Rex Stout: The Last Witness

The girl at the desk, which was near the end window, had only an ordinary desk phone, in addition to a typewriter and other accessories. Wolfe was telling her, “My name is Wolfe and I’ve just come from the courtroom where Leonard Ashe is being tried.” He indicated me with a jerk of his head. “This is my assistant, Mr. Goodwin. We’re checking on subpoenas that have been served on witnesses, for both the prosecution and the defense. Have you been served?”

With his air and presence and tone, only one woman in a hundred would have called him, and she wasn’t it. Her long, narrow face tilted up to him, she shook her head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Your name, please?”

“Pearl Fleming.”

“Then you weren’t working here on July fifteenth.”

“No, I was at another office. There was no office desk here then. One of the boards took office calls.”

“I see.” His tone implied that it was damned lucky for her that he saw. “Are Miss Hart and Miss Velardi and Miss Weltz here?”

My brows wanted to lift, but I kept them down, and anyway there was nothing startling about it. True, it had been weeks since those names had appeared in the papers, but Wolfe never missed a word of an account of a murder, and his skull’s filing system was even better than Saul Panzer’s.

Pearl Fleming pointed to the switchboards. “That’s Miss Hart at the end. Miss Velardi is next to her. Next to Miss Velardi is Miss Yerkes. She came after — she replaced Miss Willis. Miss Weltz isn’t here; it’s her day off. They’ve had subpoenas, but—”

She stopped and turned her head. The woman at the end board had removed her headphone, left her seat, and was marching over to us. She was about my age, with sharp brown eyes and flat cheeks and a chin she could have used for an icebreaker if she had been a walrus.

“Aren’t you Nero Wolfe, the detective?” she demanded.

“Yes,” he assented. “You are Alice Hart?”

She skipped it. “What do you want?”

Wolfe backed up a step. He doesn’t like anyone so close to him, especially a woman. “I want information, madam. I want you and Bella Velardi and Helen Weltz to answer some questions.”

“We have no information.”

“Then I won’t get any, but I’m going to try.”

“Who sent you here?”

“Autokinesis. There’s a cardinal flaw in the assumption that Leonard Ashe killed Marie Willis, and I don’t like flaws. It has made me curious, and when I’m curious there is only one cure — the whole truth, and I intend to find it. If I am in time to save Mr. Ashe’s life, so much the better; but in any case I have started and will not be stopped. If you and the others refuse to oblige me today there will be other days — and other ways.”

From her face it was a toss-up. Her chin stiffened, and for a second she was going to tell him to go soak his head; then her eyes left him for me, and she was going to take it. She turned to the girl at the desk. “Take my board, will you, Pearl? I won’t be long.” To Wolfe, snapping it: “We’ll go to my room. This way.” She whirled and started.

“One moment, Miss Hart.” Wolfe moved. “A point not covered in the newspaper accounts.” He stopped at the boards, behind Bella Velardi at the middle one. “Marie Willis’s body was found slumped over on the ledge in front of the switchboard. Presumably she was seated at the switchboard when the murderer arrived. But you live here — you and the others?”

“Yes.”

“Then if the murderer was Mr. Ashe, how did he know she was alone on the premises?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she told him she was. Is that the flaw?”

“Good heavens, no. It’s conceivable that she did, and they talked, and he waited until a light and buzzes had her busy at the board, with her back to him. It’s a minor point, but I prefer someone with surer knowledge that she was alone. Since she was small and slight, even you are not excluded” — he wiggled a finger — “or these others. Not that I am now prepared to charge you with murder.”

“I hope not,” she snorted, turning. She led the way to a door at the end of the room, on through, and down a narrow hall. As I followed, behind Wolfe, I was thinking that the reaction we were getting seemed a little exaggerated. It would have been natural, under the circumstances, for Miss Velardi and Miss Yerkes to turn in their seats for a good look at us, but they hadn’t. They had sat, rigid, staring at their boards. As for Alice Hart, either there had been a pinch of relief in her voice when she asked Wolfe if that was the flaw, or I was in the wrong business.

Her room was a surprise. First, it was big, much bigger than the one in front with the switchboards. Second, I am not Bernard Berenson, but I have noticed things here and there, and the framed splash of red and yellow and blue above the mantel was not only a real van Gogh, it was bigger and better than the one Lily Rowan had. I saw Wolfe spotting it as he lowered himself onto a chair actually big enough for him, and I pulled one around to make a group, facing the couch Miss Hart dropped onto.

As she sat she spoke. “What’s the flaw?”

He shook his head. “I’m the inquisitor, Miss Hart, not you.” He aimed a thumb at the van Gogh. “Where did you get that picture?”

She looked at it, and back at him. “That’s none of your business.”

“It certainly isn’t. But here is the situation. You have of course been questioned by the police and the District Attorney’s office, but they were restrained by their assumption that Leonard Ashe was the culprit. Since I reject that assumption and must find another in its stead, there can be no limit to my impertinence with you and others who may be involved. Take you and that picture. If you refuse to say where you got it, or if your answer doesn’t satisfy me, I’ll put a man on it, a competent man, and he’ll find out. You can’t escape being badgered, madam; the question is whether you suffer it here and now, by me, or face a prolonged inquiry among your friends and associates by meddlesome men. If you prefer the latter don’t waste time with me; I’ll go and tackle one of the others.”

She was tossing up again. From her look at him it seemed just as well that he had his bodyguard along. She tried stalling. “What does it matter where I got that picture?”

“Probably it doesn’t. Possibly nothing about you matters. But the picture is a treasure, and this is an odd address for it. Do you own it?”

“Yes. I bought it.”

“When?”

“About a year ago. From a dealer.”

“The contents of this room are yours?”

“Yes. I like things that — well, this is my extravagance, my only one.”

“How long have you been with this firm?”

“Five years.”

“What is your salary?”

She was on a tight rein. “Eighty dollars a week.”

“Not enough for your extravagance. An inheritance? Alimony? Other income?”

“I have never married. I had some savings, and I wanted — I wanted these things. If you save for fifteen years you have a right to something.”

“You have indeed. Where were you the evening that Marie Willis was killed?”

“I was out in Jersey, in a car with a friend — Bella Velardi. To get cooled off — it was a hot night. We got back after midnight.”

“In your car?”

“No, Helen Weltz had let us take hers. She has a Jaguar.”

My brows went up, and I spoke. “A Jaguar,” I told Wolfe, “is quite a machine. You couldn’t squeeze into one. Counting taxes and extras, four thousand bucks isn’t enough.”

His eyes darted to me and back to her. “Of course the police have asked if you know of anyone who might have had a motive for killing. Marie Willis. Do you?”