Rex Stout: When a Man Murders…

I would like to think it was my kiss that gave her an appetite, but I suppose it was the assurance from Wolfe that he didn’t think her Paul was guilty of murder. She disposed not only of the crackers and milk but also of a healthy portion of toast spread with Fritz’s liver pâté and chives, while Wolfe busied himself with the cards and I found something to do on my desk.

“I do thank you,” she said. “This is wonderful coffee. I feel better.”

It is so agreeable to Wolfe to have someone enjoy food that he had almost forgiven her for losing control. He nearly smiled at her.

“You must understand,” he said gruffly, “that if you hire me to investigate there are no reservations. I think Mr. Aubry is innocent, but if I find he isn’t I am committed to no evasion or concealment. You understand that?”

“Yes. I don’t— All right.”

“For counsel I suggest Nathaniel Parker. Inquire about him if you wish; if you settle on him we’ll arrange an appointment. Now, if Mr. Aubry didn’t kill Karnow, who did?”

No reply.

“Well?” Wolfe demanded.

She put the coffee cup down. “Are you asking me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll return to that. You said Mr. Aubry has been arrested for murder. Has that charge been entered, or is he being held as a material witness?”

“No, murder. They said I couldn’t get bail for him.”

“Then they must have cogent evidence, surely something other than the manifest motive. He has talked, of course?”

“He certainly has.”

“He has told of his going to the door of Karnow’s room yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what time that was?”

“Half-past three. Very close to that.”

“Then opportunity is established, and motive. As for the weapon, the published account says it was Karnow’s. Has that been challenged?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then the formula is complete; but a man cannot be convicted by a formula and should not be charged by one. Have they got evidence? Do you know?”

“I know one thing.” She was frowning at him, concentrated, intent. “They told Paul that one of his business cards was found in Sidney’s pocket — the agency name and address, with his name in the corner — and asked him to account for it. He said he and his salesmen hand out dozens of cards every day, and Sidney could have got one many different places. Then they told him this card had his fingerprints on it — clear, fresh ones — and asked him to account for that.”

“Could he?”

“He didn’t to them, but he did to me later, when they let me see him.”

“How did he account for it?”

She hesitated. “I don’t like to, but I have to. He had remembered that last Friday afternoon, when he went to a conference at Jim Beebe’s office, he had left one of his cards there on Jim’s desk.”

“Who was at the conference?”

“Besides Paul — and Jim, of course — there were Sidney’s Aunt Margaret — Mrs. Savage — and Dick Savage, and Ann and her husband, Norman Horne.”

“Were you there?”

“No. I–I didn’t want to go. I had had enough of all the talk.”

“You say he left one of his cards on Mr. Beebe’s desk. Do you mean he remembers that the card was on the desk when he left the conference?”

“Yes, he’s pretty sure it was, but anyway, he left first. All the others were still there.”

“Has Mr. Aubry now told the police of this?”

“I don’t think so. He thought he wouldn’t, because he thought it would look as if he were trying to accuse one of Sidney’s relatives, and that would hurt more than it would help. That was why I didn’t like to tell you about it, but I knew I had to.”

Wolfe grunted. “You did indeed, madam. You are in no position to afford the niceties of decent reticence. Since your husband was almost certainly killed by someone who was mortally inconvenienced by his resurrection, and we are excluding you and Mr. Aubry, his other heirs invite scrutiny and will get it. According to what Mr. Aubry told me yesterday, there are three of them: Mrs. Savage, her son, and her daughter. Where is Mr. Savage?”

“He died years ago. Mrs. Savage is Sidney’s mother’s sister.”

“She got, as did her son and her daughter, nearly a third of a million. What did that sum mean to her? What were her circumstances?”

“I guess it meant a great deal. She wasn’t well off.”

“What was she living on?”

“Well — Sidney had been helping her.”

Wolfe tightened his lips and turned a palm up. “My dear madam. Be as delicate as you please about judgments, but I merely want facts. Must I drag them out of you? A plain question: was Mrs. Savage living on Mr. Karnow’s bounty?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“What has she done with her legacy? Has she conserved it? The fact as you know it.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Caroline’s chin lifted a little. “You’re quite right, I’m being silly — and anyway, lots of people know all about it. Mrs. Savage bought a house in New York, and last winter she bought a villa in southern France, and she wears expensive clothes and gives big parties. I don’t know how much she has left. Dick had a job with a downtown broker, but he quit when he got the inheritance from Sidney, and he is still looking for something to do. He is — well, he likes to be with women. It’s hard to be fair to Ann because she has wasted herself. She is beautiful and clever, and she’s only twenty-six, but there she is, married to Norman Horne, just throwing herself away.”

“What does Mr. Horne do?”

“He tells people about the time twelve years ago when he scored four touchdowns for Yale against Princeton.”

“Is that lucrative?”

“No. He says he isn’t fitted for a commercial society. I can’t stand him, and I don’t understand how Ann can. They live in an apartment on Park Avenue, and she pays the rent, and as far as I know she pays everything. She must.”

“Well.” Wolfe sighed. “So that’s the job. While Mr. Aubry’s motive was admittedly more powerful than theirs, since he stood to lose not only his fortune but also his wife, they were by no means immune to temptation. How much have you been associating with them the past two years?”

“Not much. With Aunt Margaret and Dick almost not at all. I used to see Ann fairly often, but very little since she married Norman Horne.”

“When was that marriage?”

“Two years ago. Soon after the estate was distributed.” She stopped, and then decided to go on. “That was one of Ann’s unpredictable somersaults. She was engaged to Jim Beebe — announced publicly, and the date set — and then, without even bothering to break it off, she married Norman Horne.”

“Was Mr. Horne a friend of your husband’s?”

“No, they never met. Ann found Norman — I don’t know where. They wouldn’t have been friends even if they had met, because Sidney wouldn’t have liked him. There weren’t many people Sidney did like.”

“Did he like his relatives?”

“No — if you want facts. He didn’t. He saw very little of them.”

“I see.” Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes, and his lips began to work, pushing out and then pulling in, out and in, out and in. He only does that when he has something substantial to churn around in his skull. But that time I thought he was being a little premature, since he hadn’t even seen them yet, not one. Caroline started to say something, but I shook my head at her, and she subsided.

Finally Wolfe opened his eyes and spoke. “You understand, madam, that the circumstances — particularly the finding of Mr. Aubry’s card, bearing his fingerprints, on the body — warrant an explicit assumption: that your husband was killed by one of the six persons present at the conference in Mr. Beebe’s office Friday afternoon; and, eliminating Mr. Aubry, five are left. You know them all, if not intimately at least familiarly, and I ask you: is one of them more likely than another? For any reason at all?”