Rex Stout - When a Man Murders…

As I reported on my afternoon rounds, giving all conversations verbatim, which isn’t so hard when you’ve had plenty of practice and have learned that nothing less will be acceptable, Wolfe leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. He was too damn placid. Ordinarily, when he sends me out for bacon and I return empty-handed, he makes some pointed cracks, no matter how hopeless he knows my errand was; but that time, not a one. That meant either that he didn’t like the job and to hell with it, or that I was just a sideshow, including my sore jaw, and the main attraction was elsewhere. When I was through he didn’t open his eyes or ask a single question.

I groaned with pain. “Since it’s obvious that I wasted five hours of your time, and since if I stay here I may say something that will rile you, I guess I’ll go see Doc Vollmer and have him set my jaw. He’ll probably have to wire it.”

“No.”

“No what?”

He opened his eyes. “I’m expecting a phone call. Probably not until tomorrow, but it could come this evening. If it does I’ll need you.”

“Okay, I’ll be upstairs.”

I mounted the two flights to my room, turned on the lights, went to the bathroom mirror to see if there was enough swelling for a compress, decided there wasn’t, and settled myself in my easy chair with a collection of magazines.

Nearly two hours had gone by, and I was yawning, when a sound came faintly through the open door — the sound of Wolfe’s voice. I went and lifted the phone on my bedside table and put it to my ear. It was dead. I had neglected to plug it in when I left the office. It would have been undignified to go to the hall, to the stair landing, and listen, so I did; but though Wolfe’s voice came up at intervals I couldn’t get the words. After enough of that I returned to the room and the easy chair, but had barely lowered myself into it when a bellow from below came.

“Archie! Archie !”

I did not descend the stairs three steps at a time, but I admit I didn’t mosey. Wolfe, at his desk, spoke as I entered the office. “Get Mr. Cramer.”

Getting Inspector Cramer of Homicide, day or night, may be very simple or it may be impossible. That time it was in between. He was at his office on Twentieth Street, but in conference and not available, so I had to bear down and make it plain that if he didn’t speak with Nero Wolfe immediately God only knew what tomorrow’s papers would say.

In a couple of minutes his familiar growl was growling at me. “Goodwin? Is Wolfe on?”

I nodded at Wolfe, and he took up his phone. “Mr. Cramer? I don’t know if you know that I’m investigating the Karnow murder. For a client. Mrs. Karnow engaged me at noon today.”

“Go ahead and investigate. What do you want?”

“I understand that Mr. Aubry is being held on a murder charge, without bail. That’s regrettable, because he’s innocent. If you are supporting that charge I advise you to reconsider. On the soundness of that advice I stake my professional reputation.”

I would have paid admission to see Cramer’s face. He knew Wolfe would rather go without eating a whole day than be caught wrong in a flat statement like that.

“That’s all I wanted, your advice.” The growl was still a growl, but not the same. “Is it all right if I wait till morning to turn him loose?”

“Formalities may require it. May I ask a question? How many of the others — Mrs. Savage, her son, Mr. and Mrs. Horne, Mr. Beebe — have been eliminated by alibis?”

“Crossed off, no one. But Aubry not only has no alibi, he admits he was there.”

“Yes, I know. However, it was one of the others. I must now choose between alternatives. Either I proceed independently to disclose and hand over the culprit, or I invite you to partake. Which would you prefer?”

It was nearly silence, but I thought I could hear Cramer breathe. “Are you saying you’ve got it?”

“I’m saying I am prepared to expose the murderer. It would be a little simpler if you can spare the time, for I must have them here at my office, and for you that will be no problem. If you care to take part could you get them here in half an hour?”

Cramer cussed. Since it’s a misdemeanor to use profanity over the phone, and since I don’t want to hang a misdemeanor rap on an inspector, I won’t quote it. He added, “I’m coming up there. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“You won’t get in.” Wolfe wasn’t nasty, but he was firm. “If you come without those people, or without first assuring me that they will be brought, Mr. Goodwin won’t even open the door to the crack the chain bolt will permit. He’s in a touchy mood because a man hit him on the jaw and knocked him down. Nor am I in any humor to wrangle with you. I gave you your chance. Do you remember that when you were here this morning I told you that I had the last letter Mrs. Karnow received from her husband, and offered to show it to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you said you weren’t interested in a letter Karnow wrote nearly three years ago. You were wrong. I now offer again to show it to you before I send it to the District Attorney, but only on the condition as stated. Well?”

I’ll say one thing for Cramer, he knew when he was out of choices, and he didn’t try to prolong it. He cussed again and then got it out. “They’ll be there, and so will I.”

Wolfe hung up. I asked him, “What about our client? Hadn’t she better be present?”

He made a face. “I suppose so. See if you can get her.”

It was half-past eleven when I ushered Norman Horne and his attractive wife to the office and to the two vacant seats in the cluster of chairs that had been placed facing Wolfe’s desk. At their left was Mrs. Savage; behind them were Dick Savage, James M. Beebe, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins — only not in that order, because Purley was in the middle, behind Ann Horne. There had been another chair in the cluster, for Caroline Karnow, but she had moved it away, over to the side of the room where the bookshelves were, while I was in the hall admitting Mrs. Savage and Dick. That had put her where Purley couldn’t see her without turning his head a full quarter-circle, and he hadn’t liked it, but I had let him know that it was none of his damn business where our client sat.

The red leather chair was for Cramer, who was in the dining room with Wolfe. After the Hornes had greeted their relatives, including Caroline, and got seated, I crossed to the dining room and told Wolfe we were ready, and he marched to the office and to his desk, and stood.

“Archie?”

“Yes, sir.” I was there. “Front row, from the left, Mr. Horne, Mrs. Horne, Mrs. Savage. Rear, from the left, Mr. Savage, Mr. Stebbins you know, and Mr. Beebe.”

Wolfe nodded almost perceptibly, sat, and turned his head. “Mr. Cramer?”

Cramer, standing, was surveying them. “I can’t say this is unofficial,” he conceded, “since I asked you to come here, and I’m here. But anything Mr. Wolfe says to you is solely on his own responsibility, and you’re under no obligation to answer any questions he asks if you don’t want to. I want that clearly understood.”

“Even so,” Beebe piped up, “isn’t this rather irregular?”

“If you mean unusual, yes. If you mean improper, I don’t think so. You weren’t ordered to come, you were asked, and you’re here. Do you want to leave?”

Apparently they didn’t, at least not enough to make an issue of it. They exchanged glances, and someone muttered something. Beebe said, “We certainly reserve the right to leave.”

“Nobody will stop you,” Cramer assured him, and sat. He looked at Wolfe. “Go ahead.”

Wolfe adjusted himself in his chair to achieve the maximum of comfort, and then moved his eyes, left and right, to take them in. He spoke. “Mr. Cramer assured you that you are not obliged to answer my questions. I can relieve your minds of that concern. I doubt if I’ll have a single question to put to any of you, though of course an occasion for one may arise. I merely want to describe the situation as it now stands and invite your comment. You may have none.”