Rex Stout: The Gun with Wings

He looked at Fred. “Suppose you opened a drawer of Mrs. Mion’s dresser to get smelling salts, and the gun was there, with an odor showing it had been recently fired — put there, you would instantly conjecture, by someone to direct suspicion at her. What would you naturally do? Exactly what you did do: take it upstairs and put it beside the body, without letting her know about it. Or—”

“Rot,” Fred said harshly. “Absolute rot.”

Wolfe looked at Peggy. “Or suppose it was you who found it there in your bedroom, after he had gone downstairs. Naturally you would have—”

“This is absurd,” Peggy said with spirit. “How could it have been in my bedroom unless I put it there? My husband was alive at five-thirty, and I got home before that, and was right there, in the living room and my room, until Fred came at seven o’clock. So unless you assume—”

“Very well,” Wolfe conceded. “Not the bedroom. But somewhere. I can’t proceed until I get this from one of you. Confound it, the gun didn’t fly. I expect plenty of lies from the others, at least one of them, but I want the truth from you.”

“You’ve got it,” Fred declared.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Then it’s a stalemate.” Fred stood up. “Well, Peggy?”

They looked at each other, and their eyes went through the performance again. When they got to the place in the script where it said, “It must be wonderful always,” Fred sat down.

But Wolfe, having no part in the script, horned in. “A stalemate,” he said dryly, “ends the game, I believe.”

Plainly it was up to me. If Wolfe openly committed himself to no dice nothing would budge him. I arose, got the pretty pink check from his desk, put it on mine, placed a paperweight on it, sat down, and grinned at him.

“Granted that you’re dead right,” I observed, “which is not what you call apodictical, someday we ought to make up a list of the clients that have sat here and lied to us. There was Mike Walsh, and Calida Frost, and that cafeteria guy, Pratt — oh, dozens. But their money was good, and I didn’t get so far behind with my notes that I couldn’t catch up. All that for nothing?”

“About those notes,” Fred Weppler said firmly. “I want to make something clear.”

Wolfe looked at him.

He looked back. “We came here,” he said, “to tell you in confidence about a problem and get you to investigate. Your accusing us of lying makes me wonder if we ought to go on, but if Mrs. Mion wants to I’m willing. But I want to make it plain that if you divulge what we’ve told you, if you tell the police or anyone else that we said there was no gun there when we went in, we’ll deny it in spite of your damn notes. We’ll deny it and stick to it!” He looked at his girl. “We’ve got to, Peggy! All right?”

“He wouldn’t tell the police,” Peggy declared, with fair conviction.

“Maybe not. But if he does, you’ll stick with me on the denial. Won’t you?”

“Certainly I will,” she promised, as if he had asked her to help kill a rattlesnake.

Wolfe was taking them in, with his lips tightened. Obviously, with the check on my desk on its way to the bank, he had decided to add them to the list of clients who told lies and go on from there. He forced his eyes wide open to rest them, let them half close again, and spoke.

“We’ll settle that along with other things before we’re through,” he asserted. “You realize, of course, that I’m assuming your innocence, but I’ve made a thousand wrong assumptions before now so they’re not worth much. Has either of you a notion of who killed Mr. Mion?”

They both said no.

He grunted. “I have.”

They opened their eyes at him.

He nodded. “It’s only another assumption, but I like it. It will take work to validate it. To begin with, I must see the people you have mentioned — all six of them — and I would prefer not to string it out. Since you don’t want them told that I’m investigating a murder, we must devise a stratagem. Did your husband leave a will, Mrs. Mion?”

She nodded and said yes.

“Are you the heir?”

“Yes, I—” She gestured. “I don’t need it and don’t want it.”

“But it’s yours. That will do nicely. An asset of the estate is the expectation of damages to be paid by Mr. James for his assault on Mr. Mion. You may properly claim that asset. The six people I want to see were all concerned in that affair, one way or another. I’ll write them immediately, mailing the letter tonight special delivery, telling them that I represent you in the matter and would like them to call at my office tomorrow evening.”

“That’s impossible!” Peggy cried, shocked. “I couldn’t! I wouldn’t dream of asking Gif to pay damages—”

Wolfe banged a fist on his desk. “Confound it!” he roared. “Get out of here! Go! Do you think murders are solved by cutting out paper dolls? First you lie to me, and now you refuse to annoy people, including the murderer! Archie, put them out!”

“Good for you,” I muttered at him. I was getting fed up too. I glared at the would-be clients. “Try the Salvation Army,” I suggested. “They’re old hands at helping people in trouble. You can have the notebooks to take along — at cost, six bits. No charge for the contents.”

They were looking at each other.

“I guess he has to see them somehow,” Fred conceded. “He has to have a reason, and I must admit that’s a good one. You don’t owe them anything — not one of them.”

Peggy gave in.

After a few details had been attended to, the most important of which was getting addresses, they left. The manner of their going, and of our speeding them, was so far from cordial that it might have been thought that instead of being the clients they were the prey. But the check was on my desk. When, after letting them out, I returned to the office, Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut, frowning in distaste.

I stretched and yawned. “This ought to be fun,” I said encouragingly. “Making it just a grab for damages. If the murderer is among the guests, see how long you can keep it from him. I bet he catches on before the jury comes in with the verdict.”

“Shut up,” he growled. “Blockheads.”

“Oh, have a heart,” I protested. “People in love aren’t supposed to think, that’s why they have to hire trained thinkers. You should be happy and proud they picked you. What’s a good big lie or two when you’re in love? When I saw—”

“Shut up,” he repeated. His eyes came open. “Your notebook. Those letters must go at once.”

Monday evening’s party lasted a full three hours, and murder wasn’t mentioned once. Even so, it wasn’t exactly jolly. The letters had put it straight that Wolfe, acting for Mrs. Mion, wanted to find out whether an appropriate sum could be collected from Gifford James without resort to lawyers and a court, and what sum would be thought appropriate. So each of them was naturally in a state of mind: Gifford James himself; his daughter Clara; his lawyer, Judge Henry Arnold; Adele Bosley for Public Relations; Dr. Nicholas Lloyd as the technical expert; and Rupert Grove, who had been Mion’s manager. That made six, which was just comfortable for our big office. Fred and Peggy had not been invited.

The James trio arrived together and were so punctual, right on the dot at nine o’clock, that Wolfe and I hadn’t yet finished our after-dinner coffee in the office. I was so curious to have a look that I went to answer the door instead of leaving it to Fritz, the chef and house overseer who helps to make Wolfe’s days and years a joy forever almost as much as I do. The first thing that impressed me was that the baritone took the lead crossing the threshold, letting his daughter and his lawyer tag along behind. Since I have occasionally let Lily Rowan share her pair of opera seats with me, James’ six feet and broad shoulders and cocky strut were nothing new, but I was surprised that he looked so young, since he must have been close to fifty. He handed me his hat as if taking care of his hat on Monday evening, August 15, was the one and only thing I had been born for. Unfortunately I let it drop.