Рекс Стаут - Death of a Doxy

“Well?”

“Well, you can try. It’s February sixth, with nothing coming in yet this year, and nothing in sight, and I know how much goes out, since I draw the checks. Do you want my opinion?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see how we can possibly pull it. If we’re going to spring Orrie, and we are, we’re going to have to give them Fleming, with or without evidence, and he’ll give them Ballou, and they’ll have to see him. That’s the trouble. Even if they play it tight and his name is kept out of the papers during the buildup, it’s bound to get spilled in the courtroom, and he won’t think he owes you anything. Neither will you. As you know, I am strongly in favor of income. I would hate to have my paycheck bounce. But you wanted my opinion.”

“You misunderstood. I want your opinion on the risk, not on the feasibility. Could we conceivably jeopardize our purpose?”

“No. Orrie’s as good as out now.”

“Then there’s no risk at all. The problem is to expose the murderer without—”

The doorbell rang, and I went to the hall, took a look, and stepped back in. “Cramer. Get Fritz. I’ll go up and tell her not to sing ‘Big Man Go-go’ with the door open.” I headed for the stairs.

By go-go, the door was open, though it had been shut when I passed by at nine o’clock. I lifted a hand to tap, but it wasn’t necessary. She said, “My God, you’re up and dressed.” She was in a chair by a window. Her pajamas were light green with dark green stripes, and her feet were bare. Her hair was in all directions. I closed the door.

“I opened it,” she said, “just to enjoy it. It’s been years since I had a bedroom where I could leave the door open. I’m up because I woke up. I never stay in bed awake unless I’m reading or eating.”

I had approached. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while on the eating. Inspector Cramer is here. He probably thinks you’re here, since that cop saw you leave with me, but it’s possible that we’re not going to concede it. If we do, and if he insists on seeing you, we can say he’ll have to postpone it because you’re in a state of shock after last night, or I’ll bring him up and you can get it over with. As you prefer. I thought I’d better ask you.”

She took a swipe at the hair. “An inspector, huh?”

“Yeah. An old pal of ours. In reverse.”

“I like to get things over with.”

“Okay. He’ll probably want to see you alone, and not in the office because he knows we have a hole to see and hear through. What do you want to keep you until breakfast? Will orange juice and coffee do?”

“Not if you have grapefruit juice.”

“Certainly. Fritz will bring it up, and I’ll bring Cramer up later. He may—”

“Here?”

“Sure. This room is bugged, he doesn’t know that, and we’ll be listening in. He may invite you down to the District Attorney’s office, but you’re not going. To take you with law he’d have to have a warrant, and he hasn’t got one. Now the—”

“How do you know he hasn’t?”

“I know everything except how to bodyguard a girl right. Now the main question. Do you remember the script? What we said last night?”

“What you said. Yes.”

“Should we check it?”

“No. ZYXWVU—”

“Of course. I keep forgetting. Fritz will be up with the juice and coffee. Bolt the door. There’s just a chance Mr. Wolfe will decide you’re not here, to gain time, and Cramer will come hopping up to barge in. Once a cop’s inside, he can move around and you don’t touch him, but he can’t bust doors in, or he’d better not. Don’t answer knocks.”

“Damn it,” she said, “I ought to be sound asleep.”

I said she could sleep all afternoon, and left.

Three paces inside the office I stopped to take in an unexpected scene, homey and very appealing. I couldn’t see Wolfe, at his desk, because the review-of-the-week section of the Sunday Times , spread wide, was hiding him. Cramer, in the red leather chair, had the sports section, spread just as wide. Having checked that Cramer had been admitted and was still there, I went to the kitchen, told Fritz the guest’s name, asked him to take up grapefruit juice and coffee, and told him not to knock but give his name. Back in the office, Wolfe was still hidden. I crossed to my desk, sat and enjoyed the pleasant scene a couple of minutes, and then coughed. In a moment Wolfe folded the paper, put it on his desk, and spoke. To me.

“Mr. Cramer wishes to ask about that incident last night. Since you were there and I wasn’t, I insisted on waiting for you.” He turned. “Yes, Mr. Cramer?”

Cramer, having folded the sports section, put it on the stand. His eyes went to Wolfe. “I told you. I want to know why you had them guarding that girl, and who they were guarding her from. If you knew she was in danger, you know who fired those shots at her. Durkin says he doesn’t know, but you do. I don’t need Goodwin to tell me that. It’s even possible he doesn’t know, but you do. Assault with intent to kill is a felony, and you know who committed it, and I’m an officer of the law. Is that plain?”

Wolfe nodded. “Quite plain. It’s also quite plain that your true interest is not assault with intent to kill, but an assault that did kill. Have you released Mr. Cather?”

“No. And I don’t—”

“Are you prepared to release him?”

“No! I want an answer. Who fired those shots at that girl?”

Wolfe turned. “Do you know, Archie?”

“No, sir, I don’t know . I could offer guesses, but not in the hearing of an officer of the law. Slander. I might guess Orrie Cather, but that’s out because he’s in the can, and unless—”

Cramer said a word, loud, which I omit because I suspect that some of the readers of these reports are people like retired schoolteachers and den mothers.

“Nor do I know,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Cramer. Why not be forthright? You came here last Monday in the pretense that you hoped to get information that would strengthen your case against Mr. Cather, though you knew you would get none. Not from Mr. Goodwin. What you really wanted was to learn if my support of Mr. Cather was more than a gesture. What you want now is to learn if I have collected any evidence that will weaken your case against Mr. Cather. Why not be straightforward and ask me?”

“All right, I ask you. Have you?”

“Yes.”

“What evidence?”

“I’m not prepared to divulge it.”

“By God, you admit it. You admit you have evidence in a murder case and you withhold it.”

Wolfe nodded. “It’s a nice point. If I withhold evidence that would help to convict a man of murder I am obstructing justice, yes. But if I withhold evidence that would help to acquit a man, is that obstructing justice? I doubt if the point has ever arisen juridically. We could ask some—”

“Ask my ass. If you’ve got evidence that would help to clear Cather, it will help to convict someone else. I want it.”

“That’s nonsense. Thousands of men have been cleared by alibis, with no bearing on another’s guilt. I have no evidence, none whatever, that would help to convict anyone of the murder of Isabel Kerr. I have a suspicion, a surmise, but that isn’t evidence. As for the guarding of Miss Jaquette and the shots fired at her, how does that concern your effort to indict Mr. Cather? As Mr. Goodwin said, they couldn’t have been fired by him, he’s in custody. Under suspicion of murder.”

“He hasn’t been charged with homicide.”

“You’re holding him without bail. Consider a hypothesis. Suppose that Miss Jaquette had a private reason to fear that someone might try to do her violence, a reason she would not reveal, and arranged for protection, and got shot at. Do you think you could force her to disclose her secret, or could force me to?”