Rex Stout: The Squirt and the Monkey

“Mr. Getz lives at the Koven house?”

“Yes.”

“Then actually you were dumping it onto Mrs. Koven. Did she appreciate it?”

“She has never said so. I didn’t — I know I should have considered that. I apologized to her, and she was nice about it.”

“Did Mr. Koven like the monkey?”

“He liked to tease it. But he didn’t dislike it; he teased it just to annoy Mr. Getz.”

Wolfe leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “You know, Miss Lowell, I did not find the Dazzle Dan saga hopelessly inane. There is a sustained sardonic tone, some fertility of invention, and even an occasional touch of imagination. Monday evening, while Mr. Goodwin was in jail, I telephoned a couple of people who are supposed to know things and was referred by them to others. I was told that it is generally believed, though not published, that the conception of Dazzle Dan was originally supplied to Mr. Koven by Mr. Getz, that Mr. Getz was the continuing source of inspiration for the story and pictures, and that without him Mr. Koven will be up a stump. What about it?”

Pat Lowell had stiffened. “Talk.” She was scornful. “Just cheap talk.”

“You should know.” Wolfe sounded relieved. “If that belief could be validated I admit I would be up a stump myself. To support my claim against Mr. Koven, and to discredit his against me, I need to demonstrate that Mr. Goodwin did not kill Mr. Getz, either accidentally or otherwise. If he didn’t, then who did? One of you five. But all of you had a direct personal interest in the continued success of Dazzle Dan, sharing as you did in the prodigious proceeds; and if Mr. Getz was responsible for the success, why kill him?” Wolfe chuckled. “So you see I’m not silly at all. We’ve been at it only twenty minutes, and already you’ve helped me enormously. Give us another four or five hours, and we’ll see. By the way.”

He leaned forward to press a button at the edge of his desk, and in a moment Fritz appeared.

“There’ll be a guest for dinner, Fritz.”

“Yes, sir.” Fritz went.

“Four or five hours?” Pat Lowell demanded.

“At least that. With a recess for dinner; I banish business from the table. Half for me and half for you. This affair is extremely complicated, and if you came here to get an agreement we’ll have to cover it all. Let’s see, where were we?”

She regarded him. “About Getz, I didn’t say he had nothing to do with the success of Dazzle Dan. After all, so do I. I didn’t say he won’t be a loss. Everyone knows he was Mr. Koven’s oldest and closest friend. We were all quite aware that Mr. Koven relied on him—”

Wolfe showed her a palm. “Please, Miss Lowell, don’t spoil it for me. Don’t give me a point and then try to snatch it back. Next you’ll be saying that Koven called Getz ‘the Squirt’ to show his affection, as a man will call his dearest friend an old bastard, whereas I prefer to regard it as an inferiority complex, deeply resentful, showing its biceps. Or telling me that all of you, without exception, were inordinately fond of Mr. Getz and submissively grateful to him. Don’t forget that Mr. Goodwin spent hours in that house among you and has fully reported to me; also you should know that I had a talk with Inspector Cramer Monday evening and learned from him some of the plain facts, such as the pillow lying on the floor, scorched and pierced, showing that it had been used to muffle the sound of the shot, and the failure of all of you to prove lack of opportunity.”

Wolfe kept going. “But if you insist on minimizing Koven’s dependence as a fact, let me assume it as a hypothesis in order to put a question. Say, just for my question, that Koven felt strongly about his debt to Getz and his reliance on him, that he proposed to do something about it, and that he found it necessary to confide in one of you people, to get help or advice. Which of you would he have come to? We must of course put his wife first, ex officio and to sustain convention — and anyway, out of courtesy I must suppose you incapable of revealing your employer’s conjugal privities. Which of you three would he have come to — Mr. Hildebrand, Mr. Jordan, or you?”

Miss Lowell was wary. “On your hypothesis, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“None of us.”

“But if he felt he had to?”

“Not with anything as intimate as that. He wouldn’t have let himself have to. None of us three has ever got within miles of him on anything really personal.”

“Surely he confides in you, his agent and manager?”

“On business matters, yes. Not on personal things, except superficialities.”

“Why were all of you so concerned about the gun in his desk?”

“We weren’t concerned, not really concerned — at least I wasn’t. I just didn’t like it’s being there, loaded, so easy to get at, and I knew he didn’t have a license for it.”

Wolfe kept on about the gun for a good ten minutes — how often had she seen it, had she ever picked it up, and so forth, with special emphasis on Sunday morning, when she and Hildebrand had opened the drawer and looked at it. On that detail she corroborated Hildebrand as I had heard him tell it to Cramer. Finally she balked. She said they weren’t getting anywhere, and she certainly wasn’t going to stay for dinner if afterward it was only going to be more of the same.

Wolfe nodded in agreement. “You’re quite right,” he told her. “We’ve gone as far as we can, you and I. We need all of them. It’s time for you to call Mr. Koven and tell him so. Tell him to be here at eight-thirty with Mrs. Koven, Mr. Jordan, and Mr. Hildebrand.”

She was staring at him. “Are you trying to be funny?” she demanded.

He skipped it. “I don’t know,” he said, “whether you can handle it properly; if not, I’ll talk to him. The validity of my claim, and of his, depends primarily on who killed Mr. Getz. I now know who killed him. I’ll have to tell the police but first I want to settle the matter of my claim with Mr. Koven. Tell him that. Tell him that if I have to inform the police before I have a talk with him and the others there will be no compromise on my claim, and I’ll collect it.”

“This is a bluff.”

“Then call it.”

“I’m going to.” She left the chair and got the coat around her. Her eyes blazed at him. “I’m not such a sap!” She started for the door.

“Get Inspector Cramer, Archie!” Wolfe snapped. He called, “They’ll be there by the time you are!”

I lifted the phone and dialed. She was out in the hall, but I heard neither footsteps nor the door opening.

“Hello,” I told the transmitter, loud enough. “Manhattan Homicide West? Inspector Cramer, please. This is—”

A hand darted past me, and a finger pressed the button down, and a mink coat dropped to the floor. “Damn you!” she said, hard and cold, but the hand was shaking so that the finger slipped off the button. I cradled the phone.

“Get Mr. Koven’s number for her, Archie,” Wolfe purred.

At twenty minutes to nine Wolfe’s eyes moved slowly from left to right, to take in the faces of our assembled visitors. He was in a nasty humor. He hated to work right after dinner, and from the way he kept his chin down and a slight twitch of a muscle in his cheek I knew it was going to be real work. Whether he had got them there with a bluff or not, and my guess was that he had, it would take more than a bluff to rake in the pot he was after now.

Pat Lowell had not dined with us. Not only had she declined to come along to the dining room; she had also left untouched the tray which Fritz had taken to her in the office. Of course that got Wolfe’s goat and probably got some pointed remarks from him, but I wasn’t there to hear them because I had gone to the kitchen to check with Fritz on the operation of the installation that had been made by Levay Recorders, Inc. That was the one part of the program that I clearly understood. I was still in the kitchen, rehearsing with Fritz, when the doorbell rang and I went to the front and found them there in a body. They got better hall service than I had got at their place, and also better chair service in the office.