Rex Stout - Too Many Clients

“We want you to help us. What you said about the fingerprints. I told him he must put on gloves, but he didn’t. We don’t know how you know so much, but we know how it will be if you tell the police about this house. We did not kill Mr. House. Mr. Yeager. We don’t know who killed him. My husband took his dead body and put it in that hole because we had to. When he came Sunday evening he told my husband to go to Mondor’s at midnight and bring some things he had ordered, some caviar and roast pheasant and other things, and when my husband came up with them his dead body was here.” She pointed. “There on the floor. What could we do? It was secret that he came to this house. What would happen if we called a policeman? We knew what would happen. So now we pay you to help us. Perhaps more than one hundred dollars. You will know—”

She whirled around. There had been a noise from the elevator, a click, and then a faint sound of friction, barely audible. Perez said, “It’s going down. Someone down there.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Who?”

“We don’t know,” Mrs. Perez said.

“Then we’ll see. Stay where you are, both of you.” I got the Marley out.

“It’s a policeman,” Perez said.

“No,” she said. “No key. He couldn’t have Mr. House’s keys because we took them.”

“Shut up,” I told them. “If I’m your detective, do what I say. No talking and no moving.”

We stood facing the elevator. I moved to the wall and put my back to it, arm’s length from the elevator door. Since it had been up when the visitor came and he had had to push the button to bring it down, he must know someone was up here and might come out with his finger on a trigger, which was where I had mine. The faint sound came again, then a click, the door opened, and out came a woman. Her back was to me as she faced Mrs. Perez.

“Thank God,” she said, “it’s you. I thought it would be.”

“We don’t know you,” Mrs. Perez said.

I did. I had taken a step and got her profile. It was Meg Duncan, whom I had seen last week from a fifth-row seat on the aisle, in her star part in The Back Door to Heaven .

If you ever have your pick of being jumped by a man your size or a woman who only comes to your chin, I advise you to make it the man. If he’s unarmed the chances are that the very worst he’ll do is floor you, but God knows what the woman will do. And you may floor him first, but you can’t plug a woman. Meg Duncan came at me exactly the way a cavewoman went at her man, or some other man, ten thousand years ago, her claws reaching for me and her mouth open ready to bite. There were only two alternatives, to get too far or too close, and too close is better. I rammed into her past the claws, against her, and wrapped her, and in one second the breath was all out of her. Her mouth stayed open, but for air, not to bite. I slid around and had her arms from behind. In that position the worst you can get is a kick on a shin. She was gasping. My grip may have been really hurting her right arm because I had the gun in that hand and the butt was pressing into her. When I removed that hand to drop the Marley in my pocket she didn’t move, and I turned loose and backed up a step.

“I know who you are,” I said. “I caught your show last week and you were wonderful. I’m not a cop, I’m a private detective. I work for Nero Wolfe. When you get your breath you’ll tell me why you’re here.”

She turned, slowly. It took her five seconds to make the half-turn to face me. “You hurt me,” she said.

“No apology. A squeeze and a little bruise on an arm are nothing to what you had in mind.”

She rubbed the arm, her head tilted back to look up at me, still breathing through her mouth. I was being surprised that I had recognized her. On the stage she was extremely easy on the eyes. Now she was just a thirty-year-old female with a good enough face, in a plain gray suit and a plain little hat, but of course she was under strain.

She spoke. “Are you Nero Wolfe’s Archie Goodwin?”

“No. I’m my Archie Goodwin. I’m Nero Wolfe’s confidential assistant.”

“I know about you.” She was getting enough air through her nose. “I know you’re a gentleman.” She extended a hand to touch my sleeve. “I came here to get something that belongs to me. I’ll get it and go. All right?”

“What is it?”

“A — a something with my initials on it. A cigarette case.”

“How did it get here?”

She tried to smile, as a lady to a gentleman, but it was a feeble effort. A famous actress should have done better, even under strain. “Does that matter, Mr. Goodwin? It’s mine. I can describe it. It’s dull gold, with an emerald in a corner on one side and my initials on the other.”

I smiled as a gentleman to a lady. “When did you leave it here?”

“I didn’t say I left it here.”

“Was it Sunday evening?”

“No. I wasn’t here Sunday evening.”

“Did you kill Yeager?”

She slapped me. That is, she slapped at me. She was certainly impetuous. Also she was quick, but so was I. I caught her wrist and gave it a little twist, not enough to hurt much, and let go. There was a gleam in her eyes, and she looked more like Meg Duncan. “You’re a man, aren’t you?” she said.

“I can be. Right now I’m just a working detective. Did you kill Yeager?”

“No. Of course not.” Her hand came up again, but only to touch my sleeve. “Let me get my cigarette case and go.”

I shook my head. “You’ll have to manage without it for a while. Do you know who killed Yeager?”

“Of course not.” Her fingers curved around my arm, not a grip, just a touch. “I know I can’t bribe you, Mr. Goodwin, I know enough about you to know that, but detectives do things for people, don’t they? I can pay you to do something for me, can’t I? If you won’t let me get my cigarette case you can get it for me, and keep it for me. You can give it to me later, you can decide when, I don’t care as long as you keep it.” Her fingers pressed a little. “I would pay whatever you say. A thousand dollars?”

Things were looking up, but it was getting a little complicated. At 4:30 yesterday afternoon we had had no client and no prospect of any. Then one had come but had turned out to be a phony. Then Mrs. Perez had dangled a hundred bucks and perhaps more. Now this customer was offering a grand. I was digging up clients all right, but too many clients can be worse than too few.

I regarded her. “It might work,” I said. “It’s like this. Actually I can’t take a job; I’m employed by Nero Wolfe. He takes the jobs. I’m going to look this place over, and if I find your cigarette case, as I will if it’s here, I’ll take it. Give me your keys, to the door down below and the elevator.”

Her fingers left my arm. “Give them to you?”

“Right. You won’t need them any more.” I glanced at my wrist. “It’s ten-thirty-five. You have no matinee today. Come to Nero Wolfe’s office at half past two. Six-eighteen West Thirty-fifth Street. Your cigarette case will be there, and you can settle it with Mr. Wolfe.”

“But why can’t you—”

“No. That’s how it is, and I have things to do.” I put a hand out. “The keys.”

“Why can’t I—”

“I said no. There’s no argument and no time. Damn it, I’m giving you a break. The keys.”

She opened her bag, fingered in it, took out a leather key fold, and handed it over. I unsnapped it, saw two Rabson keys, which are not like any others, displayed them to Perez, and asked if they were the keys to the door and the elevator. He took a look and said yes. Dropping them in a pocket, I pushed the button to open the elevator door and told Meg Duncan, “I’ll see you later. Half past two.”