Rex Stout - A Family Affair

"Yes. Of course other things that Mr. Ducos told me might possibly repay inquiry, but this was much the most likely."

He turned his head to look at the clock. "Nearly two hours to dinner. If you go now?"

"I doubt it. Felix, I suppose, and maybe some of the waiters, but Philip is by far the best bet, and you know how it is in the kitchen at this hour, especially for a sauce man. Also I had four hours' sleep and I'm not -" The doorbell. I went to the hall for a look, stepped back in, and said, "Cramer."

He made a noise. "How the devil-was he across the street?"

"No, but someone was and phoned. Naturally."

"You'll have to stay."

He rarely uses breath to say things that are obvious, but of course that was. I went and slid the bolt and swung the door open.

Inspector Cramer of Homicide South has been known to call me Archie. He also has been known to pretend he doesn't remember my name, and that time maybe he really didn't. He marched on by, to the office door and in, and when I got there he was saying, "… and every goddam minute from the time you woke up until now. You and Goodwin. And you'll sign it."

Wolfe was shaking his head, tilted back. "Pfui," he said.

"Don't phooey me! Of all the-" "Shut up!"

Cramer gawked. He had heard Wolfe tell a hundred people to shut up, and I had heard him tell a thousand, including me, but never Cramer. He didn't believe it.

"I don't invite you to sit," Wolfe said, "or to remove your coat and hat, because I am going to tell you nothing. No, I retract that. I do tell you that I know nothing about the death of Pierre Ducos except what Mr. Goodwin has told me, and he has told Mr? Stebbins everything he told me. Beyond that I shall tell you absolutely nothing. Of course I had to permit examination of that room by qualified men, and I left instructions to admit them. They are still up there. If we are taken in custody as material witnesses, by either you or the District Attorney, we'll stand mute. Released on bail, we'll still stand mute. I am going to learn who killed that man in my house. I doubt if you can and I hope you don't, except from me when I'm ready to tell you."

Wolfe aimed a straight finger at him, up at his face, another first. "If I sound uncivil, I do not apologize. I am in a rage and out of control. Whether you have warrants or not, arrest us now and take us; let's get that over with. I have a job to do."

He extended his arms, stretched out, the wrists together for handcuffs. Beautiful. I would have loved to do it too, but that would have been piling it on.

If Cramer had had cuffs in his pocket he might actually have used them, judging from the look on his big red face. Knowing Wolfe as well as he did, what could he do? His mouth opened and closed again. He looked at me and back at Wolfe. "Out of control," he growled. "Balls. You out of control. I know one thing. I know-" "Oh! We didn't know you were here. Inspector."

Two men were there at the door, a tall rangy one and a broad bulky one with only one arm. Of course I should have heard them; my ears must have been more eager to hear what Cramer would say than I realized. When he turned to face them they saluted, but he didn't return it.

"It took you long enough," he said.

"Yes, sir. It was a job. We didn't know you were here. We -" "I came to see why it took so damn long. Did you -No. You can tell me in the car."

He was moving. They sidestepped to let him by and followed him out. I stayed put. Experts wouldn't need help opening a door. When the sound came of the front door opening and closing, I went for a look down the hall, came back, and said, "What a break for him. He couldn't have left without us. He ought to move them up a peg. Of course it was a break for us too, with you out of control."

"Grrrh," he said. "Sit down."

At ten o'clock that evening I was standing by a reading lamp, flipping through the pages of a book entitled Les Sauces du Monde. Going through a room trying to find something doesn't take long if you're after a diamond necklace or an elephant tusk or a gun. But if it's a twenty-dollar bill, anything at all that could be between the pages of a book without bulging it, that takes time if there are books in the room. For the Library of Congress, I would say years.

Most of the forty-some books on shelves in Pierre Ducos's room were about cooking. What I was after didn't have to be a piece of paper, but that was the most likely, since I wanted something, anything, that could lead to either the man who had left the slip of paper on the tray or the one who had paid a C for it. One item that had seemed possible was a notebook I found in a drawer that had lists of names on several pages, but Lucile Ducos had told me they were the names of men who gave big tips. She said Pierre hadn't been good at remembering names and he had written them down for twenty years.

I hadn't been in her room. When, arriving, I had told her grandfather, with her as interpreter, that I wanted to take a look in Pierre's room, and why, I had got the impression that she didn't like it, but he had got emphatic and it took. I had also got the impression that she was staying with me to see if I took anything and if so what. Getting impressions from her wasn't difficult, beginning with the impression that it didn't matter whether I had two legs or four legs, or whether I wore my face in front or behind. But she mattered-I mean to her. Her face, which wasn't bad at all, was well cared for, also her nice brown hair, and the cut and hang of her light-brown dress were just right. It was hard to believe she went to all that trouble just for the mirror.

She was seated in an easy chair the other side of the reading lamp. When I did the last book and put it back on the shelf, I turned to her and said, "I suppose you're right, if he put something somewhere it would be in this room. Have you remembered anything he said?"

"No."

"Have you tried to?"

"I told you I knew I couldn't because he hadn't said anything."

Her voice had a little too much nose. I looked down at her. Up to a few inches above her knees, she had good legs. A pity. I decided to try another approach. "You know. Miss Ducos," I said, "I have tried to be polite and sympathetic, I really have. But I wonder why you don't give a damn who killed your father. That doesn't seem very-well, natural."

She nodded. "You would. You think I should be weeping and wailing or maybe doing a Medea. Bullshit, I was a good daughter, good enough. Of course I give a damn who killed him, but I don't think you're going to find out the way you're going at it, all this about a man who gave him some money for a piece of paper. Or if you do, it won't be by nagging me to remember something that didn't happen."

"What would you suggest? How would you do it?"

"I don't know. I'm not a great detective like Nero Wolfe. But you say what killed him was a bomb put in his pocket by someone. Who put it there? I'd find out where he was yesterday and who he saw. That would be the first thing I would do."

I nodded. "Sure. And have your toes tramped on by a few dozen homicide experts who are doing just that. If he can be tagged that way, they'll get him without any help from Nero Wolfe. Of course one person your father saw yesterday was you. I haven't asked you about your relations with him, and I'm not going to, because the cops certainly have. And they're asking around about you. You were at the District Attorney's office five hours, you said, so you know how that is. They know all about people killing their fathers. Also, of course they asked you if there was anyone who might have wanted him dead. What did you say?"