Rex Stout - Too Many Clients

“Oh, you,” he said, and turned. “It’s Mr. Goodwin.”

His wife came from inside. “There’s a woman up there,” she said.

I nodded. “I came to meet her. Had you seen her before?”

“No.” She looked at her husband. “Cesar, we must tell him.”

“I don’t know.” Perez spread his hands. “You think better than I do, Felita. If you say so.”

Her black eyes came at me. “If you’re not an honest man, may the good God send us help. Come in here.” She moved.

I didn’t hesitate. Fred hadn’t sounded on the phone as if he had any new scratches, and this pair might have something hot. I stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Perez went to the table and picked up a card and handed it to me. “That man came this morning,” she said.

It was the engraved card of a John Morton Seymour, with “Attorney at Law” in one corner and a midtown address in the other. “And?” I asked.

“He brought this.” She picked up an envelope from the table and offered it. “Look at it.”

It had been sealed and slit open. I took out a paper with the regulation blue legal backing and unfolded it. There were three typewritten sheets, very neat and professional. I didn’t have to read every word to get the idea; it was a deed, signed by Thomas G. Yeager and properly witnessed, dated March 16, 1957, conveying certain property, namely the house and ground at 156 West 82nd Street, Borough of Manhattan, City of New York, to Cesar and Felita Perez. First and most interesting question: how long had they known it existed?

“He brought that and gave it to us,” she said. “He said Mr. Yeager told him that if he died he must give it to us within forty-eight hours after he died. He said it was a little more than forty-eight hours but he didn’t think that would matter. He said he would take care of it for us — formalities, he said — without any charge. Now we have to tell you what we were going to do. We were going away tonight. We were going somewhere and not come back. But now we argue, we fight. My husband and daughter think we can stay, but I think we must go. For the first time we fight more than just some words, so I am telling you.”

Cesar had an eye half closed. “What he say yesterday,” he said, “your Mr. Wolfe. He say when they find out Mr. Yeager owned this house they come here and then we have bad trouble, so we decide to go tonight. But this man today, this Mr. Seymour, he say Mr. Yeager did this paper like this so nobody could know he owned this house and we must not say he owned it. He say it is fixed so nobody will know. So I say we can stay now. It is our house now and we can take out the things we don’t want up there and it can be our room. If it’s too big we can put in walls. That kitchen and that bathroom are beautiful. My wife thinks better than I do nearly always, but this time I say I don’t see why. Why must we run away from our own house?”

“Well.” I put the deed in the envelope and tossed it on the table. “When Mr. Wolfe said yesterday that you would be in trouble when they find out that Yeager owned this house you knew they wouldn’t find out, and why didn’t you say so?”

“You don’t listen,” Mrs. Perez said. “This Mr. Seymour didn’t come yesterday, he came this morning. You don’t listen.”

“Sure I do. But Yeager told you about that paper long ago. You knew the house would be yours if he died.”

Her black eyes flashed. “If you listen do you call us liars? When we say we were going away and this Mr. Seymour comes with this paper, and now we fight?”

I nodded. “I heard you. Have you got a Bible?”

“Of course.”

“Bring it here.”

She left the room, not to the hall, by another door. In a moment she was back with a thick little book bound in stiff brown leather. It didn’t resemble the Bibles I had seen, and I opened it for a look, but it was in Spanish. Holding it, I asked them to put their left hands on it and raise their right hands, and they obliged. “Repeat this after me: I swear on this Bible... that I didn’t know... Mr. Yeager was going to give us this house... and I had no reason... to think he was going to... before Mr. Seymour came this morning.”

I put the Bible on the table. “Okay. If Mr. Seymour says he can handle it so no one will know Yeager owned it he probably can, but there are quite a few people who already know it, including me, so I advise you not to take anything from that room, not a single thing, even if it’s your property. I also advise you to stay here. I’m not saying who did the best thinking on that, but skipping out is the worst thing you could possibly do. Yeager was killed up there, and you moved the body. If you skip it could even be that Mr. Wolfe will decide he has to tell the police about you, and it wouldn’t take them long to find you, and swearing on a Bible wouldn’t help you then.”

“They wouldn’t find us,” Mrs. Perez said.

“Don’t kid yourself. Smarter people than you have thought they could go where they couldn’t be found, and it can’t be done. Forget it. I have to go upstairs and see that woman. Please accept my congratulations on having a house all your own. May a cop never enter it.”

I was going, but she spoke. “If we go away, we’ll tell you before we go.”

“We’re not going,” Perez said. “We’re citizens of the United States of America.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said, and went to the elevator and pushed the button. It came, and I entered and was lifted.

That bower of carnality grew on you. Emerging from the elevator and seeing that all was serene, that Fred hadn’t had to use the coverlet again, I let my eyes glance around. Unquestionably the place had a definite appeal. It would have been an interesting and instructive experiment to move in and see how long it would take to get used to it, especially a couple of pictures across from the—

But I had work to do. Fred was in a yellow silk chair, at ease, with a glass of champagne in his hand, and on a couch facing him, also with a glass of champagne, was a female who went with the surroundings much better than either Meg Duncan or Julia McGee, though of course they hadn’t been relaxed on a couch. This one was rather small, all curves but not ostentatious, and the ones that caught your eye and held it were the curves of her lips — her wide, but not too wide, full mouth. As I approached she extended a hand.

“I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you at the Flamingo. I made a man mad once saying I wanted to dance with you. When Fred said Archie Goodwin was coming I had to sit down to keep from swooning. You dance like a dream.”

I had taken the offered hand. Having shaken hands with five different murderers on previous occasions, I thought one more wouldn’t hurt if it turned out that way. “I’ll file that,” I told her. “If we ever team up for a turn I’ll try not to trample you. Am I intruding? Are you and Fred old friends?”

“Oh no, I never saw him before. It just seems silly to call a man Mister when you’re drinking champagne with him. I suggested the champagne.”

“She put it in the freezer,” Fred said, “and she opened it, and why waste it? I don’t like it much, you know that.”

“No apology needed. If she calls you Fred, what do you call her?”

“I don’t call her. She said to call her Dye. I was just waiting for you.”

On the couch, at arm’s length from her, was a leather bag shaped like a box. I was close enough so that all I had to do to get it was bend and stretch an arm. Her hand darted out, but too late, and I had it. As I backed up a step and opened it, all she said was, “That’s not nice, is it?”

“I’m only nice when I’m dancing.” I went to the end of the couch and removed items one by one, putting them on the couch. There were only two things with names on them, an opened envelope addressed to Mrs. Austin Hough, 64 Eden Street, New York 14, and a driver’s license, Dinah Hough, same address, thirty, five feet two inches, white, brown hair, hazel eyes. I put everything back in, closed the bag, and replaced it on the couch near her.