Rex Stout - Champange for One

“Right.”

“There is also the fact that she was the most likely target, since the poison was in her bag, making it highly probable that the conclusion would be that she had killed herself. But for you, that would be the conclusion. Therefore it was almost certainly intended for her.”

“Right.”

“But, for the reasons given by Mr Cramer, it couldn’t possibly have been intended for her.”

I grinned at him. “What the hell,” I said. “I know it’s a lulu. I admit I wouldn’t know where to start, but I’m not supposed to. That’s your part. Speaking of starting, Saul and Fred and Orrie will be here at nine o’clock.”

He made a face. He had to cook up chores for them, nine o’clock was less than three hours away, for one of the hours he would be dining, and he would not work his brain at the table.

“I have,” he growled, “only this moment committed myself, after consulting you. Mr Laidlaw’s cheque could have been returned.” He flattened his palms on the chair arms. “Then I’m in for it, and so are you. You will go tomorrow morning to that institution, Grantham House, and learn about Faith Usher. How she got there, when she came and when she left, what happened to her infant—everything. Cover it.”

“I will if I can get in. I mention as a fact, not an objection, that that place has certainly had a lot of visitors today. At least a dozen assorted journalists, not to mention cops. Have you any suggestions?”

“Yes. You told me yesterday morning that a man you know named Austin Byne had phoned to ask you to take his place at that gathering. Today Mr Laidlaw said that a man named Austin Byne, Mrs Robilotti’s nephew, had once gone to Grantham House on an errand for his aunt. I suppose the same man?”

“You suppose.” I crossed my legs. “It wouldn’t hurt you any, and would be good for my morale, if you let me take a trick now and then. Austin Byne had already occurred to me, and I asked for suggestions only to be polite. I already know what your powers of observation and memory are and you didn’t have to demonstrate them by remembering that I had mentioned his name on the fly and—Why the snort?”

“At the notion that your morale needs any encouragement. Do you know where to reach Mr Byne?”

I said I did and, before resuming at the typewriter, dialled his number. No answer. During the next hour and a half I interrupted my typing four times to dial the number, and still no answer. By then it was dinner-time. For himself, Wolfe will permit nothing and no one to interfere with the course of a meal, and, since we dine together in the dining-room, my leaving the table is a sort of interference and he doesn’t like it, but that time I had to. Three times during dinner I went to the office to dial Byne’s number, with no luck, and I tried again when, having finished the baked pears, we transferred to the office and Fritz brought coffee. I accept a “no answer” verdict only after counting thirteen rings, and had got nine when the doorbell rang and Fritz announced Saul Panzer. The other two came a minute later.

That trio, the three that Wolfe always called on when we needed more eyes and ears and legs, were as good as you could get in the metropolitan area. In fact, Saul Panzer, a little guy with a big nose who never wore a hat, compromising on a cap when the weather was rough, was better. With an office and a staff he could have cleaned up, but that wouldn’t have left him enough time for playing the piano or playing pinochle or keeping up with his reading, so he preferred to freelance at seventy bucks a day. Fred Durkin, bulky and bald-headed, had his weak points, but he was worth at least half as much as Saul, which was his price, if you gave him the right kind of errands. If Orrie Gather had been as smart as he was brave and handsome he would have been hiring people instead of being hired, and Wolfe would have had to find someone else, which wouldn’t have been easy because good operatives are scarce.

They were on yellow chairs in a row facing Wolfe’s desk. We hadn’t seen any of them for two months, and civilities had been exchanged, including handshakes. They are three of the nine or ten people to whom Wolfe willingly offers a hand. Saul and Orrie had accepted offers of coffee; Fred had preferred beer.

Wolfe sipped coffee, put his cup down, and surveyed them. “I have undertaken,” he said, “to find an explanation for something that can’t possibly be explained.”

Fred Durkin frowned, concentrating. He had decided long ago that there was a clue in every word Wolfe uttered, and he wasn’t going to miss one if he could help it. Orrie Gather smiled to show that he recognized a gag when he heard it, and finally appreciated—it. Saul Panzer said, “Then the job is to invent one.”

Wolfe nodded.” It may come to that, Saul. Either that or abandon it. Usually, as you know, I merely give you specific assignments, but in this case you will have to be told the situation and the background. We are dealing with the death of a woman named Faith Usher who drank poisoned champagne at the home of Mrs Robert Robilotti. I suppose you have heard of it.”

They all had.

Wolfe drank coffee. “But you should know all that I know, except the identity of my client. Yesterday morning Archie got a phone call from a man he knows, by name Austin Byne, the nephew of Mrs Robilotti. He asked Archie…”

Seeing that I could be spared for a while, and thinking it was time for another try at Byne, I got up, circled around the trio, went to the kitchen, and dialled the number on the extension there. After five rings I was thinking I was going to draw a blank again, but then I had a voice saying hallo.

“Byne?” I asked. “Dinky Byne?”

“Who is this?”

“Archie Goodwin.”

“Oh, hallo there. I’ve been thinking you might call. To give me hell for getting you into a mess. I don’t blame you. Go on and say it.”

“I could all right, but I’ve got another idea. You said you’d return the favour some day, and tomorrow is the day. I want to run up to Grantham House and have a talk with someone there, preferably the woman in charge, and they’re probably having too many visitors and won’t let me in. So I thought you might say a word for me—on the phone, or write a letter I can take, or maybe even go along. How about it?”

Silence. Then: “What makes you think a word from me would help?”

“You’re Mrs Robilotti’s nephew. And I heard somebody say, I forget who, that she has sent you there on errands.”

Another silence. “What are you after? What do you want to talk about?”

“I’m just curious about something. Some questions the cops have asked me because I was there last night, the mess you got me into, have made me curious.”

“What questions?”

“That’s a long story. Also complicated. Just say I’m nosy by nature, that’s why I’m in the detective business. Maybe I’m trying to scare up a client. Anyway, I’m not asking you to attend a death by poisoning, as you did me, though you didn’t know it. I just want you to make a phone call.”

“I can’t, Archie.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because I’m not in a position to. It wouldn’t be– It might look as if—I mean I just can’t do it.”

“Okay, forget it. I’ll have to feed some other curiosity—I’ve got plenty. For instance, my curiosity about why you asked me to fill in for you because you had such a cold you could hardly talk when you didn’t have a cold—at least not the kind you tried to fake, I haven’t told the cops about that, your faking the cold, so I guess I’d better do that and ask them to ask you why. I’m curious.”

“You’re crazy. I did have a cold. I wasn’t faking.”

“Nuts. Take care of yourself. I’ll be seeing you, or the cops will.”