Rex Stout: Counterfeit for Murder

“We split the reward three ways,” she said.

“I have no interest in a reward.” He flipped a hand, discarding it. “There probably won’t be any.”

“There had better be. I don’t need it, I’ve got enough to go on and then some, but I’ve never earned any money and this is my chance. Keeping it in your safe, that’s all right. I’m not going to apologize for what I said until I see what happens.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. Archie?”

I moved. The bills were still in my hand, but the wrapping paper and string were on the chair. I went and brought them, holding the paper by the corner. “A question,” I said. “Since he hid it where it might possibly be found he might have had sense enough not to leave prints, but he might not. If not, I’ve got him right here. I can find out in ten minutes, but it would be tampering with evidence, and the question is, do I?”

“Of course,” Hattie said. “I thought of that but I didn’t know how.”

“You can’t test it without leaving traces,” Wolfe said.

“No.”

“Then don’t. That can wait.”

Of course my prints were already there, on both the bills and the paper, but there was no point in adding more, so I took care putting them in the safe. I asked Wolfe if he had any instructions, and he said no, I knew what the situation required. I got Hattie’s bag and gloves from the front room; she hadn’t taken her coat off. I thought I might as well try her pulse, but she wouldn’t let me. When I showed her to the lavatory to look in the mirror she had to admit her face could stand some attention, and when she came out the smudge was gone and she had even tucked her hair in some.

Walking to Tenth Avenue for a taxi she limped a little, but she said it was nothing, just that her hip had a sore spot. When we were stopped by a red light at 38th Street the sight of a harness bull on the sidewalk prompted her to explain why she was so down on him and his. I got it that her father had been shot by one without provocation, but she seemed a little hazy about the details, and I was more interested in something else: what did she know of Tammy Baxter? She must be involved somehow, since the T-man wanted her. Hattie said no, it couldn’t be Tammy, because she only had one suit, two dresses, three blouses, and two skirts, and her fur coat was rabbit, and if she were a counterfeiter she would have more clothes. I conceded that that was pretty decisive, but why was the T-man interested in her? How long had she been living in Hattie’s house? Three weeks. What did Hattie know of her background and history? Nothing. Hattie never asked for references. When someone came and wanted a place to sleep she just sized him up. Or her.

The other four current roomers had all been there longer — one of them, Raymond Dell, more than three years. In the thirties Dell had always had enough work to lunch at Sardi’s twice a week, and in the forties he had done fairly well in Hollywood, but now he was down to a few television crumbs.

Noel Farris, a year and a half. A year ago he had been in a play which had folded in four days, and this season in one which had lasted two weeks.

Paul Hannah, four months. A kid in his early twenties with no Broadway record. He was rehearsing in a show that was to open next month at an off-Broadway theater, the Mushroom.

Martha Kirk, eleven months. Twenty years old. Was in Short and Sweet for a year. Now studying at the Eastern Ballet Studio.

That was what I had got when the taxi rolled to the curb in 47th Street. Tammy Baxter had said the house was a dump, and it was, like hundreds of others in that part of town. The wind whirled some snow into the vestibule when I pushed the door open. Hattie used her key on the inner door and we entered. I had told her that I would first take a look at the bookshelf, to see if the dust situation could furnish any information as to how long the package had been there, but as we were taking off our coats in the hall a voice came booming down the stairs.

“Is that you, Hattie?”

The owner of the voice was following it down. He was a tall thin guy with a marvelous mane of wavy white hair, in an ancient blue dressing gown with spots on it. He was rumbling, “Where on earth have you been, or above it or beneath? Without you this house is a sepulcher! There are no oranges.” He noticed me. “How do you do, sir.”

“Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Dell,” Hattie said. I started to offer a hand, but he was bowing, so I bowed instead. A voice sounded behind me. “This way for oranges, Ray! I got some. Good morning, Hattie — I mean good afternoon.”

Raymond Dell headed for the rear of the hall, where a girl was standing in a doorway, and when Hattie followed him I tagged along, on into the kitchen. On a big linoleum-topped table in the center a large brass bowl was piled high with oranges, and by the time I entered Dell had taken one and started to peel it. There was a smell of coffee.

“Miss Kirk, Mr. Goodwin,” Hattie said.

Martha Kirk barely looked her twenty. She was ornamental both above the neck and below, with matching dimples. She gave me a glance and a nod, and asked Hattie, “Do you know where Tammy is? Two phone calls. A man, no name.”

Hattie said she didn’t know. Dell looked up from his orange to rumble at me, “You’re a civilian, Mr. Goodwin?”

It was a well-put question, since if I wasn’t in show business my reply would show whether I was close enough to it to know that stage people call outsiders civilians. But Hattie replied for me.

“You watch your tongue with Mr. Goodwin,” she told him. “He thinks he’s going to do a piece for a magazine about me and my house, and that’s why he’s here. We’re all going to be famous. There’ll be a picture of us with Carol Jasper. She lived here nearly a year.”

“What magazine?” Dell demanded. Martha Kirk skipped around the table to curtsy to me. “What would you like?” she asked. “An omelet of larks’ eggs? With truffles?”

I was a little sorry I had suggested that explanation of me to Hattie. It would be a shame to disappoint a girl who could curtsy like that. “You’d better save it,” I said. “This egg not only hasn’t hatched, it’s not even laid yet.”

Raymond Dell was boring holes through me with deep-set blue-gray eyes. “I wouldn’t have my picture taken with Carol Jasper,” he said, “for all the gold of Ormus and of Ind.”

“You can squat down behind,” Hattie said. “Come on Mr. Goodwin.” She moved. “He wants to see the house. I hope the beds are made.”

I said I’d see them later and followed her out. Halfway down the hall she asked, not lowering her voice, “How was that? All right?”

“Fine,” I said, loud enough to carry back. “They’re interested and that’ll help.”

She stopped at a door on the left toward the front, opened it, and went in. I followed and closed the door. The window blinds were down and it was almost as dark as night, but she flipped a wall switch and light came from a cluster of bulbs in the ceiling. I glanced around. A sofa, dark red plush or velvet, chairs to match; a fireplace with a marble mantel; worn and faded carpet; an upright piano against the wall on the right, and beyond the piano shelves of books.

“Here,” Hattie said, and went to the shelves. “I put the books back like they were.” As I moved to join her the corner of my eye caught something, and I turned my head; and, seeing it, I turned more and then froze. It was Tammy Baxter, flat on the floor behind the sofa, staring up at the ceiling; and, as if to show her where to stare, the handle of a knife at right angles to her chest was pointing straight at the cluster of lights.

To show you how freaky a human mind can be, as if you didn’t already know, the thought that popped into mine was that Hattie had been right, a counterfeiter would have more clothes; and what brought it was the fact that Tammy’s skirt was up nearly to her waist, exposing her legs. That took the first tenth of a second. The next thought was also of Hattie, just as freaky but for men only, based on the strictly male notion that women aren’t tough enough to take the sight of a corpse. I turned, and she was there at my elbow, staring down at it.