Rex Stout - The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

"Yes."

"Justly?"

"He thinks so. Of course it appeals to him. He refers to them as that goddam outfit and that bunch of grabbers. After he learned about the three G-men being at the scene at the right time he probably let up on other possibilities, but he's a good cop, and if there had been any other lead that was at all hot he would have kept on it, and apparently he didn't. Also, if Althaus was there dead when they entered, why didn't they report it? Anonymously, of course, after they left. They might have preferred not to, but it's a fair question. Also the bullet. Not many murderers would have realized that it had gone on through to the wall and fallen to the floor, and found it and taken it. With an old pro like Cramer that would be a big point. So I guess you could say justly."

He was frowning at me. "Who is the Wragg Mr Cramer mentioned?"

"Richard Wragg. Top G-man in New York. Special agent in charge."

"Does he know, or believe, that Althaus was killed by one of his men?"

"I'd have to ask him. He could know one of them did, but he couldn't know he didn't, because he wasn't there. He's not a damn fool, and he would be if he believed everything they tell him. Does it matter?"

"It might. It could be of great consequence."

"Then my guess is that he either knows a G-man killed him or he thinks it probable. Otherwise, when Cramer went and asked him for cooperation he would probably have opened up. The FBI likes to oblige local cops when it doesn't cost them anything-prestige, for instance-and Wragg would know that Cramer wouldn't care about their calling at Althaus's place uninvited. Cops do that too, as you know. So Wragg may even have the bullet in a drawer of his desk."

"What is your opinion? Do you agree with Mr Cramer?"

"That's a strange question, from you. I don't rate an opinion, and you don't either. Maybe the landlord shot Althaus because he was behind on the rent. Or and or and or."

He nodded. "That's what we must explore. You will start now, as you think best. Perhaps with his family. My recollection is that his father, David Althaus, makes clothes for women."

"Right. Seventh Avenue." I slid off of the pool table and was on my feet. "Since we prefer it that he wasn't killed by a G-man, I suppose we're not interested in what he had collected on the FBI."

"We're interested in everything." He made a face. "And if you find anyone you think I should see, bring him." He made a face again and added, "Or her."

"With pleasure. My first stop will be the Gazette, to go though the file, and Lon may have some facts that haven't been printed. As for bringing people, the house may be covered front and back. How do I get them in and out?"

"The door. We are investigating a murder with which the FBI is not concerned. So Mr Wragg told Mr Cramer. And for once Mr Cramer won't complain."

"Then I don't bother about tails?"

"No."

"That's a relief." I went.

6

My watch said 4:35 as I entered a drugstore near Grand Central, consulted the Manhattan phone book, went to a booth and shut the door, and dialed a number.

From the Gazette files, and from Lon Cohen by word of mouth off the record, I had filled a dozen pages of my notebook.

I have it here now, but all of it in print would also take a dozen pages, so I'll report only what you need to understand what happened. Here are the principal names:

MORRIS ALTHAUS, deceased, 36, height 5 feet 11, weight 175, dark complexion, handsome, liked all right by men but more than liked by women. Had had a two-year affair, 1962 and 1963, with a certain stage personality, name not given here. Had earned from his writing around ten grand a year, but it had probably been augmented by his mother without his father's knowledge. Not on record when he and Marian Hinckley had decided to tie up, but as far as known he had had no other girlfriend for several months. Three hundred and eighty-four typewritten pages of an unfinished novel had been found in his apartment. No one at the Gazette, including Lon, had any firm guess who had killed him.

No one there had known, before the murder, that he had been collecting material for a piece on the FBI, and Lon thought that was a disgrace to journalism in general and to the Gazette personnel in particular. Apparently Althaus had used rubber soles.

DAVID ALTHAUS Morris's father, around 60, was a partner in Althaus and Greif, makers of the Peggy Pilgrim line of dresses and suits (see your local newspaper). David had resented it that Morris, his only child, had given Peggy Pilgrim the go-by, and they hadn't been close in recent years.

IVANA (Mrs David) ALTHAUS had not seen a reporter, and would not. She was still, seven weeks after her son's death, seeing no one but a few close friends.

MARIAN HINCKLEY, 24, had been on the research staff at Tick-Tock for about two years. There were pictures of her in the file, and they made it easy to understand why Althaus had decided to concentrate on her. She had also refused to talk to reporters, but a newshen from the Post had finally got enough out of her for a spread, making some fur fly at the Gazette. It had made one Gazette female so sore that she worked up the theory that Marian Hinckley had shot Althaus with his own gun because he was cheating on her, but it had petered out.

TIMOTHY QUAYLE, around 40, was a senior editor at Tick-Tock. I include him because he had got rough and tangled with a journalist from the Daily News who tried to corner Marian Hinckley in the lobby of the Tick-Tock building. A man that gallant deserves a look.

VINCENT YARMACK, around 50, was another senior editor at Tick-Tock. I include him because the piece by Althaus about the FBI had been his project.

It didn't look very promising for an approach. I considered the stage personality, but her whirl with Althaus had ended more than a year ago, and besides, a couple of previous experiences had taught me that actresses are better from the fifth or sixth row. The two editors would hang up. Father probably had nothing. Marian Hinckley would stiff-neck me. The best bet was mother, and it was her number I looked up and went to the booth to dial.

First, of course, to get her to the phone. To the female who answered I gave no name; I merely told her, in an official tone, to tell Mrs Althaus that I was talking from a booth and an FBI man was with me and I must speak to her. It worked. In a couple of minutes another voice came.

"Who is this? An FBI man?"

"Mrs Althaus?"

"Yes."

"My name is Archie Goodwin. I'm not an FBI man. I work for Nero Wolfe, the private investigator. The FBI man is not here in the booth with me; he is with me because he is following me. Tailing me. He will follow me to your address, but that doesn't matter to me if it doesn't to you. I must see you-now, if possible. It will-"

"I am not seeing anybody."

"I know. You may have heard of Nero Wolfe. Have you?"

"Yes."

"He has been told by a man he knows well that your son Morris was killed by an agent of the FBI. That's why I am being followed. And that's why I must see you. I can be there in ten minutes. Did you get my name? Archie Goodwin."