Rex Stout: Too Many Clients

Begging the pardon of the tenants of the block, it was a slum. Fifty or sixty years ago, when the stone was new and clean and the brass was shiny, the long row of five-story houses might have been a credit to the city, but no more. They looked ratty and they were ratty, and it was a bet that they would crumble any minute if they hadn’t been jammed together. There weren’t many people on the sidewalk, and no kids, since it was school hours, but there was quite a gathering around the barriers surrounding the hole, which was some fifteen yards beyond Number 156. There was a cop there riding herd on them, but he was merely a flatfoot. There was no sign of Homicide or DA man.

I crossed the street and walked along to the barriers. Over the shoulder of a woman in a purple dress I could see two workmen down in the hole, so the scientists had finished with it. While I stood looking down at them my sagacity came up with five conclusions:

1. Yeager had had some connection with someone or something at Number 156. Whoever the guy was who had come and hired me, and whatever his game was, and whether he had killed Yeager or not, he certainly hadn’t just pulled that address out of a hat.

2. If Yeager had been killed elsewhere and the body had been brought to this spot deliberately, to impress someone at 156, why hadn’t it been dumped on the sidewalk smack in front of 156? Why roll it into the hole and climb down and put a tarp over it? No.

3. If Yeager had been killed elsewhere and the body had been brought to this spot not deliberately, but accidentally, merely because there was a hole here, you would have to swallow a coincidence that even a whale couldn’t get down. No.

4. Yeager had not been shot as he was entering or leaving 156. At any time of night the sound of a shot in that street would have brought a dozen, a hundred, heads sticking out of windows. So the shooter runs or steps on the gas pedal. He does not drag the body to the hole and roll it in and climb down and put a tarp over it. No.

5. Therefore Yeager had been killed inside Number 156, some time, any time, after 7:30 p.m. Sunday, and later that night, when there was no audience, the body had been carried to the hole, only fifteen yards, and dropped in. That didn’t account for the tarp, but no theory would. At least the tarp didn’t hurt it. It could have been to postpone discovery of the body until the workmen came.

In detective work it’s a great convenience to have a sagacity that can come up with conclusions like that; it saves wear and tear on the brain. I backed away from the barrier and walked the fifteen yards to Number 156.

Some of the houses had a sign, VACANCY, displayed at the entrance, but 156 didn’t. But it did have a sign, hand-printed on a piece of cardboard fastened to the pillar at the foot of the steps going up to the stoop. It said SUPERENTENDANT, with an arrow pointing to the right. So I went right and down three steps, then left and through an open doorway into a little vestibule, and there in front of my eyes was evidence that there was something special about that house. The door had a Rabson lock. You have a Rabson installed on a door only if you insist on being absolutely certain that anyone who enters must have either the right key or a sledgehammer, and you are able and willing to shell out $61.50.

I pushed the bell button. In a moment the door opened, and there facing me was one of the three most beautiful females I have ever seen.

I must have gaped or gasped, from the way she smiled, the smile of a queen at a commoner. She spoke. “You want something?” Her voice was low and soft, without breath.

The only thing to say was “Certainly, I want you,” but I managed to hold it in. She was eighteen, tall and straight, with skin the color of the wild thyme honey that Wolfe gets from Greece, and she was extremely proud of something, not her looks. When a woman is proud of her looks it’s just a smirk. I don’t think I stammered, but if I didn’t I should have. “I’d like to see the superintendent.”

“Are you a policeman?”

If she liked policemen the only thing to say was “Yes.” But probably she didn’t. “No,” I said, “I’m a newspaperman.”

“That’s nice.” She turned and called, “Father, a newspaperman!” and her voice raised was even more wonderful than her voice low. She turned back to me, graceful as a big cat, and stood there straight and proud, not quite smiling, her warm dark eyes as curious as if she had never seen a man before. I knew damn well I ought to say something, but what? The only thing to say was “Will you marry me?” but that wouldn’t do because the idea of her washing dishes or darning socks was preposterous. Then I became aware of something, that I had moved my foot inside the sill so the door couldn’t close, and that spoiled it. I was just a private detective trying to dig up a client.

Footsteps sounded, and as they approached she moved aside. It was a man, a chunky broad-shouldered guy two inches shorter than her, with a pug nose and bushy eyebrows. I stepped inside and greeted him. “My name’s Goodwin. From the Gazette . I want to rent a room, a front room.”

He said to his daughter, “Go, Maria,” and she turned and went, down the dark hall. He turned to me. “No rooms.”

“A hundred dollars a week,” I said. “I’m going to do an article on the scene of a murder after the murder. I want to take pictures of the people who come to look at it. A window on your second floor would be just the right angle.”

“I said no rooms.” His voice was deep and rough.

“You can shift someone around. Two hundred dollars.”

“No.”

“Three hundred.”

“No.”

“Five hundred.”

“You’re crazy. No.”

“I’m not crazy. You are. Snooting five hundred bucks. What’s your name?”

“It’s my name.”

“Oh for God’s sake. I can get it next door or from the cop out front. What’s wrong with it?”

He half closed one eye. “Nothing is wrong with it. My name is Cesar Perez. I am a citizen of the United States of America.”

“So am I. Will you rent me a room for one week for five hundred dollars in advance in cash?”

“But what I said.” He gestured with both hands and both shoulders. “No room. That man out there dead, this is a bad thing. To take pictures of the people from this house, no. Even if there was a room.”

I decided to be impetuous. Delay could actually be dangerous, since Homicide or the DA might uncover a connection between Yeager and this house any moment. Getting my case from my pocket and taking an item from it, I handed it to him. “Can you see in this light?” I asked.

He didn’t try. “What is it?”

“My license. I’m not a newspaperman, I’m a private detective, and I’m investigating the murder of Thomas G. Yeager.”

He half closed an eye again. He poked the license at me, and I took it. His chest swelled with an intake of air. “You’re not a policeman?”

“No.”

“Then get out of here. Get out of this house. I have told three different policemen I don’t know anything about that man in the hole, and one of them insulted me. You get out.”

“All right,” I said, “it’s your house.” I returned the license to the case and the case to my pocket. “But I’ll tell you what will happen if you bounce me. Within half an hour a dozen policemen will take the house over, with a search warrant. They’ll go over every inch of it. They’ll round up everybody here, beginning with you and your daughter, and they’ll nab everyone who enters. The reason they’ll do that is that I’ll tell them I can prove that Thomas G. Yeager came to this house Sunday evening and he was killed here.”

“That’s a lie. Like that policeman. That’s insult.”