Rex Stout - The Second Confesion

First, was he dead? He was. Second, what killed him? The answer to that wasn't as conclusive, but there weren't many alternatives. Third, how long ago had he died? I had a guess for that one, with some experience to go by. Fourth, what was in his pockets? That took more care and time on account of complications.

For instance, when I had frisked him at the roadside Sunday night, after Ruth Brady had prepared him for me, I had used a fair amount of caution, but now fair wasn't good enough. I gave his leather wallet a good rub with my handkerchief, inside and out, put prints from both his hands all over it but kept them haphazard, and returned it to his pocket. It contained a good assortment of bills, so he must have cashed a cheque since I had cleaned him. I wanted very much to repeat the performance on the Communist Party membership card and its cellophane holder, but couldn't because it wasn't there. Naturally that irritated me, and I felt all the seams and linings to make sure. It wasn't on him.

My mind was completely on getting the job done right and in time, before the girls returned, but when I finally gave up on the membership card I felt my stomach suddenly go tight, and I stood up and backed off. It will happen that way sometimes, no matter how thick and hard you think your shell is, when you least expect it. I turned to face the other way, made my chest big, and took some deep breaths. If that doesn't work the only thing to do is lie down. But I didn't have to, and anyhow I would have had to pop right up again, for in between two breaths I heard voices. Then I saw that I had left the flashlight turned on, there on the ground. I got it and turned it off, and made my way back to the clearing beyond the thicket in the dark, trying not to sound like a charging moose.

I was at my post, a patient sentinel, when the girls appeared and crossed the open space to me, with Madeline asking as they approached, “Did he come?” “Not a sound of him,” I told them, preferring the truth when it will serve the purpose. “Then you didn't get him?” “I got a phone-answering service.” That was Gwenn. “They said he would be back after midnight and wanted me to leave a message. I'm going to stay here a little while, to see if he came on the eleven thirty-two, and then quit. Do you think something happened to him?” “Certainly something happened to him, if he stood you up, but God knows what.

Time will tell.” The three of us were making a little triangle. “You won't need me, and if he comes you won't want me. I'm going in to Mr Wolfe. His nerves are on edge with the suspense, and I want to ease his mind. I won't go around the house shouting it, but I want to tell him he'll be going home soon.” They didn't care for that much but had to admit it was reasonable, and I got away. I took the short-cut as they directed, got lost in the woods twice but finally made it to the open, skirted the rose garden and crossed the lawn, and entered the house by the front door. In the room upstairs Wolfe was still reading the book. As I closed the door behind me he started to scorch me with an indignant look for being gone so long, but when he saw my face, which he knows better than I do, he abandoned it, “Well?” he asked mildly.

“Not well at all,” I declared. “Somebody has killed Louis Rony, I think by driving a car over him, but that will take more looking. It's behind a bush about twenty yards from the driveway, at a point about two-thirds of the distance from the house to the public road. It's a rotten break in every way, because Gwenn had decided to toss him out.” Wolfe was growling. “Who found it?” “I did.” “Who knows about it?” “No one. Now you.” Wolfe got up, fast. “Where's my hat?” He looked around. “Oh, downstairs. Where are Mr and Mrs Sperling? We'll tell them there is nothing more for us to do here and we're going home-but not in a flurry-merely that it's late and we can go now-come on!” “Flurry hell. You know damn well we're stuck.” He stood and glared at me. When that didn't seem to be improving the situation any he let himself go back on to the chair, felt the book under him, got up and grabbed it-and for a second I thought he was going to throw it at something, maybe even me. For him to throw a book, loving them as he did, would have been a real novelty. He controlled himself in time, tossed the book on to a handy table, got seated again, and rasped at me, “Confound it, sit down! Must I stretch my neck off?” I didn't blame him a particle. I would have been having a tantrum myself if I hadn't been too busy.

CHAPTER Nine

“The first thing,” I said, “is this: have I seen it or not? If I have, there's the phone, and any arrangements to be made before company comes will have to be snappy. If I haven't, take your time. It's behind the bush on the side away from the drive and might not be noticed for a week, except for dogs. So?” “I don't know enough about it,” Wolfe said peevishly. “What were you doing there?” I told him. That first question was too urgent, for me personally, to fill in with details such as stopping at the barn to count the horses, but I didn't skip any points that mattered, like Madeline's reason for being upset over Gwenn's trip outdoors, or like my handling of the fingerprint problem on the wallet. I gave it to him compact and fast but left out no essentials. When I finished he had only three questions: “Have you had the thought, however vaguely, with or without evidence to inspire it, that Miss Sperling took you past that spot intentionally?” “No.” “Can footprints be identified in the vicinity of the body?” Tm not sure, but I doubt it.” “Can your course be traced, no matter how, as you went from the thicket to the body and back again?” “Same answer. Davy Crockett might do it. I didn't have him in mind at the time, and anyhow it was dark.” Wolfe grunted. “We're away from home. We can't risk it. Get them all up here-the Sperlings. Go for the young women yourself, or the young one may not come. Just get them; leave the news for me. Get the young women first, and the others when you're back in the house. I don't want Mr Sperling up here ahead of them.” I went and wasted no time. It was only a simple little chore, compared with other occasions when he had sent me from the office to get people, and this time my heart was in my work. Evidently the answer to the question whether I had seen the body was to be yes, and in that case the sooner the phone got used the better. Wolfe would do his part, that was all right, but actually it was up to me, since I was old enough to vote and knew how to dial a number. On the long list of things that cops don't like, up near the top is acting as if finding a corpse is a purely private matter.

It was simple with the girls. I told Gwenn that Wolfe had just received information which made it certain that Rony would not show up, and he wanted to see her at once to tell her about it, and of course there was no argument. Back at the house, the others were just as simple. Jimmy was downstairs playing ping-pong with Connie, and Madeline went and got him. Mr and Mrs Sperling were in the living-room with Webster Kane and Paul Emerson, and I told them that Wolfe would like to speak with them for a minute. Just Sperlings.

There weren't enough chairs for all of us in the bedroom, so for once Wolfe had to start a conversation with most of his audience standing, whether he liked it or not. Sperling was obviously completely fed up with his long wait, a full seven hours now, for an important decision about his affairs to be made by someone else, even his own daughter, and he wanted to start in after Gwenn, but Wolfe stopped him quick. He fired a question at them.