Rex Stout: Counterfeit for Murder

“Save the gags,” Cramer growled, and stuck the cigar in his mouth. I went, closed the door behind me, walked down the hall, rapped on Hattie’s door, and called, “It’s me. Buster Goodwin. I’m alone. Let me in. I want to ask you something.”

Footsteps and then her voice. “Where are they?”

“Still in the house but at a safe distance. I am not a flunky.”

The bolt grated and the door opened. I entered, shut the door, and slid the bolt. The blinds were down and the lights were on. She had a magazine in her hand. “You might have brought me something to eat,” she said. “I haven’t had any lunch. You’re no good.”

I faced her. “That’s the second time you’ve told me I’m no good,” I said. “Let’s get that settled. If you really mean it why did you let me in?”

“I thought you had something to eat. When I say you’re no good that’s just for then, when I say it. I’m hungry.”

“Okay. Actually I’m extremely good. If I wasn’t, why would I bother to come and tell you to stay away from the door because they’re going to bust it in?”

“No, they won’t.”

“Why won’t they?”

“Because they know if they do I’ll shoot.”

I glanced around. A massive old walnut bed, a big old rolltop desk, dresser, chest of drawers, chairs, pictures of men and women all over the walls, actors from a mile off. “What will you shoot with?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “I haven’t got a gun, but they don’t know it.”

I eyed her. “May I have permission to call you Hattie?”

“No. Not until I see what happens.”

“Very well, Miss Annis. A cop named Cramer, an inspector, asked me to come and tell you they’re going to break in. They can do that without getting in the line of fire, and they will. That’s all he asked me to tell you, but I add this on my own, that if they have to smash the door to get to you it’s an absolute certainty that they’ll take you downtown, and they’ll probably hold you as a material witness. They’re investigating a murder that occurred in your house, and you’re a suspect. Whereas if you let them in and answer the questions they have a right to ask, they probably won’t take you downtown and you can sleep in your own bed.”

She was staring at me. “You say I’m a suspect?”

“Certainly. When you came home to sew on the button, it could have been then.”

“You suspect me?”

“Of course not. Even if I’m no good I’m not a halfwit.”

Her tips tightened. “They’ll have to carry me.”

“They can. There’s enough of them, and they have handcuffs.”

“They’ll need them.” She cocked her head. A strand of gray hair fell across her eye, and she didn’t bother to brush it back. “All right, Buster. I’ve never hired a detective. Do you want me to sign something?”

“Whom are you hiring, Miss Annis?”

“I’m hiring you. Call me Hattie.”

“You can’t hire me. I work for Nero Wolfe on salary.”

“Then I’m hiring Nero Wolfe.”

“To do what?”

“To show the cops. To make them wish they had never set foot in my house. To make them eat dirt.”

“He wouldn’t take the job. You might hire him to investigate the murder, and he might fill your order as a by-product. But he has exaggerated ideas about fees, and I doubt if you could afford it.”

“Would you help him?”

“Of course. That’s my job.”

She shut her eyes, tight. In a moment she opened them. “I could pay him one-tenth of all I’ve got besides the house. I could pay him forty-two thousand dollars. That ought to be enough.”

It took a little effort not to gawk. “I should think so,” I conceded. “If you want me to put it to him, I have to ask a question that he’ll ask. He’s very realistic about money. What you’ve got besides the house, is it in something convenient? Would you have to sell something, for instance a race horse or a yacht?”

“Don’t try to be funny, Buster. I’m realistic about money too. It’s in tax-exempt bonds in a vault in a bank. Do you want me to sign something?”

“That’s not necessary, now that I call you Hattie.” I controlled an impulse to reach and brush the strand of hair away from her eye. “You may not be very available the rest of the day, so we’ll leave it this way: you have hired Mr. Wolfe to investigate the murder, and if he doesn’t take the job I’ll notify you as soon as I can get in touch with you. And you’ll leave—”

“Why wouldn’t he take the job?”

“Because he’s a genius and he’s eccentric. Geniuses don’t have to have reasons. But leave that to me. And if you’re going to pay us I might as well start earning it. Have you got a stamp pad?”

She said yes, in the desk, and I went and found it in a pigeonhole. She said she had no glossy paper, and I took her magazine and found a page ad in color with wide margins in white, and tore it out. “I’ll want all ten fingers,” I told her. “First your right hand, the thumb. Like this.”

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t ask anything. Either she knew why or she merely wanted to humor me, and your guess is as good as mine. When I had the set, the right hand on the right margin and the left on the left, I folded the sheet with care and put it between the pages of my notebook.

“Okay,” I said. “You’ll leave the door unbolted, and I’ll tell Cramer—”

“No, I won’t. If they break in that door they’ll pay for it.”

I explained again. I told her that anyone as realistic about money as she was ought to be able to be realistic about murder, but she wouldn’t budge. I told her she didn’t have to invite them in or let them in, just leave the door unbolted, and she said I was no good. So I left, and the second I was across the sill the door clicked shut and I heard the bolt go in. I walked to the rear and opened the door of Dell’s room.

“Well?” Cramer demanded.

“No soap.” I stood in the doorway. “If she has a brain I can’t imagine what she uses it for. She wants to hire Nero Wolfe to make you eat dirt. I told her if you had to break in you would probably take her downtown and hold her, and she said you’d have to carry her. When I left she pushed the bolt.”

“All right,” Cramer said, “if that’s the way she wants it.” He turned to speak to Rowcliff, but I didn’t stay to listen, because I had an urgent errand. Callahan, the dick who had brought me from the kitchen, wasn’t in sight, and if I went downstairs unescorted I probably wouldn’t be stopped. I backed off, made the landing, descended, asked the dick in the lower hall if it was still snowing as I got my hat and coat, took my time putting my coat on, opened the front door, and was gone.

The snow was coming down thicker and was an inch deep on the sidewalk. Outside were two harness bulls, four police cars double-parked, and a small group of unofficial criminologists. I headed east, found a phone booth in a bar and grill around the corner on Eighth Avenue, and dialed. It was after four and Wolfe would be up in the plant rooms for his afternoon session with the orchids, which is from four to six, so it was Fritz who answered, and I told him to switch it.

“Yes?” Wolfe is always gruff on the phone, but when it interrupts him up there he is even gruffer.

“Me again. From a booth on Eighth Avenue. I left the scene informally because I have something to report. We won’t be contradicted about the money. Miss Annis, whom I now call Hattie, has buttoned her lip and will keep it buttoned. She is in her room with the door bolted and Cramer and Rowcliff are going to batter their way in. Stebbins isn’t around. I was re—”

“He was here.”

“Who? Stebbins?”