Rex Stout - Death of a Demon

I was trying to decide. Either he thought that Lucy Hazen had killed her husband, and was being chivalrous, or he didn’t think she had but was selling Wolfe the idea that he did think so. Whichever it was, he was willing to spend money on it, for he got up from his chair to put the bills on Wolfe’s desk.

As Wolfe started to speak the phone rang, and I turned and got it. It was Lucy Hazen. She asked for Wolfe, and I told her to hold it and turned to him. “The woman that brought the sausage this morning wants to know if it will do. If you want to ask Fritz you can talk on the kitchen extension.”

He got up and went, and I held on. In a moment his voice was in my ear. “This is Nero Wolfe. Mrs. Hazen?”

“Yes. You said this morning that if I need your services you would see.” Her voice was shaky. “I do need them. I’m going to be arrested, and I—”

“Where are you?”

“At the District Attorney’s. I don’t know any—”

“Say only what you must say on the telephone.”

“I’m in a booth with the door closed.”

“Pfui. It is probably not only heard but also recorded. Say only what you must.”

“All right.” A little pause. “He said I could phone a lawyer, and I don’t know any except my husband’s, and I don’t want him. Will you get one for me?”

“I’ll send one to you. After speaking with him you can decide whether to engage him.”

“I will. Of course. But I want to engage you too. You said you would if I needed you.”

“I said I would see.” A pause, longer than hers. If he committed himself he would have to work, and he would rather eat than work. “Very well.” He growled it. “I am engaged. One question: have you disclosed any of your conversation with me? Yes or no.”

“No.”

“Satisfactory. One instruction: if you have an intention to reject property left you by your husband you will neither declare it nor indicate it. You’re going to have some bills to pay.”

“But I don’t want anything from him! I told you—”

“We’re on the phone. The lawyer will join me in that instruction. His name is Nathaniel Parker. Archie, get Mr. Parker. I’ll talk from here.”

I pushed the button down, released it, dialed Parker’s home number, got him, buzzed the kitchen, and Wolfe got on. He gave Parker the necessary facts, and not much more — nothing of what Mrs. Hazen had told us that morning, nothing about the gun. He did say that I had formed the conclusion that she had not shot her husband, and that he had accepted it. Parker was to arrange for bail if she was bailable, if they held her on the big charge he was to get what he could at the DA’s office. I waited to hang up until Wolfe was at the office door. He went to his desk, sat, leveled his eyes at Theodore Weed, and spoke.

“Now sir. That was timely. It was Mrs. Hazen on the phone. I have sent—”

“Where is she?”

“At the District Attorney’s office. She thinks she is going to be held. I have sent a lawyer to her, and I have agreed to act in her behalf. You were assuming that I declined her offer of a check because I thought she was guilty of murder or at least was implicated, but you were wrong. She is now my client.” He wiggled a finger at the bills on the desk. “Your money. Take it.”

Weed’s jaw was hanging, his lips parted. He found words. “But you — I don’t see why you—”

“You’re not obliged to see and I’m not obliged to explain. Why do you think Mrs. Hazen killed her husband? Was it merely surmise?”

“I don’t — I don’t think she killed him. She didn’t!”

“If I had taken your money what were you going to ask me to do?”

“I don’t know exactly. I was going... to consult you. I wanted to know what you (did with the gun. Have the police got it?”

Wolfe shook his head. “I am acting for her now, Mr. Weed. You are the enemy — one of them. What if you killed Mr. Hazen, or know who did, and would like to see it imputed to her, and suspecting, for whatever reason, that she left a gun with me this morning, you want to find out? What if you are indeed the enemy?”

Weed sat and stared at him. His jaw started to work again and he stopped it. “Look here,” he said. “I want to know something. I know your reputation, I know about you. Is that straight, Mrs. Hazen phoned you just now and you’re working for her?”

“It is.”

“All right, then this is straight too.” He stuck an arm out. “You can cut off this arm if it will help her any. And the other one. If that’s corny, okay, that’s where I stand.”

Wolfe regarded him with narrowed eyes. So did I. He looked as if he meant it, but even if he did, that didn’t make him our pal. If he would give an arm to help her, and if he had known how she felt about her husband, he might have taken steps to get rid of him for her, which wouldn’t cost him even a finger if he was lucky.

Wolfe made a tent with his fingers, the tips together, his elbows on the chair arms. “Indeed,” he said. “I have no use for your arm, but some information might be helpful. When did you last see Mr. Hazen?”

“I want to know where that gun is. I know she left it here, she told me so.”

“When did she tell you?”

“This afternoon. I was there when she came home.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“Not much — there wasn’t time. We were interrupted. I knew Hazen had a gun in a drawer in his room, and I had looked to see if it was there and it wasn’t, and I asked her if she knew where it was. Have the police got it?”

“No. I’ll indulge you further, Mr. Weed. The bullet that killed Mr. Hazen wasn’t fired by that gun. If you already knew that it’s no news for you; if you didn’t, it should relieve—”

“How do you know it wasn’t?”

“Enough for you that I do. Now you indulge me. When did you last see Mr. Hazen?”

“This morning. At the morgue. I went there to identify him, by request. Alive, I saw him last at his house, last night.”

“At what hour?”

“Around half past nine. Five or ten minutes either way. The police wanted it more exact, but that’s as close as I can come.”

“The circumstances?”

“There were people there for dinner. Do you want their names?”

“Yes.”

“They were clients of Hazen’s. Mrs. Victor Oliver, a widow. Mrs. Henry Lewis Talbot, the wife of the banker. Ambrose Perdis, the shipping tycoon. Jules Khoury, the inventor. And Mr. and Mrs. Hazen and me. Seven. After dinner Hazen told Lucy — his wife — that we were going to discuss a business matter and she left. I left soon after that, and that was the last I saw him alive, there with them.”

“How did you spend the next six hours?”

“I walked to the Overseas Press Club — it’s a short walk — and was there until around midnight, and then I went home and went to bed. And stayed in bed.”

“You were associated with Mr. Hazen in his business?”

“I was in his employ.”

“In what capacity?”

“Mostly I write stuff. Handouts, plugs, the usual junk. Also I was supposed to use my contacts. I was a newspaperman when Hazen hired me a little more than a year ago.”

“If they were going to discuss a business matter why did you leave?”

“I wasn’t needed. Or wanted.”

“Then why were you there at all?”

Weed put his hands on the chair arms, levered his fanny up, settled farther back, and took a breath. He rubbed his chair arms with his palms. “You don’t think Lucy killed him,” he said. “Or you wouldn’t be working for her. But even if she didn’t she’s in one hell of a jam. If you’re half as good as you’re supposed to be... I don’t know. Maybe I ought to give you a different answer than the one I gave the District Attorney when he asked why I was there. The right answer. Even if it makes you think I killed him. I didn’t.”