Рекс Стаут - Please Pass the Guilt

Actually nothing worked with anybody. I have just looked over my notes, and since there is nothing in them that helped us they certainly wouldn’t help you.

At four o’clock Saturday afternoon it looked as if I wasn’t going to get anything helpful from Sylvia Venner either. She had stopped bothering about the dimples. In blue shorts and a white sleeveless shirt with big blue plastic buttons she was showing plenty of nice smooth skin with a medium tan, and her well-arranged face was the kind that looks even better in bright outdoor light than inside. While we were eating the broiled chicken supplied by Fritz, and yogurt and thin little tasteless crackers supplied by her, and pickles and raw carrots and celery, and she was drinking something called Four-Root Juice and I was drinking milk, she had suddenly said, “I suppose you know what etymology is.”

“Hah,” I said. “I work for Nero Wolfe.”

“Why,” she said, “is that relevant?”

“Certainly. He knows more words than Shakespeare knew.”

“Oh. I don’t really know anything about him except what he does. They tried to get him on my program once, but he wouldn’t, so I didn’t have to research him. Are you up on words too?”

“Not really. Just enough to get along on.”

“I think words are fascinating. I was thinking, looking at you while you were dropping the anchor, take words like ‘pecker’ and ‘prick.’ In their vulgar sense, or maybe I should say their colloquial sense.”

Without batting an eye I said, “You mean ‘prick’ as a noun. Not as a verb.”

She nodded. “Yes, a noun. It means ‘a pointed instrument.’ ‘Pecker’ means ‘to strike repeatedly and often with a pointed instrument.’ So the definition of ‘pecker’ and ‘prick’ is identical.”

“Sure. I’ve never looked them up, but evidently you have.”

“Of course. In Webster and in the OED. There’s an OED at the office. Of course the point is that — well, well, there’s a pun. ‘Point.’ The point is that they both begin with p , and ‘penis’ begins with p .”

“I’ll be damned. It certainly does.”

“Yes. I think that may be relevant to that old saying, ‘Watch your p’s and q’s.’ But . But two other words, ‘piss’ and ‘pee’ — p -double- e — they start with p too. What it is, it’s male chauvinism.”

“I’m not sure I get that.”

She sipped Four-Root Juice. “It’s obvious. Women urinate too. So they have to call it ‘piss’ or ‘pee’ just because ‘penis’ begins with p . What if they called it ‘viss’ or ‘vee,’ and they made men call it ‘viss’ or ‘vee’ too? Would men like that?”

“Viss,” I said. “Vee. I don’t...” I considered it, sipping milk. “Oh. Vagina.”

“Certainly. Virgin too, but that may be just coincidence.”

“I admit it’s a point. A voint. You may not believe this, but personally I wouldn’t object. It even appeals to me. ‘Excuse me while I viss.’ ‘Turn your back while I vee.’ I rather like the sound of it.”

“I don’t believe it, and anyway not many men would. It’s male chauvinism. And another point, ‘poker’ begins with a p too. Why didn’t they make it ‘poker’ instead of ‘pecker’? Because a poker is three feet long!”

“It is not. I’ve never seen a poker three feet long. More like two feet. Possibly thirty inches.”

“You’re just quibbling. Even two feet.” She put her open hands out, apparently she thought two feet apart, but it was about twenty-eight inches. She picked up a pickle. Vickle. “So they couldn’t very well call it ‘poker.’ Take another letter, take f . ‘Female’ begins with f . What is one of men’s favorite four-letter colloquial words that begins with f ?”

“Offhand I couldn’t say. I’d have to think.”

“All right, think.”

So there I was, on a borrowed boat on Long Island Sound, alone with a Women’s Libberette who was majoring in etymology. If you think that in the above exchange she was making a roundabout approach to a pass at me, I appreciate the compliment, but I doubt it. If so, my reaction cooled it. Even in such an ideal situation as a boat with a cabin at anchor in smooth water, I refuse to be seduced by quotations from Webster and the Oxford English Dictionary.

She was not a nitwit. Soon after we got our lines out she said, “What are you waiting for? You haven’t asked me a single question about the murder.”

“What murder?”

“Oh, come off it. Do you think I think my dimples took you?”

“No. I have never seen better dimples, and there’s nothing wrong with other parts of you either, but a newspaperman I know thinks you planted the bomb to get Browning, and I wanted to get a close-up of you. With a good look and some talk with a woman, I can tell if she is a murderer. The way they eat helps too. For instance, do they lick their fingers.”

She was frowning at me. “Do you really — no, of course you don’t. All right, I’ll play. Have you decided about me?”

“Not to cross you off, but ten to one you didn’t plant the bomb. But three to one, make it five to one, you have a pretty good idea who did. You’ve been there four years, you know everybody, and you’re smart.”

“I am not smart. If I was smart I would have hooked that skunk Browning instead of letting Helen Lugos take him. Do you know who I could love?”

“No, but I’d like to.”

“All right, I’ll tell you. I could love the man who can prove I’m not dumb. I simply can’t persuade myself I’m not dumb. Browning is going to be it, he’s going to be the top cock, and where will I be? No, I didn’t plant the bomb, but I could have.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t — now what have I done?”

She had snarled her line. Not purposely, to change the subject, because half an hour later, after we had unsnarled her and quit on stripers and were trying for blues, she said, “I’ve got a pretty good idea who might have. The bomb. But not for any signed statement. They always want signed statements. I’m not that dumb.”

I made a cast. “Not me. I just want an idea to play with.”

“Play? My god, you should have seen that room. Browning’s office. When I got there Helen Lugos and Ken Meer were trying to keep people out. Ken’s hands were bloody. When I heard what had happened — that was later — my first idea was that Ken had done it.”

“How did he know Odell would come and open—”

“Not Odell. Browning. To kill Browning. Of course he—”

“Isn’t Meer with Browning? His right hand?”

“Yes, but he hates him. No, that’s wrong, it’s not hate, it’s — what, jealousy? It’s worse than jealousy. It kills him that Helen does it with Browning. He got an itch for Helen when she came, two years ago, and he’s got it bad. I’ve seen him look at her with that sick look — you know?”

I nodded. “Male chauvinism upside down.”

“What? Oh. It is at that. But I dropped that idea. Ken certainly wants Helen, but he wants to move up even more, and if Browning was president he would be in a very good spot. So I still think he probably planted the bomb, but not for Browning, for Odell. So Odell couldn’t be president. He knew Odell was going to come and open that drawer.”

“How did he know that?”

“You’ll have to ask him . I can’t wrap it up for you.” She had her line in and squared around for another cast.

By the time the slant of the sun and my watch agreed that it was time to head for the marina, I had got all the questions in but had nothing to light a fire with. She doubted if Dennis Copes was involved because he was the hippie type and hippies aren’t really headed anywhere, they just key up — according to her, not me. I know a hippie who tried — but he’s not in this. She didn’t know if Copes knew or thought he knew that Kenneth Meer inspected that drawer every day. She doubted if anybody inspected the drawer besides Browning himself, but if anyone did it was probably Helen Lugos; inspecting drawers is routine for secretaries. She had herself inspected it once, out of curiosity, about three years ago. Yes, it was twelve-year-old Ten-Mile Creek.