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

So at 10:35 Saturday morning I entered the apartment of the late Morris Althaus, shut the door, and sent my eyes around. It wasn't bad at all if you ignored the pictures. As Sarah Dacos had said, the wall-to-wall carpet was thick. There was a big couch with a coffee table in front of it, a good sitting chair near a lamp, four other chairs, a small table with a metal object on it that might have been created by some kid handy with tools out of junk stuff he found in the garage, a large desk with nothing much on it besides a telephone, and a typewriter on a stand. Most of one wall had bookshelves, full, nearly to the ceiling. The less said about the pictures on the other walls the better. They would have been fine for a guessing game-have a party and everybody guesses what they are-if you could find someone who knew the answers.

I put my hat and coat on the couch and toured. Two closets in the living room. There was a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a bedroom with a single bed, a chest of drawers, a dresser, two chairs, and a closet full of clothes. On the dresser were framed photographs of his father and mother, so he hadn't resigned from the family, only from Peggy Pilgrim. I returned to the living room and started looking. With the tan drapes drawn it was dim, and I turned the lights on. The dust was thick on everything, but I was there legally and properly, so I didn't bother to put gloves on.

Of course I didn't expect to find anything obvious, pointing straight at anyone or anything in particular, since the cops had been through it, but they had had no one specffically in mind, and I did have: Sarah Dacos. No doubt you would like very much to have a complete inventory of everything in the place, especially the contents of the drawers and closets, but it would take too much space. I mention only one item, the 384 pages of the unfinished novel. I read a page and a half of it. To read it through to see if there was a girl in it who reminded me of Sarah Dacos would have taken all day.

The only other item I mention was in the bottom drawer of the chest in the bedroom. Along with a lot of other miscellaneous articles there were a dozen or so photographs. There was none of Sarah Dacos, but there was one of Althaus, lying on his side on the couch in the living room, with nothing on but his skin. I hadn't seen him naked before, since in the pictures of him in the Gazette file he had been decent. He had been in pretty good shape, muscles visible and belly flat, but the back of the photograph was more interesting than the front. Someone had written a poem on it, or part of one. I have since been allowed to reproduce it, so I can show it here:

Bold lover, ever, ever shalt thou kiss,

And win the willing goal, and never leave;

She will not fade, and Thou shalt have they bliss,

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair

I haven't read all the poetry in the world, but Lily Rowan has a shelf of it and on certain occasions wants me to read some aloud to her, and I was pretty sure I had read that, but there was something wrong with it. I tried to place it but couldn't. Anyway, the point was, who had written it? Not Althaus; I had seen his hand on various items. Sarah Dacos? If so, I had something. I had plenty. I put it on top of the chest and spent another hour looking, but drew a blank.

I had promised Mrs Althaus I would take nothing without her permission, but I was tempted. I could take the photograph, not out of the house, but just one flight down, knock at Sarah Dacos's door, and if she was there, as she might be on a Saturday, display it and ask her, "Did you write that?" It was a real temptation, so quick and direct. But it was too damned direct. I would have to stick to the roundabout. I left the apartment and the house, found a phone booth, dialed Mrs Bruner's number and got her, and told her I wanted to come and ask her something. She said she would be there until one o'clock. It was only twenty past twelve. I went out and got a taxi.

She was in her office, at her desk with some papers, expecting me. She asked if Miss Dacos had come as arranged, saying she had rather expected her to phone, but she hadn't. I said yes, she had come, and had been very cooperative. I emphasized the "very," since it was possible that the room was bugged. Then I sat, leaned forward to her, and whispered, "Do you mind if we whisper?"

She frowned. "It is so ridiculous!"

"Yes," I whispered, "but it's safe. You don't need to say much. I only want a sample of Miss Dacos's handwriting. Anything-a memo, a note to you. I know this seems even more ridiculous, but it isn't. Don't ask me to explain because I can't. I'm following instructions. Either you trust Mr Wolfe to do the job and do it right or you don't."

"But why on earth-" she began, but I showed her a palm.

"If you don't want to whisper," I whispered, "just give me what I asked for and I'll go."

When I left the house five minutes later, with two samples of Sarah Dacos's hand in my pocket-a nine-word entry on a sheet from a desk calendar and a six-line memo to Mrs Bruner-I was feeling that middle-aged women are the backbone of the country. She hadn't whispered a word. She had fished in a drawer and got the memo and torn the sheet from the calendar, handed them to me, said, a little louder than usual.

"Let me know when there is something I should know," and picked up one of the papers. What a client.

In the taxi back downtown I inspected the samples, and I was already ninety-per-cent sure when I mounted the two flights at 63 Arbor Street. I went to the bedroom for the photograph, got comfortable in the good sitting chair under the lamp in the living room, and compared. I am not a handwriting expert, but it didn't need one. The person who had written the samples had written the poetry on the back of the photograph. Probably she had also taken the photograph, but that didn't matter. I formed a conclusion. I concluded that Sarah Dacos's memory had failed her when she said that it had not progressed to intimacy.

The immediate question was, should I phone Mrs Althaus for permission to take the photograph, or should I leave it? I decided that leaving it would be too risky; Sarah might get in somehow and find it and take it. I got a sheet of typewriter paper from the desk and folded it, and inserted the photograph. It was almost too wide for my breast pocket, but I eased it in. I looked around a little, from habit, to be sure things were as I had found them, and left with my loot. As I passed the door of Sarah Dacos's apartment on the way down I threw it a kiss. Then it occurred to me that it rated more than a kiss, and I went and took a look at the lock. It was the same make as the one on Althaus's door, a Bermatt, nothing special.

At the same booth where I had phoned Mrs Bruner I rang Mrs Althaus's number, got her, told her I had left everything in order in the apartment, and asked if she wanted the keys returned immediately. She said at my convenience, no hurry.

"By the way," I said, "I'm taking one item, if you don't mind-a photograph of a man that was in a drawer. I want to see if someone recognizes it. All right?"

She said I was very mysterious, but yes, I could take it. I would have liked to tell her what I thought of middle-aged women but decided we weren't intimate enough. I dialed another number, told the woman who answered, whose name was Mimi, that I would like to speak to Miss Rowan, and in a moment the familiar voice came.

"Lunch in ten minutes. Come and get it."