Rex Stout - This Won’t Kill You

“Cut the rhetoric,” Chisholm snapped. “Name him.”

Wolfe nodded. “Naming him is easy. But it is pointless to name him, and may even expose me to an action for slander, unless I so expound it as to enlist your help. As I said, I have no evidence. All I have is a fact about one of you, a fact known to all of you and to the police, which seems to me to point to guilt, but I admit that other interpretations are conceivable. You are better judges of that than I am, and I’m going to present it for your consideration. How can I best do that?”

He aimed his gaze at Baker and Prentiss, who were perched on a desk, raised a hand slowly, and scratched the tip of his nose. His eyes moved to pin Doc Soffer. His head jerked to the left to focus on Chisholm, and then to the right, to Beaky Durkin.

He spoke. “I’ll illustrate my meaning. Take you, Mr. Durkin. You have accounted for yourself, but you have been neither contradicted nor corroborated. You say you left the clubhouse shortly before the team did and went to your seat in the grandstand.”

“That’s right.” Durkin was still hoarse. “And I didn’t kill Nick.”

“I didn’t say you did. I am merely expounding. You say you remained in your seat, watching the game, until the third inning, when you were sent for by Mr. Chisholm to come to the clubhouse. That too is neither contradicted nor corroborated. Certainly you were there when you were sent for, but there is no proof that you had been there continuously since the game started and even before.”

“I don’t know about proof, but I was. I can probably find the guy that was sitting next to me.”

“You didn’t leave your seat once during that time?”

“I did not.”

Wolfe looked around. “Well, gentlemen. That’s the fact I can’t explain. Can you?”

They were gawking at him. “Do we have to?” Baker demanded.

“Someone does.” Wolfe’s voice sharpened. “Consider the situation. Consider the relationship of those two men. The discovery of Ferrone is Durkin’s proudest achievement as a baseball scout. He fosters him and treasures him. Today — now yesterday — at the game that will be the climax of Ferrone’s triumphant season, Durkin is in the clubroom and sees Ferrone there in uniform, with the others, young, sound, mighty, valiant. He leaves the clubhouse and goes to a seat in the grandstand, and soon he sees the team cross the field to the dugout, but no Ferrone. Durkin keeps his seat. Before long the loudspeaker announces that Garth, not Ferrone, will play second base. Durkin keeps his seat. The players take the field, and the game starts, with no Ferrone. Durkin keeps his seat. They play the first inning badly. Durkin keeps his seat. They play the second inning badly. Durkin keeps—”

“Good God!” Art Kinney yelled, moving.

“Exactly.” Wolfe lifted a hand. “Please, gentlemen, keep your seats. It is clearly fantastic. The announcement that Garth would play second base could have been taken by Durkin merely as a blunder, but when they took the field without Ferrone his disquiet and consternation would have been insupportable. The one thing he couldn’t possibly have done was to stay in his seat. Why did you, Mr. Durkin?”

“I couldn’t think—” He tried to clear his throat and sounded as if he were choking. “There was nothing I could do. What could I do?”

“I don’t know. I said I can’t explain what you did do, but I can try. Suppose the nonappearance of Ferrone was no surprise to you, because you knew where he was and what had happened to him. Suppose, further, you were in a state of severe systemic shock because you had murdered him. I submit that that explanation of your keeping your seat is plausible. Is any other? Can you offer one?”

Durkin took two steps. “Look here,” he said, “you can’t sit there and accuse me of a thing like that. I don’t have to stay here and take it, that kind of thing. I don’t have to, and I’m not going to.”

He started for the door, but Lew Baker was suddenly there in his path and speaking. “Back up, Beaky. I said back up!”

Beaky did so, literally. He backed until his rump hit the edge of the table, and felt for the edge with his hands, one on each side, and gripped it.

Wolfe was grim. “I was supposing, Mr. Durkin, not accusing. But I am now ready to accuse, and I do. I explained, when I was calling you X, how and why you acted.” His eyes moved. “Gentlemen, I ask you to look at him. Look at his face, his eyes. Look at his hands, clutching the table in dismay and despair. Yes, I accuse him. I say that that man drugged your drinks, caused you to lose your game, and, threatened with exposure, murdered your teammate.”

They were making sounds, and they were on their feet, including Art Kinney.

“Wait!” Wolfe said sharply, and they turned to him. “I must warn you, you approach him at your peril, for I have no proof. It will be gratifying to crush him, to press a confession out of him, but a confession is not evidence, and we need some. I suggest that you try for it. He did it for money, and surely he was paid something in advance, unless he is pure fool. Where is it? Certainly not on his person, since you have all been searched, but it is somewhere, and it would do admirably. Where is it?”

Lew Baker got to him ahead of the others. He told him in a thin, tight voice, so tight it twanged, “I wouldn’t want to touch you, Beaky, you dirty rat. Where is it? Where’s the jack?”

“Lew, I swear to God—”

“Skip it. You swearing to God! You fixed us, did you? And Nick — you fixed him. I’d hate to touch you, but if I do, God help you!”

The others were there, Kinney and Doc Soffer with them, crowding in on Durkin, who had pulled back onto the table, still gripping the edge. I went to the end of the table and stood. They were strong and hard, and their nervous systems had had a tough day. Aside from the killing of Nick Ferrone, whom they may or may not have loved, this was the bird who had made them play ball like half-witted apes in the most important game of their lives, to an audience of fifty million. If they really cut loose there could be another corpse in that room.

“Give me room, fellows,” Nat Neill said. “I’m going to plug him.”

Durkin didn’t flinch. His jaw was quivering, and his eyes looked sick, but he didn’t flinch.

“This is wrong,” Con Prentiss said. “He wants us to hurt him. He’d like to be knocked cold. He’s not a coward, he’s just a snake. Did you see his eyes when you said you’d plug him? That’s what he wants.”

“It’s a moral question,” Joe Eston said. “That’s the way to handle it; it’s a moral question.”

Art Kinney shouldered between two of them to get his face within ten inches of Durkin’s. “Look, Beaky. You’ve been in baseball thirty years. You know everybody in the majors, and we know you. What do you think’s going to happen? Where could you light? We’ve got you here now, and we’re going to keep you. I’ll send for the whole damn team. How will you like that?”

“I want a lawyer,” Durkin said in a sudden burst.

“By God!” Neill roared. “He wants a lawyer! Get out of the way! I’m going to clip him!”

“No, Beaky, no lawyers,” Kinney said. “I’ll send for the boys, and we’ll lock the doors. Where’s the money? We know you got it. Where is it?”

Durkin’s head went forward, down. Kinney put a fist under his chin and yanked it up and held it. “No, you don’t. Look at me. We’ve got you, but even if we didn’t, where could you go? Where you going to sleep and eat? You’re done, Beaky. Where’s the money?”

“Let me hold his chin,” Neill requested. “I’ll fix his goddam chin.”

“Shut up,” Eston told him. “It’s a moral question.”