Rex Stout - Not Quite Dead Enough (The Rex Stout Library)

I looked at Lily. “Keep your voice low so we can hear the door open. You’d better whisper. How often have you been to the apartment?”

“Only once. A long time ago. I love you like this, Arch-”

“Save it for Christmas. Whose bell did you ring?”

“I don’t know. One of the upper-”

“Did anybody see you going in or coming out?”

“I don’t know about going in. I think not. I’m sure they didn’t coming out because I looked around and glanced up the stairs.”

“Does anybody there know you? Besides Ann?”

“Mrs. Chack does, that’s all. Ann’s grandmother.”

“Was anybody-hold it.”

The street door was opening. It closed again, and I heard Wolfe’s voice, and a murmur of Fritz’s. Footsteps went down the hall and the door to the kitchen opened and closed.

I went noiselessly to the door to the hall and eased it open. The one to the kitchen was shut, and sounds came from beyond it. I beckoned to Lily and when she joined me whispered in her ear, “Fast and silent. Understand?” and tiptoed to the front door and got it open without a sound. Lily slipped through and me after her, I shut the door with only a faint click, and we went down the steps to the sidewalk and turned east. She had to trot to keep up. When we reached the avenue and turned the corner I got her into a doorway.

“Now. Was anyone standing around the entrance when you went in?”

“Standing around? No. But what-”

“Don’t talk. I’m busy. You’re noticeable. Did anyone notice you going in or coming out?”

“I don’t think so. If they did I didn’t notice them.”

“Okay. I’m leaving you. Here’s your program. Go some place out of town, not far, Long Island or Westchester. Leave a note for me at the Ritz telling me where, but don’t tell anyone else. I-”

“You mean go now?”

“Right now. Pack a bag and go. Within an hour.”

“You go to hell.” She had my arm in both hands. “You darned nut, didn’t I run to you in my hour of need? I’m going to have a drink, several drinks, and you’re going to have some with me. What do you think I-”

I tried to bull it through, but nothing doing. She balked good, and time was precious. So I said, “Listen, angel. I’ve got a job to do and you’ve got to help. I haven’t time to explain it. Do as I say, and I’ll get a week-end leave Saturday and you can write your ticket, anything short of rowing on the lake in Central Park.”

“This coming Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“An absolutely unqualified promise?”

“Yes, damn it.”

“Gentlemen prefer blondes. Kiss me good-by.”

I made it a quick one, dashed across the sidewalk to a taxi, and told the driver corner of Barnum and Christopher, and step on it. My watch said 6:15. Roy had 13 minutes start on me.

Chapter 7

On account of Roy Douglas, there was a mighty slim hope of being able to fill in my sketch, but when I jumped from the cab at the corner and hotfooted it for Number 316 and saw there was no sign of anything unusual, the chances looked slightly better. The odds against me were still about 20 to 1. If anyone else, including Roy, had beat me to it and called the cops or a doctor or even the neighbors, or if grandma had come home early, or if 17 other things, my plan was a washout.

It would have been a swell break if the door had been unlatched, but it wasn’t, so I pushed the Chack-Amory button, not daring to risk one of the others, and in about five seconds the click sounded. That might have been either good or bad, and there was no time to speculate. I entered and went down the hall, and there was Roy standing in the open door of the Chack apartment, his face pasty and twitching, trembling all over. Before he could say anything I shoved him inside and closed the door, touching it only with a knuckle. He looked as if he might start screaming. I steered him out of the little hall into a room and to a chair, and pushed him into it.

“She’s dead,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t-look at her.”

“Keep quiet,” I commanded him. “Understand? Keep quiet. I know things about this you don’t know.”

I made a survey. There was no disorder, no sign of a scrap. I didn’t blame Roy for not being able to look at Ann, because it wasn’t actually Ann. It was only what was left, and it didn’t resemble Ann at all. Lily had mentioned the two main aspects, the tongue and the eyes. The upper part of the body was sort of propped up against the front of an upholstered chair, and the blue woolen scarf around the throat had a knot under the left ear. Approaching and kneeling down, it took me ten seconds to make sure that it was a body and not a girl. It was still as warm as life.

I returned to Roy. He was slumped in the chair with his head hanging, and I doubted if there was enough stiffness in his spine to lift his head to look at me, so I lowered myself to one knee to look at him.

“Listen, Roy,” I said, “we’ve got to do some things. How long ago did you get here?”

He stared at me. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I came straight here.”

“How did you get in?”

“In where? Oh-my key-”

“No, in here. This apartment.”

“The door was open.”

“Wide open?”

“I don’t know-no, not wide open. Just open a little.”

“Did you see anybody? Did anybody see you?”

“No, I didn’t see anybody.”

“You didn’t call anyone, phone anyone? A doctor? The police?”

“A doctor?” He squinted at me. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, she’s dead. You didn’t call the police?”

He shook his head vaguely. “I didn’t-I wasn’t-”

“Okay. Hold it. Stay where you are.” I got erect and glanced around, and through an open door saw a corner of a bed. I crossed over and into the bedroom, sat down on a stool at a dressing-table, got my notebook and pencil from my inside breast pocket, and wrote on a sheet of the book:

Dear Ann -

Sorry, I’ll have to change the arrangement. Don’t come to Nero Wolfe’s place at seven. Instead, I’ll come for you around 5:30.

Archie

I tore out the sheet and folded it and crinkled it a little, then leaned closer to the mirror to see better, separated a lock of my hair from the mop I wore, maybe eight or ten hairs, twisted them around my finger, and yanked them out. Returning to the living-room, I squatted in front of the body, shoved the folded paper down the front of the dress, next to the skin, and tucked the lock of hair behind the scarf around the throat, under the right jaw. The scarf was so tight it took force to do it. I patted her on the shoulder and murmured at her, “All right, Ann, we’ll get the bastard. Or bitch, as the case may be.” Then I straightened up and proceeded to make fingerprints. Three sets would be enough, I thought, one on the arm of a chair, one on the edge of the table, and one on the cover of a magazine on the table. My watch said 6:37. If Mrs. Chack happened to return early from squirrel-feeding, she might come any minute, and it would be a crime to spoil it now.