Rex Stout - A Right to Die

"We want to know," his wife said, "if you know the truth, the truth about Susan."

Wolfe grunted. "So do I. I certainly don't know all of it. Perhaps you can help me. What fragment of the truth about her would you like me to know?"

"What she was like," Mrs. Brooke said.

"Her character, her personality," Brooke said.

"Her quality," Vaughn said. "She couldn't possibly have been… with a black man… that apartment. I was going to marry her."

"Indeed. She was engaged?"

"Well… it was understood. It had been for nearly two years. I was waiting until she had had enough of her-kink."

"Kink?"

"Well-caprice. Do-gooding."

"It wasn't just do-gooding," Mrs. Brooke declared. "I flatter myself that I do a little good myself sometimes. But Susan had to go all-out. Giving them money wasn't enough, and even working with them wasn't enough. She had to have that place right in the middle of the Harlem slums and even eat and sleep there sometimes."

Wolfe asked, "Were you ever there-that apartment?"

"Yes, I went with Mother Brooke-her mother. She insisted on seeing it. It was terrible-the neighborhood, the dirt and the smell, and the awful people. They don't want to be called niggers, but that's what they are. But the idea that Susan could be… with one of them… could have one of them with her in that apartment, that's absolutely absurd. She was a lady. She had a kink all right, but she was a lady. So you're perfectly right, that Dunbar Whipple didn't kill her. She was killed by some black hoodlum. Heaven knows there's enough of them."

Wolfe nodded. "Your logic seems sound. I understand the police have considered that possibility and reject it because valuables were there in plain sight, not taken, and Miss Brooke had not been sexually assaulted."

"That doesn't prove anything. Something scared him, some noise or something. Or he hadn't intended to kill her and that scared him."

"Quite possible. As a conjecture, certainly admissible. But it will take more than a conjecture to clear Mr. Whipple; he was in the apartment; he had been there more than half an hour when the police arrived. The hoodlum theory is futile unless he is found and established. I'm not sure I understand your position. If, as you said, the idea that Miss Brooke 'could have one of them with her in that apartment' is absurd, how do you account for Mr. Whipple being there?"

"He went to ask her something or tell her something about her work. He lives only a few blocks away."

"But I understand that he went there frequently, that he has told the police that he and Miss Brooke were planning to be married."

"He's a liar," Vaughn said.

'That's absolutely absurd," Mrs. Brooke said.

"I don't understand your position," Brooke said. "According to the piece in the paper, you have good reason to believe that Dunbar Whipple is innocent, but you don't talk like it. You call the hoodlum theory futile. Will you tell us why you think he's innocent?"

"No, sir. Why do you? If you do."

"I'm not sure I do."

"Your wife said that you know I'm right."

"She should have said that we hope you're right." Brooke was forward in the chair, leaning forward. "When she showed me that piece in the paper, I said, 'Thank God.' My sister is dead, nothing can be done about that, but what's being printed and said about her-it's killing her mother. My mother. It's so ugly-that apartment and a Negro. If he didn't kill her and you can prove it, that will be different. Maybe he did go there just to talk about her work, and found her dead. That will be different. It might save my mother's life. I guess you know what I'm saying. I'm admitting that it's not impossible that my sister intended to marry a colored man-"

"Kenneth! Are you crazy?"

"I'm talking, Dolly." He stayed at Wolfe. "I wouldn't like it-who would?-but I admit it's possible. But they weren't married. Were they?"

"No."

"Then if he killed her it was-ugly. Sordid and ugly. But if you can prove he didn't kill her, that will be different. I'm repeating myself, but you know what I'm trying to say. It's the murder that counts. If someone else killed her, people will forget about Dunbar Whipple. Even my mother will forget about him-not really forget, I suppose, but it will be different. So we want-I want to know why you say Whipple is innocent."

His wife had been trying to get a word in. She blurted it at him. "You're crazy, Kenneth! Susan would not have married a black man!"

"Oh, skip it, Dolly," he told her. "You know what you said just a month-"

"I was just talking!"

"Well, you said it." To Wolfe: "So I want to know. I not only want to know, I want to help. I know you get big fees, and I don't suppose Whipple or his father is very flush. If you'll tell me how it stands, I want to help."

Wolfe shook his head. "Possibly you can help but not with money. As for how it stands, it doesn't; it impends. I won't disclose the ground for my conclusion that Mr. Whipple is innocent, but it includes no inkling of the identity of the murderer. You might help with that; you were all close to her. If it was neither Mr. Whipple nor a hoodlum, who was it? Who is better off because she is dead? In mind or body or purse. That's always the question. Don't just shake your heads; consider it. Whose life is easier because hers is ended?"

"Nobody's," Brooke said.

"Pfui. Someone killed her, and someone who knew of that apartment. If you want to help me find him, search your memories. I have no memories; I start empty, and I'll start now. Mr. Brooke, where were you that evening between eight and nine o'clock?"

Brooke just stared at him.

"I'm quite serious," Wolfe said. "Sororicide is by no means unheard of. Where were you?"

"Good God," Brooke said, still staring.

"You're shocked. So would you be if you killed her. Where were you?"

"I was at my laboratory."

"From eight to nine?"

"From seven till nearly midnight. I was there when my wife phoned me about Susan."

"Were you alone?"

"No. Three others were there."

"Then the shock was bearable." Wolfe's head went right. "Mr. Vaughn?"

His bony jaw was set. "I resent this," he said.

"Of course you do. Anybody would. Where were you?"

"At my club. Harvard. Eating dinner and then watching a bridge game."

"From eight to nine?"

"Yes. And before and after."

"Then your resentment is also bearable. Mrs. Brooke?"

"I resent it too." Her face was showing color. "It's ridiculous."

"But not impertinent, if you want to help. Where were you?"

"I was at home. All evening."

"Alone?"

"No. My son was there."

"How old is your son?"

"Eight."

"Anyone else? A servant?"

"No. The maid was out." She moved abruptly and was on her feet. Her bag dropped to the floor, and Vaughn bent over to get it. "This is insulting," she said. "I'm surprised that you tolerate it, Kenneth. If he won't tell us anything, I'm sorry I suggested coming. Take me home." She moved.