Рекс Стаут: Death of a Doxy

“So you went.”

“Yes. I am not dodging, but I mention that it seemed advisable. While he is no Saul Panzer, for years he has come in very handy for you — okay, for us. He has done a lot of pretty good chores and has never skunked as far as we know. So I went, yesterday afternoon, with gloves and an assortment of keys, arriving at exactly four-fifteen. There was no answer to my ring, and I went in and up. It’s one of those remodeled four-story houses, self-service elevator, no doorman or hallman, and I wasn’t seen. Since you have read the piece in the Times , you know what I found. I didn’t stay to use the gloves or keys; I don’t think Orrie rated that. Anyway, even if I found some objects, granting they were there, it was a cinch they would find his prints, since he had been there for hours only three days ago. So I left.”

“Seen?”

“No. I phoned you not to expect me for dinner, and—”

“That was at five o’clock.”

Just like him. He never seems to notice but he knows. I nodded. “Yeah. I had walked for nearly half an hour, to Orrie’s address, or near it. I waited around until he came, saw him in his apartment and told him, and returned his keys. I asked him if he killed her, and he said no. He was on a tailing job for Bascom all day but can’t prove it. For the important time, eight o’clock to noon, he’s wide open. He wanted to know why I didn’t stay for a look. I poked him a little, not much, and came home and ate two helpings of crème Génoise . Of course I knew he would be tagged — if nothing else, his prints. That was the urgency on the radio this morning.”

“You should have told me.”

“What good would it have done? It would only have spoiled the day for you.”

“So you went to hear a man read poetry.”

I cocked my head. “Look,” I said, “you might as well forget me. You’re sore and want a target, but I’m not it. Of course, if you forget Orrie too, there is no target and you can go back to your book.”

He looked at the book, picked it up, and put it down again. He picked up his glass, frowned at it because the head was gone, drank it anyway, to the bottom, returned the glass to the tray, and pushed the tray aside. “Orrie,” he said. “Confound him. The question is, did he kill her? If he did, the problem is Mr. Parker’s and can be left to him. If he didn’t, we are—”

The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s resi—”

“Lon, Archie. I’m surprised you’re there.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“Of course not. With your sidekick in the jug?”

“You’re ahead of me. I spent the afternoon at a poetry reading and just got here.”

“You’re saying you didn’t know that Orrie Cather has been pulled in on the Isabel Kerr murder?”

“Really?”

“Yep, really. If it would help to have something in print, I’m always available. I don’t expect you to show me Wolfe’s hole card, but if there’s some little item...”

“Sure. Certainly. Of course. The minute I have something hot, or even warm, I’ll ring you. Right now I’m busy. I’m telling Mr. Wolfe about a beautiful poem a man read.”

“I’ll bet you are. Just enough for a paragraph?”

“At the moment, no. Not on Sunday. Thanks for calling.”

I hung up, swiveled, and told Wolfe, “Lon Cohen fishing, probably from home, since it’s Sunday. An item in the Gazette tomorrow will start: ‘Orrie Cather, a private detective, trusted assistant of Nero Wolfe, is being held as a material witness in connection with the murder of Isabel Kerr. Mr. Cather, a free-lance operative, has been an important factor in the spectacular success of many of Nero Wolfe’s famous cases. Archie Goodwin, who is merely Nero Wolfe’s errand boy, told—’”

“Shut up!”

I hunched my shoulders and raised my hands, palms up.

He slapped his desk blotter so hard the bottle trembled, and bellowed, “Did he kill her?”

I said firmly, “I pass.”

“That won’t do. When you were with him Friday evening was he planning murder? When you saw him yesterday was he bearing guilt?”

“I still pass. As for Friday evening, he may not have planned it. He may have gone there yesterday morning, no telling why, and flapped. As for yesterday afternoon, what do you mean, bearing guilt? Murderers have sat here in this room and looked you in the eye and answered your questions, and when they left you were still guessing. Now I’m guessing. Of course you want a verdict, but I haven’t got it.”

“You like to give odds. What are the odds?”

“For a bet, even money, and I’ll take either end. That’s ignoring my personal preference. I would prefer it that he didn’t. I would rather not see a headline NERO WOLFE’S ASSISTANT CONVICTED OF HOMICIDE — and so would you. People who read only headlines might think it was me.”

“You refuse to resolve it.”

“I do.”

“Then get Saul and Fred here as soon as possible.”

At a quarter to ten Wolfe was making a speech. Saul Panzer, five feet seven, 145 pounds, big nose and flat ears, hair the color of rust but not rusty, was in the red leather chair with a bottle of Montrachet 1958 on the stand and a glass with a stem in his hand. Fred Durkin, five feet ten, 190 pounds, bald and burly, was on one of the yellow chairs facing Wolfe’s desk, with a bottle of Canadian and a pitcher of water handy. He hadn’t touched the water. I had no refreshment. Fritz had been gone since early afternoon on his own affairs, and Wolfe and I had helped ourselves around seven o’clock, concentrating mainly on a block of headcheese. I have spent a total of at least ten hours watching Fritz make headcheese, trying to find out why it is so much better than any other I have ever tasted, including what my mother used to make out in Ohio, but finally I gave up. It could be the way he holds the spoon when he skims.

Saul and Fred had been thoroughly briefed on the situation, except for one item, the name of the man who had rescued Isabel Kerr from show business. Orrie wouldn’t have liked that, but he had told Parker that he wanted me to decide how to handle it, and if they were going to vote they had to know the facts. The name of the fairy godfather didn’t matter. When they had asked a few questions and had been answered, Wolfe started his speech.

“It is not merely a question,” he said, “of devising an effective defense. If Orrie killed that woman to prevent her from interfering with his private plans, I am not obliged to thwart the agents of justice and neither are you. Sympathy with misfortune, certainly, but not contravention of Nemesis. Mr. Parker is a competent lawyer, and it can be left to him. But if he didn’t kill her I have an obligation I can’t ignore. I am constrained not only by his long association with me but also by my self-esteem. You must know that I have no affection for him; he has frequently vexed me; he has not the dignity of a man who has found his place and occupies it, as you have, Fred; nor the integrity of one who knows his superiority but restricts it to areas that are acceptable to him, as you have, Saul. But if he didn’t kill that woman, I intend to deliver him.”

He turned a palm up. “The question is, did he? Having no firm opinion of my own, and no basis for one, I asked Archie. I thought he would at least have odds, one way or the other. He always has odds, but he failed me. He said that for a bet it was even money. Archie? That was four hours ago. Now?”

I shook my head. “I still pass. Damn it, go ahead and start something and see what we get!”

“No. We would be committed and make mistakes. Fred. You have known Orrie longer than I have. The situation has been fully described to you. What do you say?”