Rex Stout: Before Midnight

“No,” Cramer conceded, “but I’m not sending them home. They were there when the poison was put in the drink. They’re being questioned now, separately. I thought you wouldn’t mind if we used the rooms on that floor and the basement.”

“I am in no position to mind anything whatever.” It had cut deep. “I respect your routine, Mr. Cramer, question them by all means, but I doubt if he was inept enough to let himself be observed. Also you may get more than you want. Miss Frazee may well declare that she saw each of them in turn, including the other contestants, putting something into his drink. I advise you not to let her know that the paper was found. — By the way. You told me last Wednesday that none of those five men — you were including Assa — could prove he hadn’t gone to Dahlmann’s place the night he was killed. Does that still hold?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I wanted to know.”

“What for? You looking for a murderer now? By God, I could lock you in!”

“I still have my job, to find out who took the wallet. Those who may suppose I’ll now be satisfied that Mr. Assa took it will be wrong.” All of a sudden, with no warning, Wolfe blew. He opened his mouth and roared, “Confound it, can a man kill with impunity in my office, with my liquor in my glass?”

“A goddam shame,” Cramer said. “But you stick to your job and let mine alone. I’d hate to see you humiliated again. I wouldn’t mind humiliating you myself some day, but not by a stranger and a murderer. Anyway, if it’s down to those four, two of them are your clients.”

“No. My client is a business firm.”

“Okay, but keep off. I don’t like the look on your face, but I seldom do. Other things I don’t like. You seem positive the contestants are out of it.”

“I am.”

“Why? What do you know that you haven’t told me?”

“Nothing of any substance.”

“Do you know of any motive any of those four men had for killing Dahlmann?”

“No. Only that apparently they all envied him. Do you know of any?”

“None that has looked good enough. Now we’ll look closer. Have you any information at all that points in any way to one of them?”

“No one more than another.”

“If you get any I want it. You keep off. Another thing I don’t like, this client stuff. I have known you — come in!”

Bad manners again. It wasn’t his door that was knocked on. It opened and a dick stepped in.

“Inspector, the lieutenant wants you. He’s in the kitchen with one of the women.”

Cramer said he’d be right down, and arose. The dick left. Cramer addressed me. “Get your machine and type that talk with Assa. Bring it up and do it here so you can keep an eye on your boss. We don’t want him humiliated again.” He walked out.

I faced Wolfe and he faced me. I wouldn’t have liked his look either if his expression of cold fury had been meant for me. “Any instructions?” I asked.

“Not at present. I may call on you any time during the night. I won’t try to sleep. With a murderer roaming my house, and me empty-handed and empty-headed...”

“He’s not roaming. You ought to squeeze in a nap, with your door locked of course. I’ll stick around until the company leaves — and incidentally, what about refreshments? With the gate-crashers there won’t be enough marinated mushrooms and almond balls. Sandwiches and coffee?”

“Yes.” He shut his eyes. “Archie. Let me alone.”

“Glad to.”

I left him and went downstairs. Opening the door to the kitchen to tell Fritz sandwiches and coffee, I saw only Cramer and Rowcliff and Susan Tescher and Hibbard, and backed out. Three guests in uniform were in the hall, one in charge of the front door. The doors to the dining room and front room were closed. The one to the office was also closed, and I opened it and entered. The corpse was gone. Half a dozen scientists were still researching, and Purley Stebbins and a dick from the DA’s office had Patrick O’Garro between them over by the refreshment table. That could last all night, bringing each one in separately to tell who was where and when. Fritz was still perched behind Wolfe’s desk and I went to him.

“Nice party.”

“It’s nothing to joke about, Archie. Cochon!”

“I never joke. I’m relieving you. Evidently nothing in this room is available, including the refreshments, so I guess you’ll have to produce sandwiches and coffee. You’ll find characters in the kitchen, but ignore them. If they complain tell them you’re under orders. Don’t bother taking anything up to Mr. Wolfe. He’s chewing nails and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

Fritz said he should have some beer, and I said okay if he wanted to risk it, and he departed. As for me, I was relieving Fritz on guard duty, and furthermore, the day had not come for me to tell Purley that Cramer had ordered me to remove my typewriter to another room and would he kindly permit me to do so; and I didn’t want to lug it up two flights anyway; and it would be interesting and instructive to watch trained detectives solving a crime.

Speaking of trained detectives, I was supposed to be one, but I certainly wasn’t bragging. I went to my desk and took my gun from the holster and put it in the drawer, and locked the drawer. In this report I could have omitted any mention of it, but I didn’t want to fudge, and I preferred not to skip the way I felt when, after going around armed for several days, I thoughtfully set it up for a homicide right there in the office — and a lot of good my gun did. To hell with it. It would have made it perfect if, soon after ditching it, I had really needed it, but I didn’t get even that satisfaction.

I got paper and carbon from another drawer, rolled the typewriter stand around to the rear of Wolfe’s desk, sat in Wolfe’s chair, and started tapping.

I would appreciate it if they would call a halt on all their devoted efforts to find a way to abolish war or eliminate disease or run trains with atoms or extend the span of human life to a couple of centuries, and everybody concentrate for a while on how to wake me up in the morning without my resenting it. It may be that a bevy of beautiful maidens in pure silk yellow very sheer gowns, barefooted, singing Oh, What a Beautiful Morning and scattering rose petals over me would do the trick, but I’d have to try it.

That Tuesday morning it was terrible. I had been in bed only three hours, and what woke me was the phone, about the worst way of all. I rolled over, opened my eyes to see the alarm clock at seven-twenty-five, reached, and yanked the damn thing off the cradle.

“Yeah?”

“Good morning, Archie. Can you be down in thirty minutes? I’m breakfasting with Saul, Fred, Orrie, and Bill.”

That woke me all right, though it had no effect on the resentment. I told Wolfe I’d try, rolled out, and headed for the bathroom. Usually I yawn around for a couple of minutes before digging in, but there wasn’t time. As I shaved I wished I had asked him what kind of a program it was, so I would know what to dress for, but if it had been anything special he would have said so, and I just grabbed the shirt on top.

When I made it to the ground floor, in thirty minutes flat, they were in the dining room with coffee. As I greeted them Fritz came with my orange juice, and I sat and took a healthy swallow.

“This is a hell of a time,” I said, still resenting, “to spring a surprise party on me.”

Bill Gore laughed. I said something funny to him once back in 1948, and ever since he has had a policy of laughing whenever I open my trap. Bill is not too smart to live, but he’s tough and hangs on. Orrie Cather is smarter and is not ashamed of it, and since he got rid of the idea that it would be a good plan for him to take over my job, some years ago, he has helped Wolfe with some very neat errands when called upon. Fred Durkin is just Fred Durkin and knows it. He thinks Wolfe could prove who killed Cock Robin any time he felt like spending half an hour on it. He thinks Wolfe could prove anything whatever. You’ve met Saul Panzer, the one and only.