

“Will they help?” Wolfe asked. “The pills?”

“Yes. The pills are reliable.” He handed me the glass.

“Then we may proceed?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any notion why Miss Paige was impelled to leave by a window?”

“No. It’s extraordinary. Damn it, Wolfe, I have no notions of anything! Can’t you see I’m lost?”

“I can. Shall we put it off?”

“No!”

“Very well. My assumption that Miss Aaron was killed by a member of your firm, call him X, rests on a prior assumption, that when she spoke with Mr. Goodwin she was candid and her facts were accurate. Would you challenge that assumption?”

Otis looked at me. “Tell me something. I know what she said from your statement, and it sounded like her, but how was she — her voice and manner? Did she seem in any way... well, out of control? Unbalanced?”

“No, sir,” I told him. “She sat with her back straight and her feet together, and she met my eyes all the time.”

He nodded. “She would. She always did.” To Wolfe: “At this time, here privately with you, I don’t challenge your assumption.”

“Do you challenge the other one, that X killed her?”

“I neither challenge it nor accept it.”

“Pfui. You’re not an ostrich, Mr. Otis. Next: if Miss Aaron’s facts were accurate, it must be supposed that X was in a position to give Mrs. Sorell information that would help her substantially in her action against her husband, your client. That is true?”

“Of course.” Otis was going to add something, decided not to, and then changed his mind again. “Again here privately with you, it’s not merely her action at law. It’s blackmail. Perhaps not technically, but that’s what it amounts to. Her demands are exorbitant and preposterous. It’s extortion.”

“And a member of your firm could give her weapons. Which one or ones?”

Otis shook his head. “I won’t answer that.”

Wolfe’s brows went up. “Sir? If you pretend to help at all that’s the very least you can do. If you’re rejecting my proposal say so and I’ll get on without you. By noon tomorrow — today — the police will have that elementary question answered. It may take me longer.”

“It certainly may,” Otis said. “You haven’t mentioned a third assumption you’re making. You are assuming that Goodwin was candid and accurate in reporting what Miss Aaron said.”

“Bah.” Wolfe was disgusted. “You are gibbering. If you hope to impeach Mr. Goodwin you are indeed forlorn. You might as well go. If you regain your faculties later and wish to communicate with me I’ll be here.” He pushed his chair back.

“No.” Otis extended a hand. “Good God, man, I’m trapped! It’s not my faculties! I have my faculties.”

“Then use them. Which member of your firm was in a position to betray its interests to Mrs. Sorell?”

“They all were. Our client is vulnerable in certain respects, and the situation is extremely difficult, and we have frequently conferred together on it. I mean, of course, my three partners. It could have only been one of them, partly because none of our associates was in our confidence on this matter, but mainly because Miss Aaron told Goodwin it was a member of the firm. She wouldn’t have used that phrase, ‘member of the firm,’ loosely. For her it had a specific and restricted application. She could only have meant Frank Edey, Miles Heydecker, or Gregory Jett. And that’s incredible!”

“Incredible literally or rhetorically? Do you disbelieve Miss Aaron — or, in desperation, Mr. Goodwin? Here with me privately?”

“No.”

Wolfe turned a palm up. “Then let’s get at it. It is equally incredible for all three of those men, or are there preferences?”

During the next hour Otis balked at least a dozen times, and on some details — for instance, the respects in which Morton Sorell was vulnerable — he clammed up absolutely, but I had enough to fill nine pages of my notebook.

Frank Edey, fifty-five, married with two sons and a daughter, wife living, got twenty-seven per cent of the firm’s net income. (Otis’s share was forty per cent.) He was a brilliant idea man but seldom went to court. He had drafted the marriage agreement which had been signed by Morton Sorell and Rita Ramsey when they got yoked four years ago. Personal financial condition, sound. Relations with wife and children, so-so. Interest in other women, definitely yes, but fairly discreet. Interest in Mrs. Sorell casual so far as Otis knew.

Miles Heydecker, forty-seven, married and wife living but no children, got twenty-two per cent. His father, now dead, had been one of the original members of the firm. His specialty was trial work and he handled the firm’s most important cases in court. He had appeared for Mrs. Sorell at her husband’s request two years ago when she had been sued by a man who had formerly been her agent. He was tight with money and had a nice personal pile of it. Relations with his wife, uncertain; on the surface, okay. Too interested in his work and his hobbies, chess and behind-the-scene politics, to bother with women, including Mrs. Sorell.