Рекс Стаут - Death of a Dude

He turned a palm up. “But it didn’t. As for Peacock, whatever his objective was, he didn’t reach it. He arranged, or agreed, to meet with Worthy, Saturday evening, and he died. Incidentally, it is likely that Worthy suggested that they meet at or in that car. He had arrived in it, and he knew it was secluded there, and dark.”

Schwartz spoke. “You’re saying that he killed two men.”

Wolfe nodded. “And of course that isn’t good news for you. It isn’t likely that Montana will let Missouri have him.”

“Provided Montana has him or gets him. You say he’s not here. But you saw him four hours ago?”

“Yes. I ate breakfast with him. I had a personal problem. I knew that you were coming, that you would go to the sheriff, and that he would bring you here. For six days I had been sharing Miss Rowan’s hospitality with Mr. Worthy, and Mr. Goodwin had been here with him much longer. To cause her to suffer the indignity of having one of her guests arrested on a charge of murder in her house, taken across her threshold in manacles, was of course unthinkable. For we were responsible; Mr. Goodwin and I had exposed him. It was necessary to use subterfuge, and I did. At the breakfast table, with him there, I announced that a photograph of a man now in Montana — I didn’t name him — had been identified as one Carl Yaeger, who was wanted in St. Louis as a murder suspect, and that a policeman was coming for him. I then suggested to Miss Rowan that she and her other guest, and her maid, go fishing, and they did. It was desirable for her to be absent when you came.”

All three of them were staring at him. It was Haight who demanded, “And where’s Worthy?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Goodwin and I came outside for a talk, and when we went back in a little later he was gone. Presumably he left by the back door and crossed the creek and—”

“Why, you goddam fat — You’ll go in handcuffs! And Goodwin!”

“No, Mr. Haight. I have a suggestion. Mr. Goodwin will unlock the door, and you’ll go in and telephone Mr. Jessup’s office. He let me do it this way because he appreciated the contribution Mr. Goodwin and I have made. At his request, members of the state police were stationed at certain spots at nine o’clock this morning — I don’t know how many, but certainly enough to make sure that Carl Yaeger, alias Wade Worthy, wouldn’t get far. He is undoubtedly in custody now, probably at a police barracks, if they have them in Montana. Or Mr. Jessup may have him at his office. I suggest that you telephone.”

A report should end with a flourish, but this one can’t. The groan has nothing to do with murder or trout; the state cops delivered Yaeger-Worthy to Jessup’s office safe and sound, and the fisherwomen came back a little after three o’clock with five cutthroats, two browns, four Dolly Vardens, and seven rainbows. For five of us, even though one was Nero Wolfe, that was ample.

The gloomy item left to report is the job I had to tackle, telling Lily that she would have to start all over again on the book. Find another writer and then start him from scratch. Awful. But since looking forward to a tough job is even worse than doing it, I didn’t put it off. When the trout had been admired and turned over to Wolfe, and they had scattered to go and change, I went to my room and through the little hall, tapped on the door of Lily’s room, was invited to enter, and did so. She was in a chair by a window running a comb through her hair.

“I have news,” I said, “but you’ll have to take the bad with the good. In one way it’s—”

Nuts. Why should I annoy you with it? Let’s have a flourish. Harvey Greve was turned loose in time to come and see Wolfe and me off for Helena in the morning.

Death of a Doxy (New York: The Viking Press, 1966).