Rex Stout: Too Many Clients

“No. I was filling the ice bags when you rang the bell.”

I made my eyes go to her. “Shall I send a doctor, Mrs. Hough?”

“No,” she said.

“Send her a bottle of champagne,” he said.

And I did. That is, I sent champagne, but not to her, on impulse. When I went to Seventh Avenue to get a taxi, after I had phoned Wolfe to report on the Houghs and tell him I was on my way to Mrs. Yeager, I saw a liquor store and went in and asked if he happened to have a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and he did. I told him to send it to Mr. Austin Hough, 64 Eden Street, and enclose a card on which I wrote “With the compliments of Archie Goodwin.” Preferring to make it a personal matter, I didn’t put it on expense. I have often wondered whether he dumped it in the garbage, or drank it himself, or shared it with her.

When I left the taxi in front of 340 East 68th Street, at two minutes past five, I stood for a glance around before going to the entrance. Here was where it had started three days ago. There was where the NYPD car had been double-parked with Purley Stebbins’ driver in it. Around the corner was the lunchroom where I had phoned Lon Cohen. As I entered the vestibule to push the button I asked myself, if I had known what was ahead would I have given Mike Collins the extra forty bucks? But I didn’t answer because I didn’t know what was still ahead.

I didn’t know how Wolfe felt about it, but I was more interested in where Mrs. Yeager had been last night than in any of the others. Of course inheriting widows of murdered men always deserve attention, and not only that, she had known that Yeager was nor merely two-timing her, he was twenty-timing her. Her shrugging it off was noble if true, and a good line if false. Her wanting to see that room was natural if true, and again a good line if she had seen it before, Sunday night, when she went there to kill him. Her alibi as published, that she had been in the country and hadn’t returned to town until Monday morning, might already have been found leaky by the cops. I suspected that it had, since Cramer had had a tail on her yesterday.

One point in her favor, she wasn’t in bed. A uniformed maid showed me through an arch into a living room that would have held six of the Houghs’, and in a couple of minutes our Client Number Four appeared. I stood. She stopped just inside the arch and said, “So you’re on time. Come on.” She had a hat on, and a fur stole, not the mink.

“Are we going somewhere?” I asked, approaching.

“Certainly. You’re going to show me that room. The car’s waiting.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t a good time, Mrs. Yeager. After what has happened. Sit down and I’ll tell you why.”

“You can tell me in the car. You said yesterday you’d take me as soon as you got a chance.”

“I know. I tried to get you on the phone at ten o’clock last evening but couldn’t. You weren’t at home?”

“Certainly I was. My son and daughter were here, and some friends.” She moved. “Come on.”

“Damn the torpedoes!” I told her back.

She whirled. For a lump she whirled well. “What did you say?”

“I said damn the torpedoes. That may be your attitude, but it’s not Mr. Wolfe’s or mine. I came to tell you why we can’t go there now. Since the janitor of that house had a daughter, and last night—”

“I know about that. I told you on the phone. She was murdered.”

“Right. And it seems likely that she was murdered by the person who murdered your husband. Incidentally, you may remember that Mr. Wolfe suggested the possibility that you killed your husband, so he thinks it’s also possible that you killed Maria Perez. That’s why I asked if you were at home last evening. Were you here with your son and daughter and friends all evening? Up to midnight?”

“Yes. I said yesterday, it was years ago that I felt like killing him. You’re not complete fools, are you?”

“Not complete, no. All right, you didn’t kill him. Or her. Some day I’ll be glad to take you to see that room, but not now. It’s too risky. A girl who lived there has been murdered, and at any time, day or night, a policeman or assistant district attorney may be there to ask questions of her parents or some of the tenants. There may be a man on the outside to keep an eye on the house. If either you or I was seen entering or inside that house, let alone both of us, good-by. Good-by not only to the job Aiken hired Wolfe for, but also to the one you hired him for. Another thing, you are probably still being followed around.”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t they, though. They did, didn’t they? We’ll have to postpone it. The room will keep.”

“Are you going to take me there or not?”

“Not now. Not today.”

“I thought so. There is no such room.”

“Oh yes there is. I’ve seen it. Several times.”

“I don’t believe it.” Her sharp little eyes were slanted up to mine. “Benedict Aiken invented it, or Nero Wolfe did, or you did. You’ve been making a fool of me. I suspected it yesterday, and now I know it. Get out of my house. I’m going to call the District Attorney.”

I was observing an interesting fact, that two chins can look fully as determined as one. I couldn’t possibly talk her out of it, and there was no use trying. I made one stab at it.

“You’re looking at me, Mrs. Yeager. Our eyes are meeting. Do I look like a liar?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then you’ll have to be shown. You say your car’s waiting. With a chauffeur?”

“Certainly.”

“Nothing doing. If this house is covered he wouldn’t even have to follow to find out where we went unless the chauffeur is a hero. We’ll leave together, that doesn’t matter, and walk to Second Avenue. You’ll wait at the corner, and when I come in a taxi you’ll get in. I’ll show you whether there’s such a room or not.”

The sharp little eyes were suspicious. “Is this another trick?”

“Why ask me, since I’m a liar? Sure, I’m kidnaping you. In my circle we call it a snatch.”

It took her four seconds to decide. “All right, come on,” she said, and moved.

Out on the sidewalk she stopped to speak to the chauffeur standing beside a black Lincoln, and then went with me to the corner. From there on I took the standard routine precautions, going uptown a block to get a taxi, and picking her up at the corner. I had the hackie do turns until I was sure we were unaccompanied and then drop us on Madison Avenue in the Seventies. When he was out of sight I flagged another taxi, told the driver 82nd and Amsterdam, and when we got there told him to crawl the block to Columbus. At Columbus, having seen no sign of a city employee, I told him to take 81st Street back to Amsterdam and stop at the corner. There I paid him off and took Mrs. Yeager into a drugstore and, since she suspected tricks, I had her come along to the phone booth and stand at my elbow while I dialed a number and talked. What she heard:

“Mrs. Perez? This is Archie Goodwin. I’m in a drugstore around the corner. I hope we’re still friends?... Good. Has a policeman been there?... You didn’t? Good... No, that’s all right, taking you downtown and having you sign a statement was normal, they always do. Is anyone there now?... Okay. I’m coming there with a woman, we’ll be there in two minutes, and I’m taking her up in the elevator. We won’t be there long. I may phone you this evening, or I may drop in... No, but I hope there soon will be... Absolutely. I’m your detective.”

As I hung up Mrs. Yeager demanded, “Who was that?”

“The mother of the girl who was murdered last night. Since you didn’t kill her there’s no conflict of interest. Let’s go.”

We walked the block to 82nd, around the corner, on to Number 156, and in at the basement door. There was no one in the hall, and the door of Maria’s room was shut. At the elevator I used the second key and we entered.