Rex Stout - A Right to Die

Brooke's eyes went to Wolfe, to me, and to Vaughn. Apparently they were inviting a suggestion but got none. His wife had stepped to the door. Rising, he told Wolfe, "I'm in the phone book, both my laboratory and my home. When I said I want to help I meant it. Come on, Peter."

Vaughn thought he was going to say something but vetoed it, and because of his hesitation I reached the hall ahead of them. Mrs. Brooke was at the rack, getting her coat, and I went and offered a hand. She ignored it, gave me a withering look, stood until the men approached, and said, "Hold my coat, Kenneth." I opened the door wide, quick, to let the cold air hit her before she got it on. As they went out and I shut the door I decided to see the eight-year-old son in the near future and ask him what time he had gone to bed on Monday, March 2. No woman can throw a pie at me and keep my good will.

I went to the office and told Wolfe, "Okay, Dolly Brooke killed her because she was going to marry a quote mgger unquote, and how do we prove it?"

He frowned. "I have told you not to use that word in my hearing."

"I was merely quoting. It isn't-"

"Shut up. I mean the word 'unquote' and you know it."

I took a good stretch and an unpatted yawn. "Too much sitting and no walk. Six hours at the typewriter. Mrs. Brooke deliberately insulted me on the way out. It was at her suggestion that they came. She wanted to find out how much you knew. A month ago she told her husband that she knew or suspected that Susan was going to many a quote nigger end of quotation. She knew where the apartment was; she had been there. She had to kill Susan; it wouldn't have solved the problem to kill Dunbar because Susan would merely have picked another one-the way she saw it. The alibi is piddling. For something as important as a murder you couldn't be blamed for leaving a boy in bed asleep, or even for putting just a touch of pentobarbital sodium in his milk. Or Mother Brooke came and baby-sat, knowing or unknowing. Filicide is no more unheard of than sororicide. What have I left out?"

"Three little points. She said Susan Brooke was a lady. She didn't consider her one, and doesn't. She knew that Mr. Whipple lives not far from that apartment. She dropped her bag when she stood up. Where does she live?"

I went to my desk, got the Manhattan book, and found the page. "Park Avenue in the Sixties. Sixty-seventh or -eighth."

"How would she have gone?"

"Probably a taxi. Possibly her own car if she has one."

"Get Saul. Has she a car, and if so, did she use it that evening. Your notebook."

I objected. Saul Panzer's rate was ten dollars an hour, plus expenses, and this was on the house. I asked politely, "Am I crippled?"

"You have another errand-Mr. Oster and Mr. WhippIe. Your notebook. For tomorrow's paper, one will do, the Gazette. Single column, say two inches. Headed 'A cabdriver,' fourteen-point, boldface. Following, eleven-point standard: 'took an attractive well-dressed woman, comma, around thirty, comma, from the Sixties to One Hundred and Twenty-eighth Street early in the evening of Monday, comma, March second. It will be to his advantage to communicate with me.' Below, my name and address and telephone number. To run three days, tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday. Any comment?"

"One. East Sixties."

"Insert it."

"She may spot it. Does that matter?"

"No. If she's open to menace, the more she's stirred the better. Your notebook. Questions for Mr. Oster and Mr. Whipple. We don't want an army here. Only those who-"

"I'll get the ad in first." I got the phone and dialed.

8

It was a lousy weekend. Nothing went right. Nothing went exactly wrong either, but you can say that if you just go to bed and don't get up.

My Saturday morning date with Oster and Whipple was canceled because Oster was called to Washington for a parley at the Department of Justice. He might be back Sunday night. Saul Panzer is the best free-lance operative who ever stopped a closing door with his foot, but even Saul was stymied when he learned that the man who had been on duty that Monday evening at the garage where the Kenneth Brookes kept their two Herons was off somewhere for the weekend, nobody knew where. At four o'clock Saturday afternoon I was invited to the DA's office to discuss some selected items in the report I had delivered to Cramer, and was kept so long by an assistant district attorney named Mandel, who would enjoy looking at me through bars with him on the outside, that I was two hours late for a dancing date with friends at the Flamingo. Lon Cohen phoned once Saturday and twice Sunday. Some brainy journalist, maybe Lon himself, having seen the ad, had recalled the fact that Susan Brooke's married brother lived in the East Sixties, and of course 128th Street was obvious, and Lon wanted to know what gave. I stalled him off Saturday, but he called twice Sunday to ask if the hackie had shown. He hadn't. Not a peep.

A lousy weekend.

I finally got to Oster early Monday afternoon, at the office of the ROCC, a whole floor of a building on 39th Street near Lexington Avenue. It wasn't lavish, but neither was it seedy. I was a little surprised to see that the switchboard girl, who doubled in reception, was my color, even a little lighter-a middle-aged female, hair showing some gray, with a chin and a half and a long thin nose, which didn't fit. I learned later that of the total office staff of thirty-four, five were white, and of the five whites, four were volunteers, what Dolly Brooke would call do-gooders.

Oster's room was small, one window, but after a few words he took me down the hall to the corner room of the executive director, Thomas Henchy, and it was quite a chamber, with a few dozen photographs on the walls where the cabinets and shelves left room. I had seen Henchy on television a couple of times, and so have you probably-broad shoulders, cheeks a little pudgy but not flabby, short neck. Color, strong coffee with one teaspoon of cream. He got up to shake hands, and I took a little care with the grip. Men with short necks are apt to be knuckle-crushers.

When I left, more than an hour later, the program for the evening was set, with no hard feelings. I had explained that when Wolfe had said "the entire staff" he hadn't meant it literally. He wanted to see only those, who, because of their contacts or relations with Susan or Dunbar, or both, might possibly be able to supply useful information; and the selection would be up to them, Oster and Henchy, in discussion with me. That was satisfactory, and we proceeded to discuss. I had a list in my pocket when I left, and when I got back to the office I typed it forWolfe:

***

THOMAS HENCHY, around 50, executive director. He was courteous but not cordial. He knows it's doing ROOC a lot of harm and he hates it. Possibly thinks Whipple killed her.

HAROLD R. OSTER, Counsel. He had evidently told Henchy that a conference at our office was his idea, and I didn't spoil it.

ADAM EWING, around 40, colored, in charge of public relations, worked closely with Whipple. I met him. Smart and very earnest. Thinks he knows everything, and possibly does. Chips on both shoulders. Light caramel.

CASS FAISON, 45, colored, in charge of fund-raising. Susan Brooke worked under him. I met him. They don't come any blacker. Turns his grin on and off. I wouldn't be surprised if he liked Susan and doesn't like Dunbar. No innuendo intended.