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

"I don't practice criminal law."

"Pfui. Surely you are aware of what every child knows. If they were not satisfied with the assumption that the FBI is responsible for the disappearance of that material and therefore was probably involved in the murder, they would certainly he exploring other possibilities-for instance, Mr Yarmack. Are they, Mr Yarmack? Are they harassing you?"

The editor stared. "Harassing me? What about?"

"The possibility that you killed Morris Althaus and took that material. Don't erupt. Many murders have prompted less plausible theories. He told you of a discovery he had made and evidence he had obtained which, perhaps unknown to him, was in some way a mortal threat to you, and you removed him and the evidence. An excellent theory. Surely-"

"Tommyrot. Absolute tommyrot."

"To you, perhaps. But surely, in a muddle with an unsolved murder, they would dog you; but they don't. I am not accusing you of murder, sir, not at the moment; I am merely showing that the police are either shirking or slighting their duty. Unless you have given them an impregnable alibi for the night of November twentieth. Have you?"

"No. Impregnable, no."

"Have you, Mr Quayle?"

"Nuts," Quayle said. Bad manners again.

Wolfe eyed him. "You are here by sufferance. You wanted to know what I am up to. I am making that clear. Impelled solely by my private interest, I hope to disclose the implication of the FBI in a murder and the failure of the police to do their duty. In that effort I must guard against the danger of being balked by circumstance. Yesterday I received in confidence information strongly indicating the guilt of the FBI, but it is not conclusive. I dare not ignore the possibility that the apparent inaction of the police is merely tactical, that they and the FBI both know the identity of the murderer, and that they are holding off until they have decisive evidence. I must be fully satisfied on that point before I move. You can help to satisfy me, and if instead you choose to flout me I don't want you here. Mr Goodwin has ejected you once and he can do so again if necessary. He would be even more effective with an audience; he likes an audience as well as I do. If you prefer to stay, I asked you a question."

Quayle's jaw was set. The poor guy was in a fix. Seated next to him, so close he could have reached out and touched her, was the girl for whom and before whom he had pitched into a nosy newshound, begging Lon Cohen's pardon, and now he was being crowded by a nosy bloodhound. I expected him to turn his head, either to her to show that for her sake he could swallow even his pride, or to me to show that I was really no problem, but he stayed focused on Wolfe.

"I told you I would control myself," he said. "All right. I have no impregnable alibi for the night of November twentieth. That answers your question, and now I ask one. How do you expect Miss Hinckley to help to satisfy you?"

Wolfe nodded. "That's reasonable and relevant. Miss Hinckley, manifestly you are willing to help or you wouldn't be here. I have suggested a theory to account for the guilt of Mr Yarmack; now one for Mr Quayle. That's simple. Millions of men have killed a fellow man because of a woman-to spite her or bereave her or get her. If Mr Quayle killed your fiance do you want him exposed?"

She lifted her hands and let them drop. "But that's ridiculous."

"Not at all. To the family and friends of most murderers the imputation seems ridiculous, but that doesn't make it so. I am not imputing guilt to Mr Quayle; I am merely considering possibilities. Have you any reason to suppose that your betrothal to Mr Althaus displeased him?"

"You can't expect me to answer that."

"I'll answer it," Quayle blurted. "Yes. It displeased me.

"Indeed. By right? Was it a trespass?"

"I don't know about 'right.' I had asked Miss Hinckley to marry me. I had ex- I had hoped she would."

"Had she agreed to?"

The lawyer cut in. "Take it easy, Wolfe. You mentioned trespass. I think you're trespassing. I'm here at the request of Mr Althaus, my client, and I'm not entitled to speak on behalf of Miss Hinckley or Mr Quayle, but I think you're overreaching. I know your reputation. I know you're not a jobber, and I won't challenge your bona fides unless I have reason, but as an attorney-at-law I have to say you're spreading it pretty thick. Or perhaps I mean thin. Mr Althaus, and his wife, and I as his attorney, certainly want to see justice done. But if you have received information strongly indicating the guilt of the FBI, why this inquisition?"

"I thought I made that plain."

"As an explanation of a position, yes, or as a brief for prudence. Not as an excuse for an inquisition of persons. Next you will be asking me if Morris had caught me committing a felony."

"Had he?"

"I'm not going to fill a role in a burlesque. I repeat, you're overreaching."

"Then I'll pull in, but I shall not abandon prudence. I'll ask you this, a routine question in any case of death by violence: If the FBI didn't kill Morris Althaus, who did? Assume that the FBI is definitely cleared and I am the District Attorney. Who had reason to want that man dead? Who hated him or feared him or had something to gain? Can you suggest a name?"

"No. I have considered that, naturally. No."

Wolfe's eyes went right and left. "Can any of you?"

Two of them shook their heads. No one said anything.

"The question is routine," Wolfe said, "but it is not always futile. I ask you to reflect. Without regard for slander; you will not be quoted. Surely Morris Althaus did not live thirty-six years without giving offense to anyone. He offended his father. He offended Mr Quayle." He looked at Yarmack. "Were the articles he wrote for your magazine innocuous?"

"No," the editor said. "But if they hurt anyone enough for them to murder him I shouldn't think they would wait until now."

"One of them had to wait," Quayle said. "He was in jail."

Wolfe switched editors. "For what?"

"Fraud. A shady real-estate deal. Morris did a piece we called 'The Realty Racket,' and it started an investigation, and one of them got nailed. He was sent up for two years. That was two years ago, a little less, but with time off for good behavior he must be out by now. But he's no murderer, he wouldn't have the guts. I saw him a couple of times when he was trying to get us to leave his name out. He's just a small-time smoothie."

"His name?"

"I don't- Yes, I do. Does it matter? Odell. Something Odell. Frank, that's it. Frank Odell."

"I don't understand-" Mrs Althaus began, but it came out hoarse and she cleared her throat. She was looking at Wolfe. "I don't understand all this. If it was the FBI, why are you asking all these questions? Why don't you ask Mr Yarmack what Morris had found out about the FBI? I have asked him, and he says he doesn't know."

"I don't," Yarmack said.

Wolfe nodded. "So I assumed. Otherwise you would be harassed not only by the police. Had he told you nothing of his discoveries and conjectures?"

"No. He never did. He waited until he had a first draft. That was how he always worked."

Wolfe grunted. "Madam," he told Mrs Althaus, "as I said, I must be satisfied. I should ask a thousand questions-all night, all week. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is a formidable foe, entrenched in power and privilege. It is not rodomontade but merely a statement of fact to say that no individual or group in America would undertake the job I have assigned myself. If an agent of the FBI killed your son there is not the slightest chance that he will be brought to account unless I do it. Therefore the choice of procedure is exclusively mine. Is that overreaching, Mr Fromm?"