Rex Stout - Bitter End

“Oh, yes,” she declared. “Anything that will — I feel pretty good. I’m all right.”

“You don’t look it. I’m going on the assumption that you and Mr. Cliff are telling the truth. I shall abandon it only under necessity. I assume, for instance, that when you left your uncle’s employ and later became Mr. Cliff’s secretary you were not coming to terms with the enemy.”

“You certainly may,” Cliff put in. “We knew she had worked in Tingley’s office, but we didn’t know she was his niece. That’s why I was so surprised when I saw she was going there last evening. I couldn’t imagine what she was doing there.”

“Very well. I’ll take all that.” Wolfe went on with Amy: “What would you say if I told you that Miss Murphy was responsible for the quinine?”

“Why—” Amy looked astonished. “I wouldn’t know what to say. I’d ask you how you knew. I couldn’t believe that Carrie would do a thing like that.”

“Did she have a grudge against your uncle?”

“Not that I know of. No special grudge. Of course, nobody really liked him.”

“What about Miss Yates?”

“Oh, she’s all right. She’s a kind of a holy terror with the girls in the factory, but she’s certainly competent.”

“Did you and she get along?”

“Well enough. We didn’t have much to do with each other. I was my uncle’s stenographer.”

“How were her relations with Tingley?”

“As good as could be expected. Of course, she was a privileged character; he couldn’t possibly have got along without her. He inherited her from my grandfather along with the business.”

Wolfe grunted. “Speaking of inheritance. Do you know anything about your uncle’s will? Who will get the business?”

“I don’t know, but I suppose my cousin Philip.”

“His adopted son?”

“Yes.” Amy hesitated, then offered an amendment by a change of inflection: “I suppose he will. The business has always been handed down from father to son. But, of course, Philip—” She stopped.

“Is he active in the business?”

“No. That’s just it. He isn’t active in anything. Except—” She stopped.

“Except—?” Wolfe prodded her.

“I was going to say, except spending money, only for the past year or so he hasn’t had any to spend. Since Uncle Arthur kicked him out. I suppose he’s been giving him enough to keep him from starving. I thought — I had an idea, when my uncle phoned and asked me to come to his office yesterday, and he was so urgent about it, that it was something about Philip.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Well — because the only other time he ever sent for me it was about Philip. He thought that I could — that I had an influence over him.”

“Did you?”

“Maybe — a little.”

“When was the other time?”

“Nearly a year ago.”

“What did he want you to influence Philip to do?”

“To... well, to settle down. To take an interest in the business. He knew that Philip was — had wanted to marry me. Of course, Philip isn’t really my first cousin, since he was adopted. He isn’t any relation at all, but I didn’t want to marry him. I wasn’t in love with him.”

“And your uncle tried to persuade you to marry him?”

“Oh, no. He was dead against our marrying — I thought that was odd — but anyway he thought I had enough influence with Philip to reform him.”

“Had Philip, himself, abandoned the idea of marrying you?”

“Well, he... he had quit trying.”

Leonard Cliff was scowling. “Look here,” he blurted at her suddenly, “what does he look like?”

“Philip?”

“Yes.”

“Why — he’s tall. Tall and broad, with a bony face and deep-set eyes. He’s cynical. I mean he looks cynical—”

Cliff hit the arm of his chair with his palm. “It was him! I saw him at police headquarters this morning. It was him!”

“What if it was?” Wolfe demanded impatiently.

“Because that’s what I came to tell you about! He’s the man I saw last night! The one in the raincoat!”

“Indeed,” Wolfe said. “The one who arrived at seven-forty? After Mr. Judd left?”

“Yes!”

“How sure are you?”

“Damned sure. I was sure when I saw him there at headquarters, and I started to try to find out who he was, but they hustled me out. And now, from the description Amy gives—”

Wolfe snapped at Amy, “Do you know where he lives?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t. But, oh — I can’t believe — you don’t think—”

“I haven’t begun to think. First I have to get something to think about.” He turned to me: “Archie, do you know of anyone we might hire to find Philip Tingley and bring—”

That was all I heard. I was on my way out.

This was the third man I had been sent for in less than twenty-four hours. The first one had been dead when I got to him. The second one had threatened to have me jailed. I intended to get this one.

But first I had to find him, and that turned into a job. From the colored maid at Tingley’s house I got the address easily enough, east of Second Avenue on 29th Street, but he wasn’t there. It was a dump, a dingy, dirty, five-story walk-up. I pushed the button labeled “Philip Tingley,” but got no answering click. The button’s position showed that he was four flights up, and since the door was unlatched, I entered and climbed the dark and smelly stairs. There were no buttons on the inside doors, so at the fifth floor rear I knocked half a dozen times, but without result.

I sat down at the top of the stairs and tried not to stew for nearly two hours.

Up to five o’clock that was one of the most unsatisfactory afternoons I remember. The sensible thing would have been to get Fred Durkin, who works for Wolfe on occasion, and leave him on post while I explored, but I wanted to make the delivery without any help. After a dish of beans and a couple of glasses of milk at a joint on Second Avenue I tried again, with the same result. Inquiries of the janitor in the basement and some of the other tenants were a good language lesson, but that was all. At half past four I went out again and did some research from a phone booth and drew nothing but blanks. It was during that expedition that he flew back to the nest. When I returned, a little after five o’clock, and, just to be doing something, pressed the button in the vestibule, the click sounded immediately. I popped in and bounced up the four flights.

The door to the rear flat was standing open and he was there on the sill when I reached his level. My first glance at him showed me not only that Amy’s description had been accurate, but that I was an unwelcome surprise. He didn’t like me at all.

“What do you want?” he demanded as I appeared.

I grinned at him. “You, brother. I’ve been around here wanting you for five hours.”

“Are you from the police?”

“Nope. My name’s Goodwin. I—”

The ape was shutting the door. I got against it and slid inside.

“Get out!” he snarled. “Get out of here!”

“My goodness,” I protested, “you haven’t even asked me what I want! How do you know I’m not Santa Claus?” I kicked the door shut behind me. There was no hurry, since Wolfe wouldn’t be available until six o’clock. “Let’s go in and talk it over—”

I suppose I was careless but what he did was so unexpected that he had me before I knew it. Not only did he get his long, bony fingers around my throat, but the strength of his grip indicated that they weren’t all bone. I grabbed his wrists, but that was no good; he had the leverage. I ducked and twisted, and broke his hold, but he pressed on in, clutching at me, scratching me on the cheek. I don’t like to plug a guy who never learned what fists are for, but I don’t like to be scratched, either, so I pushed him back with my left and hooked with my right. He staggered, but the wall kept him from going down.