Rex Stout: The Black Mountain

No bones got broken. His instructions came a minute before the door opened to admit Wolfe. I went and opened the gate in the railing, and Wolfe stepped through. “This way,” I said and steered him to the corridor and along to the room.

The doctor had got the slug that had entered between the fifth and sixth ribs, and was going for the one lower down. I saw that from three paces off, where I stopped. Wolfe went on until the part of him that is farthest front, his middle, was touching the edge of the table. The doctor recognized him and spoke.

“I understand he was a friend of yours, Mr. Wolfe.”

“He was,” Wolfe said a little louder than necessary. He moved sidewise, reached a hand, put fingertips under Marko’s chin, and pushed the jaw up so that the mouth closed; but when he took his hand away the lips parted again. He turned his head to frown at the doctor.

“That’ll be arranged,” the doctor assured him.

Wolfe nodded. He put fingers and a thumb into his vest pocket, withdrew them, and showed the doctor two small coins. “These are old dinars. I would like to fulfill a pledge made many years ago.” The scientist said sure, go ahead, and Wolfe reached to Marko’s face again, this time to place the coins on the eyes. The head was twisted a little, and he had to level it so the coins would stay put.

He turned away. “That’s all. I have no further commitment to the clay. Come, Archie.”

I followed him out and along the corridor to the front. The dick who had been my escort, there chinning with the sergeant, told me I didn’t need to sign a statement and asked Wolfe if he verified the identification. Wolfe said he did and added, “Where’s Mr. Cramer?”

“Sony, I couldn’t tell you.”

Wolfe turned to me. “I told the driver to wait. You said East Fifty-fourth Street. Marko’s address?”

“Right.”

“We’ll go there.” He went, and I followed.

That taxi ride uptown broke a precedent. Wolfe’s distrust of machinery is such that he is never in a condition to talk when he is being conveyed in something on wheels, even when I am driving, but that time he mastered it. He asked me questions about Marko Vukcic. I reminded him that he had known Marko a lot longer and better than I had, but he said there were some subjects which Marko had never discussed with him but might have with me — for example, his relations with women. I agreed that was logical, but said that as far as I knew Marko hadn’t wasted time discussing his relations with women; he just went ahead and enjoyed them. I gave an instance. When, a couple of years previously, I had taken one named Sue Dondero to Rusterman’s for dinner, Marko had cast an eye on her and contributed a bottle of one of his best clarets, and the next day had phoned to ask if I would care to give him her address and phone number, and I had done so and crossed her off. Wolfe asked why. I said to give her a break. Marko, sole owner of Rusterman’s, was a wealthy man and a widower, and Sue might hook him. But she hadn’t, Wolfe said. No, I agreed, as far as I knew there had been something wrong with the ignition.

“What the hell,” the hackie grumbled, braking.

Having turned off Park Avenue into Fifty-fourth Street, he had made to cross Lexington, and a cop had waved him down. The cab stopped with a jerk that justified Wolfe’s attitude toward machinery, and the hackie stuck his head out and objected.

“My fare’s number is in that block, officer.”

“Can’t help it. Closed. Up or down.”

He yanked the wheel, and we swung to the curb. I paid him, got out, and held the door, and Wolfe emerged. He stood a moment to take a deep breath, and we headed east. Ten paces along there was another cop, and a little farther on still another. Ahead, in the middle of the block, was a convention: police cars, spotlights, men working, and a gathering of citizens on the sidewalk across the street. On our side a stretch of the sidewalk was included in a roped-off area. As we approached it a cop got in the way and commanded, “Cross over and keep moving.”

“I came here to look at this,” Wolfe told him.

“I know. You and ten thousand more. Cross over.”

“I am a friend of the man who was killed. My name is Nero Wolfe.”

“Yeah, and mine’s General MacArthur. Keep moving.”

It might have developed into an interesting conversation if I hadn’t caught sight, in one of the spotlights, of a familiar face and figure. I sang out, “Rowcliff!”

He turned and peered, stepped out of the glare and peered some more, and then approached. “Well?” he demanded.

Among all the array of Homicide personnel that Wolfe and I have had dealings with, high and low, Lieutenant Rowcliff is the only one of whom I am dead sure that our feelings are absolutely reciprocal. He would like to see me exactly where I would like to see him. So, having summoned him, I left it to Wolfe, who spoke.

“Good evening, Mr. Rowcliff. Is Mr. Cramer here?”

“No.”

“Mr. Stebbins?”

“No.”

“I want to see the spot where Mr. Vukcic died.”

“You’ll be in the way. We’re working.”

“So am I.”

Rowcliff considered. He would have loved to order a couple of the help to take us to the river and dump us in, but the timing would have been bad. Since it was unheard of for Wolfe to leave his house to work as a matter of routine, he knew this was something extraordinary, and there was no telling how his superiors might react if he let his personal inclinations take charge. Of course he also knew that Wolfe and Vukcic had been close friends.

He hated to do it, but he said, “Come this way,” and led us along to the front of the house and to the curb. “This is open to correction,” he said, “but we think we’ve got it about right. Vukcic left the building alone. He passed between two parked cars to look west for a taxi. A car that was double-parked about twenty yards to the west — not a hack, a black or dark blue Ford sedan — started and came forward, and when it was about even with him an occupant of the car started shooting. It’s not settled whether it was the driver or someone with him. We haven’t found anyone that got a good look. He fell right there.” Rowcliff pointed. “And stayed there. As you see, we’re still at it here. Nothing from inside so far. Vukcic lived alone on the top floor, and there was no one there with him when he left. Of course he ate at his restaurant. Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t step off the curb. We’re going over the pavement again in daylight.” He left us.

Wolfe stood a moment, looking down at the spot on the pavement where Marko had dropped, then lifted his head to glance around. A moving spotlight hit his face and he blinked. Since that was the first time to my knowledge that he had ever started investigating a murder by a personal visit to the scene of the crime — not counting the occasions when he had been jerked loose by some other impulse, such as saving my life — I was curious to see how he would proceed. It was a chance he had seldom had.

He hopped on it by turning to me and asking, “Which way to the restaurant?”

I nodded west. “Up Lexington four blocks and around the corner. We can get a taxi—”

“No. We’ll walk.” He was off.

I went along, more and more impressed. The death of his oldest and closest friend had certainly hit him hard. He would have to cross five street intersections, with wheeled monsters waiting for him at every corner, ready to spring, but he strode on regardless, as if it were a perfectly natural and normal procedure.

Things were not natural and normal at Rusterman’s. The six-foot, square-jawed doorman opened for us and let us pass through, and then blurted to Wolfe’s broad back, “Is it true, Mr. Wolfe?” Wolfe ignored it and went on, but I turned and gave him a nod. Wolfe marched on past the cloakroom, so I did likewise. In the big front room, which you crossed on your way to the dining room, and which Marko had called the lounge but which I called the bar because it had one at its far side, there were only a few customers scattered around at the tables, since it was nearly nine-thirty and by that hour the clientele were inside, busy with perdrix en casserole or tournedos Beauharnais. The tone of the place, subdued but not stiff, had of course been set by Marko, with the able assistance of Felix, Leo, and Joe, and I had never seen one of them break training by so much as a flicker of an eyelash until that evening. As we entered, Leo, standing at the entrance to the dining room, caught sight of us and started toward us, then wheeled and went back and shouted into the dining room, “Joe!”