Rex Stout: Counterfeit for Murder

“Yes. I spoke with him at the door. He wanted the package of money. I told him it was not mine to surrender, since it had been left in your safekeeping. He said nothing about its being bogus. I didn’t admit him. He was not pleased.”

“I’ll bet. I was requested by Cramer to persuade Hattie to let them in, and I tried — not through the door, she let me in. When I told her that if they had to bust the door to get to her they would take her downtown and hold her, she said she wanted to hire you to make them eat dirt. I said the only job you might take would be to investigate the murder, and dirt-eating, if any, would be a by-product, and your fee would be high. She said she could pay you twenty-one thousand dollars, one-tenth of the tax-exempt bonds she has in a bank vault. I said we would leave it that you are hired, and if you refuse to take it on because you’re eccentric I’ll notify her. The trouble is, how can I notify her if she’s not accessible? Shall I ask Cramer to tell her you’re too busy?”

“Yes.”

“Naturally,” I said sympathetically. “You would rather starve than work if only you had no appetite. The fact is, she wanted to hire me and I told her to get me she had to hire you. I’ll hold the wire while you count ten.”

“Confound you.” It was a growl from the depths. “She may have no bonds. She is probably indigent.”

“Not a chance. She’s my favorite screwball, but she’s not a liar. I’m under her spell and I’m in her debt. She made Cramer ask me a favor.”

Silence. Then, more growl. “Come home and report. We’ll see.”

One of the rules in that house is no business talk at meals, ever, and another is no business in the plant rooms except in emergencies. That winter day the emergency was not that some sudden development demanded immediate action or that an important case had reached a crisis; it was that Wolfe had to decide, to work or not to work, and he could get no pleasure fiddling with orchids with that hanging over him. He took my report not in one of the three plant rooms, with their dazzle of color, but in the potting room, perched on his made-to-order stool, at the bench. Theodore was washing pots at the sink, and I used his stool.

Wolfe keeps his eyes closed when I am reporting and rarely interrupts with questions. When I finished he took in air clear down to his middle, let it out, opened his eyes, and grunted. “Any comments or suggestions?”

“Yes, sir, plenty. First, Hattie Annis is out. She couldn’t possibly have been faking it when we went in and found the body. I wouldn’t try to predict what she’s going to do, but I know what she didn’t do. She didn’t kill Tammy Baxter. Second, their not asking if I knew the money is counterfeit is an insult to my intelligence and yours too. Leach had told Carmer not to mention it because what he wants is to find the source. He’d rather catch a counterfeiter than a murderer any day, and if counterfeiting was mentioned to me I might mention it to a reporter. Evidently he thinks we can’t add two and two. A T-man coming to ask me about a woman who had left a package of bills with me, and the idea that they might be counterfeit wouldn’t occur to me?”

“He didn’t know she had been here and left a package.”

“He did when I was being questioned. He heard me tell Cramer. Cramer must have been biting nails. He’d love to get us for being in possession of a stack of the queer. Ten to one Leach didn’t know he sent Stebbins here to get it. Third, Tammy Baxter was a T-woman.”

Wolfe made a face. “That mean something?”

“It does now. If there are T-men there can be a T-woman, though I’ve never heard of one. This morning Leach asked if she was here, and when I told him she had been and gone he asked if she had been back or phoned and then switched to Hattie Annis. Why didn’t he ask what Tammy Baxter had said? Because he knew; she had reported to him. Also he knew the phone number of that house. Also Cramer. Why wasn’t he more interested in my talk with Tammy Baxter only an hour or so before she was murdered? Because he already knew about it from Leach.”

“Then she had been posted in that house by the Secret Service?”

“Sure. A good guess is that they knew someone who lived there had passed bad money. I doubt if they knew which one, because if so they know who killed Tammy Baxter, and I don’t think they would dare not to tell Cramer — but it’s possible. Their big play isn’t for the passers, it’s for the plant. Four, one of the four roomers is it, on account of the knife. It came from that kitchen. Raymond Dell, Noel Ferris, Paul Hannah, Martha Kirk. If one or more of them have been crossed, off by alibis that would narrow it. Five, if Hattie Annis is your client you probably want to speak to Parker, since you are against leaving a client in the coop. I’ll ring him.”

“I haven’t told you to.”

“Do you tell me not to?”

He tightened his lips. He took a deep breath. “Confound you. Call him.”

“Right. But first one more. Six, I see no reason why I shouldn’t try the package for prints, since it hasn’t occurred to us that the bills may be phony. I’m assuming that you don’t intend to let loose of your client’s property unless a court orders you to.”

“Certainly not. But there will be other prints than yours. Hers.”

“I’ve got hers.”

“You have.”

“Yes, sir. In case.”

“So.” He got off the stool. “So you make the decisions. Let me know if you wish to confer. Go.”

I went. It isn’t easy to pass down the aisles of those three rooms without stopping, even in an emergency, but that time I stopped only once, where a group of Miltonia roezlis were sporting more than fifty racemes on four feet of bench. It was the best crop of Miltonias Wolfe (and Theodore) had ever had. The display is always harder to believe when snow is dancing on the sloping glass overhead.

Since it was after office hours I dialed the home number of Nathaniel Parker, the lawyer, got him, put him through to Wolfe, and listened in, as I am supposed to when not told to get off. He was a little doubtful about springing our client before morning, since they had had to smash a door to get to her and she wasn’t talking, but he said he would get on it immediately and do his best. That done, I went to the safe and got the wrapping paper and bills.

It was a two-hour job, and I took an hour out for dinner, so it was after nine o’clock when I finished. It took so long because (a) wrapping paper is a mean surface to lift prints from, (b) I had to check and double-check every print with Hattie’s and mine, and (c) I had to be darned careful to leave the evidence intact if there was any there. During the last hour, after dinner, Wolfe was there at his desk in the only chair he really likes, reading his current book. Now and then he shot me a glance, of course hoping that I would announce that we had him, and his job would be simple. But at a quarter past nine I swiveled and spoke. “No. Positively. Seven good prints, twelve fair ones, and fourteen smudges. The only ones that can be identified are Hattie’s and mine. Either he never handled it without gloves or he wiped it.”

I’ll say this for him, he never asks silly questions like Are you sure, or Have you tried the bills too. He merely growled, “It was too much to expect.” He picked up his bookmark, a thin strip of gold that had been given him by a client in spite of the size of his bill, inserted it, and put the book down. “What do you suggest?”

Ignoring the sarcasm, I took the bills and wrapping paper, still handling them with care, and went to the safe and put them in. “Now,” I said, returning, “it will take a brain, and you know where one is. I only run errands. I know you never leave the house on business, but if you—”