Rex Stout - Three Doors to Death (The Rex Stout Library)

Eight-sixteen East Ninetieth Street was neither a dump nor a castle of luxury – just one of the big clean hives. Leaving the taxi waiting at the curb, I entered, walked across the lobby as if I were in my own home, entered the elevator, and mumbled casually, "Ten please."

The man moved no muscle but his jaw. "Who do you want to see?"

"Dickson."

"I'll have to phone up. What's your name?"

"Tell him it's a message from Mr. Bernard Daumery."

The man moved. I followed him out of the elevator and around a corner to the switchboard, and watched him plug in and flip a switch. In a moment he was speaking into the transmitter, and in another moment he turned to me.

"He says for me to bring the message up."

"Tell him my name is Goodwin and I was told to give it to him personally."

Apparently Dickson didn't have to think things over. At least there was no extended discussion. The man pulled out the plug, told me to come ahead, and led me back to the elevator. He took me to the tenth floor and thumbed me to the left, and I went to the end of the hall, to the door marked 10C. The door was ajar, to a crack big enough to stick a peanut in, and as my finger was aiming for the pushbutton a voice came through.

"You have a message from Mr. Daumery?"

"Yes, sir, for George Dickson."

"I'm Dickson. Hand it through to me."

"I can't. It's verbal."

"Then say it. What is it?"

"I'll have to see you first. You were described to me. Mr. Daumery is in a little trouble."

For a couple of seconds nothing happened, then the door opened wide enough to admit ten bags of peanuts abreast. Since he had certainly had his hoof placed to keep it from opening, I evened up by promptly placing mine to keep it from shutting. The light was nothing wonderful, but good enough to see that he was a husky middle-aged specimen with a wide mouth, dark-colored deepset eyes, and a full share of chin.

"What kind of trouble?" he snapped.

"He'll have to tell you about it," I said apologetically. "I'm just a messenger. All I can tell you is that I was instructed to ask you to come to him."

"Why didn't he phone me?"

"A phone isn't available to him right now."

"Where is he?"

"At Nero Wolfe's office on West Thirty-fifth Street."

"Who else is there?"

"Several people. Mr. Wolfe, of course, and men named Demarest and Roper, and women named Zarella and Nieder – that's all."

The dark eyes had got darker. "I think you're lying. I don't think Mr. Daumery sent for me at all. I think this is a put-up job and you can get out of here and stay out."

"Okay, brother." I kept the foot in place. "Where did I get your name and address, from a mailing list? You knew Mr. Daumery was at Nero Wolfe's, since he phoned you around seven o'clock to ask your advice about going, and he told you who else was invited, so what's wrong with that? Why do you think he can't use a phone, because he don't speak English? Even if it were a put-up job as you say, I don't quite see what you can do except to come along and unput it, unless you'd rather do it here. They've got the impression that your help is badly needed. My understanding was that if I didn't get there with you by eleven o'clock they would all pile into a taxi, including Mr. Daumery, and come here to see you. So if you turn me down all I can do is push on inside and wait with you till they arrive. If you try to bounce me, we'll see. If you call on that skinny elevator pilot for help, we'll still see. If you summon cops, I'll try my hardest to wiggle out of it by explaining the situation to them. That seems to cover it, don't you think? I've got a taxi waiting out front."

From the look in his eye I thought it likely that he was destined to take a poke at me, or even make a dash for some tool, say a window pole, to work with. There was certainly no part of me he liked. But, as Demarest had said, he was anything but a fool. Most men would have needed a good ten minutes alone in a quiet corner to get the right answer to the problem this bird suddenly found himself confronted with. Not Mr. Dickson. It took him a scant thirty seconds, during which he stood with his eyes on me but his brain doing hurdles, high jumps, and fancy dives.

He wheeled and opened a door, got a hat from a shelf and put it on, emerged to the hall as I backed out, pulled the door shut, marched to the elevator, and pushed the button.

By the time we had descended to the sidewalk, climbed into the taxi, been driven to Wolfe's address, mounted the stoop and entered, and proceeded to the office, he had not uttered another word. Neither had I. I am not the kind that shoves in where he isn't wanted.

XIII

We were back again to the headline we had started with: "Man Alive." This time, however, I did not regard it as a letdown. I took it for granted that by the time I got back everyone there would know who was coming with me, even if one or two of them hadn't caught on before I left. I thought it would be interesting to see how they would welcome, under those difficult circumstances, their former employer and associate on his return from a watery grave, but he took charge of the script himself as he entered the office. He strode across to face Bernard and glare down at him. Bernard scrambled to his feet.

Dickson asked, his tone cold and biting, "What the hell's the matter with you? Can't you handle anything at all?"

"Not this I can't," Bernard said, and he was by no means whimpering. "This man Wolfe is one for you to handle, and I only hope to God you can!"

Without moving his shoulders, Dickson pivoted his head to take them in. "Well, I'm back," he announced. "I would have been back soon anyway, but this bright nephew of mine has hurried it up a little. Ward, you're looking like a window display in a fire sale. Still putting up with them, Polly? Now you'll have to put up with me again. Cynthia, I hear you're on the way to lead the whole pack." His head pivoted some more. "Where's Henry? I thought he was here."

I was asking that question myself. Neither Wolfe nor Demarest was in sight. I had turned to ask Fritz where they were, but he had left the room as soon as I appeared. And not only were those two missing, but what was fully as surprising, there had been two additions to the party. Inspector Cramer and my favorite sergeant, Purley Stebbins, were seated side by side on the couch over in the far corner.

I dodged my way through the welcomers, some sitting and some standing, and asked Cramer respectfully, "Where's Mr. Wolfe?"

"Somewhere with a lawyer," Cramer growled, "making up charades. Who's that you brought in?"

"George Dickson, so I'm told. I suppose Mr. Wolfe phoned you to come and get a murderer?"

"He did."

"Your face is dirty, Purley."

"Go to hell."

"I was just starting. Excuse me."

I began to dodge my way back to the hall door, thinking that I had better find my employer and inform him that I had delivered as usual, but I was only halfway there when he and Demarest appeared, coming in to us. After one swift glance at the assembly, the lawyer sidled off along the wall to a remote chair over by the bookshelves, evidently not being in a welcoming mood. Wolfe headed for his desk, but in the middle of the room found himself blocked. George Dickson was there, facing him.