Rex Stout: Counterfeit for Murder

“That’s a knife,” she said.

That plain statement of fact brought my mind to. I went and squatted, lifted Tammy’s hand, and pressed hard on the thumbnail. When I released the pressure it stayed white. The dead hand flopped back to the carpet and I stood up. I glanced at my wrist; twelve minutes past one. “You’ll see the cops now,” I said. “If you don’t want — Hands off! Don’t touch her!”

“I won’t,” she said, and didn’t. She only touched the skirt, the hem, to pull it down, but it was bunched underneath and would come only to the knees.

“It’s your house,” I said, “so you ought to phone, but I will if you prefer.”

“Phone for a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have to?”

“Certainly.”

She went to a chair and sat. “This is the way it goes,” she said. “It always has. When I want to think I can’t. But you can, Buster, that’s your business. You ought to be able to think of something better than calling a cop.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Hattie.” I stopped. I hadn’t realized she had become Hattie to me until I heard it come out. I went on, “But first a couple of questions, in case some thinking is called for later. When you came back here this morning to sew on the button did you see Tammy?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

“The car that came up on the sidewalk and hit you. Did you see the driver?”

“No, how could I? It came from behind.”

“The man and woman who helped you up, and the other man. Did they see the driver?”

“No, I asked them. They said they didn’t. I can’t think about that, I’m thinking about this. We’ll go up to my room. Ray and Martha don’t know we came in here. We’ll go up to my room and you’ll think of something.”

“I can’t think her alive and I can’t think her body somewhere else. If you mean we forget we came in and saw it, then what? You said nobody comes in here much. Do you phone or do I?”

Her mouth worked. “You’re no good, Buster. I wish I hadn’t sewed that button on.” She got to her feet, none too steady. “I’m going upstairs, and I’m not going to see any cops.” She moved, but not toward the door. She stood and looked down at the corpse, and said, “It’s not your fault, Tammy. Your name won’t ever be on a marquee now.” She moved again, stopped at the door to say, “The phone’s in the hall,” and went.

I looked around. There was no sign of a struggle. There was nothing to be seen that might not have belonged to the room — Tammy’s handbag, for instance. I went and squatted by her for a look at the knife handle; it was plain black wood, four inches long, the kind for a large kitchen knife. It was clear in to the handle and there was no blood. I got erect and went to the hall, where I had noticed the phone on a stand under the stairs. Voices were coming from the kitchen. That it wasn’t a coin phone, out in the open in that house, was worthy of remark; either Hattie’s roomers could be trusted not to take liberties, or she could afford not to care if they did. Only now, evidently, one of them had taken the liberty of sticking a knife in Tammy Baxter. I dialed the number I knew best.

“Yes?”

I have tried to persuade Wolfe that that is no way to answer the phone, with no success. “Me,” I said. “Calling from Miss Annis’s house to report a complication. We went in the parlor to look at the bookshelf and found Tammy Baxter on the floor with a knife in her chest. The girl that came this morning to ask if Miss Annis had been there and that the T-man asked about. Miss Annis won’t call the police, so I have to. I am keeping my voice low because this phone is in the hall and there are people in the kitchen with the door open, I have my eye on it. I need instructions. You told Miss Annis you would return her property to her, and you like to do what you say you’ll do. So when I answer questions what do I save?”

“Again,” he growled.

“Again what?”

“Again you. Your talent for dancing merrily into a bog is extraordinary. Why the deuce should you save anything? Save for what?”

“I’m not dancing and I’m not merry. You sent me here. In one minute, possibly two, it would occur to you as it has to me that it would be a nuisance to have to explain why we postponed reporting that counterfeit money. I could omit the detail that I inspected it and found it was counterfeit. If and when the question is put I could deny it.”

“Pfui. That woman.”

“It would be two against one, if it came to that, but I don’t think it will. She says she’s not going to see any cops and has gone to her room. Of course she’ll see them, or they’ll see her, but I doubt if they’ll hear much. Her attitude toward cops is drastic. One will get you ten that she won’t even tell them where she went this morning. But if you would prefer to open the bag—”

“I would prefer to obliterate the entire episode. Confound it. Very well. Omit that detail.”

“Right. I’ll be home when I get there.”

I cradled the phone and stood and frowned at it. A citizen finding a dead body is supposed to report it at once, and in addition to being a citizen I was a licensed private detective, but another five minutes wouldn’t hang me. Raymond Dell’s boom was still coming from the kitchen. Hattie had said her room was the second floor front. I went to the stairs, mounted a flight, turned right in the upper hall, and tapped on a door.

Her voice came. “Who is it?”

“Goodwin. Buster to you.”

“What do you want? Are you alone?”

“I’m alone and I want to ask you something.”

The sound of footsteps, then of a sliding bolt that needed oiling, and the door opened. I entered and she closed the door and bolted it. “They haven’t come yet,” I said. “I phoned Mr. Wolfe to suggest that it would simplify matters if we leave out one item, that we knew the bills were counterfeit. Including you. That hadn’t occurred to us. If you admit you knew or suspected they were phony, it will be a lot more unpleasant. So I thought I’d—”

“Who would I admit it to?”

“The cops. Naturally.”

“I’m not going to admit anything to the cops. I’m not going to see any cops.”

“Good for you.” There was no point in telling her how wrong she was. “If you change your mind, remember that we didn’t know the money was counterfeit. I’m sorry I’m no good.”

I went, shutting the door, and as I headed for the stairs I heard the bolt slide home. In the lower hall voices still came from the kitchen. I went to the phone, dialed Watkins 9-8241, got it, gave my name, asked for Sergeant Stebbins, and after a short wait had him.

“Goodwin? I’m busy.”

“You’re going to be busier. I thought it would save time to bypass headquarters. I’m calling from the house of Miss Hattie Annis, Six-twenty-eight West Forty-seventh Street. There’s a dead body here in the parlor — a woman with a knife in her chest. DOA — that is, my arrival. I’m leaving to get a bite of lunch.”

“You are like hell. You again. I needed this. This was all I needed.” He pronounced a word which it is a misdemeanor to use on the telephone. “You’re staying there, and you’re keeping your hands off. Of course you discovered it.”

“Not of course. Just I discovered it.”

He pronounced another contraband word. “Repeat that address.”

I repeated it. The connection went. As I hung up a notion struck me. Hattie wasn’t there to call me a bootlicker and flunky and toady, and it wouldn’t hurt to be polite; and besides, it would be interesting and instructive to see how Stebbins would react to outside authority sticking a finger in his pie. So I got the phone book from the stand, found the number, and dialed it.