Rex Stout - Death of a Dude

At the man across from her-round-faced, wide-browed, with his balding process well started: "Dr Robert Amory, from Seattle."

At the man at her left-late thirties, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, needing a shave: "Mr Joseph Colihan, from Denver."

At the man at her right-middle forties, foreign-looking, dark skin, bushy eyebrows: "Mr Armand DuBois, also from Denver."

At the man standing behind Amory-nudging sixty, rough weathered skin, thick gray hair, in working Levi's and a pink shirt with a tear on one shoulder: "Mr Bert Magee."

At the man standing back of Colihan, farther off-around thirty, thin scrawny neck, thin bony face, undersized-also in Levi's, with a shirt that looked like dirty leather, and a red and white neck rag: "Mr Sam Peacock."

Farnham, there after disposing of the ponchos, said, "Now I call that a roundup." Of the six men present, not counting Wolfe and me, he was the only one I would have called handsome-rugged outdoors open-spaces handsome. He asked Wolfe, "How about some wet cheer? Anything from Montana Special to coyote piss, if I've got it."

"He drinks beer," Armand DuBois said.

Wolfe asked, "What's Montana Special?"

"Any open moving water but rainwater. Creek or river. Good for you either plain or diluted, but in weather like this it's better diluted with gargle. Name it. Beer?"

"Nothing now, thank you. Perhaps later. As you know, Mr Goodwin and I have a job to do. But we're interrupting a game."

"Bridge isn't a game," DuBois said, "it's a brawl. We've been at it all day." He pushed his chair back and rose. "We would much rather hear you ask questions, at least I would."

"I hear you're tough," Farnham said, "but you don't look tough. Of course like the dude said to the bronc, you can't always tell by appearances. Do you want us one at a time or in a herd?"

"One at a time would take all night," Wolfe said. "We are officially accredited, but we came to inquire, not to harass. Shall we sit?"

They moved. There were two long roomy couches at right angles to the fireplace, and DuBois and Farnham took the card table and chairs away. Knowing that Wolfe would share a couch with others only if there was no alternative, I brought a chair that would take him and put it at the end of the couches, facing the fireplace, and one for me. They got distributed-Farnham, Peacock, Magee, and Colihan on the couch at our left, and DuBois and the Amorys on the one at the right. As she sat, Mrs Amory said to Wolfe, "I'm trying to think of something you can ask me. I'm closer to tight than I've been for years after this rainy day and I want to see what I'd say." She put a hand to her mouth to cover what might have been a burp. "I think I'd make something up."

"I advise against it, madam. Mr Goodwin has informed me thoroughly." Wolfe sent his eyes around. "I know, from Mr Goodwin, how each of you spent that Thursday afternoon-what he has been told. I know that all of you, except Mrs Amory, think it likely that Mr Greve killed that man. Mr Goodwin and I think he didn't. Mr Jessup, the county attorney, knows that, but he also knows that we don't intend to try to concoct evidence to support our opinion; we intend only to find it if it exists, and the best place to start is here, with those closest to Mr Brodell during his last three days and nights. First, Mr Farnham, a point you can cover best. As you know, no bullets were found, but the nature of the wounds indicated the kind of gun that fired the shots. You own such a gun?"

"Sure I do. So do a lot of other people."

"Where is yours kept?"

"In a closet in my room."

"Is it accessible? Is the closet locked?"

"No."

"Is the gun usually loaded?"

"Of course not. Nobody keeps a gun loaded."

"Is ammunition accessible?"

"Yes. Naturally. A gun's no good without ammunition. On a shelf in the closet."

"Was there, that Thursday, any other gun on your premises-to your knowledge?"

"None that could have done that to Brodell's shoulder and neck. I've got two shotguns and a revolver, and Bert Magee has a shotgun, but that's all."

"You told Mr Goodwin that you and Mrs Amory spent that afternoon on horse-back on what is called the Upper Berry Creek trail. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Most of the afternoon?"

"All of it from two o'clock on."

"Then you don't know how your gun spent the afternoon. Anyone could have taken it and used it and put it back. When you next saw it, was it precisely as you had left it?"

"Balls." Farnham's voice was raised. "If you ask me, you're a lousy investigator. If I say yes, it was, then you say the only way I could know it was would be if I went and looked when I knew about Brodell, and if I did that I must have thought that someone that belongs here shot him. You're not tough, you're just half-assed tricky." He got up and took a step. "You might as well beat it. These folks are my guests and my men, and we don't have to take your brand of crap. Drag it."

Wolfe's shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. "I thought it preferable," he said, "both for you and for us, to do it this way. To summon you to the county attorney's office as material witnesses, probably singly, would be a nuisance for me and an inconvenience for you. If you resent my implying that one of the people in this room might have killed Mr Brodell you're a nincompoop. Why else would I come here in a downpour? I said I came to inquire, not to harass, but inquiries about homicide are rarely bland. Shall we go on, here and now, or not?"

"That's not crap, Bill," DuBois said. "We all think Greve probably killed him, all but Mrs Amory, but Nero Wolfe is not a gump. As I've said before, it seemed to me that the sheriff could have been a little more curious about your gun. He didn't even look at it."

"Yes he did." Farnham was still on his feet. "The next day. Friday afternoon."

"Well, that was lousy investigating. Sit down and cool it." DuBois turned to Wolfe. "Do me while he counts ten. Joe Colihan and I were across the river that afternoon with Bert Magee, climbing mountains, so we alibi each other, but we're close friends and he'd lie for me any day. Harass me. I'll try to stick it."

"Later," Wolfe said. "I haven't finished with Mr Farnham." He tilted his head to look up at him. "We can dispose of the gun, for now, with one question. Did you at any time, after Mr Brodell's body was found, thinking it conceivable that your gun had been used, go and look at it and the supply of ammunition?"

"Of course I did." Farnham sat down. "That night. Anyone with any sense would. To see if it was there. It was, and it hadn't been fired, and no ammunition was gone."

Wolfe nodded. "I don't ask if, when the possibility that your gun had been used entered your mind, the name of an individual entered with it. You would say no, and only you know what happened inside your skull. I do ask: during the three days that Mr Brodell was here alive had there been any noticeable conflict between him and anyone else?"

"No."

"Oh for God's sake, Bill." Joseph Colihan's high-pitched voice didn't go with his broad shoulders and square jaw. "The man wants the facts." To Wolfe: "Brodell and I had some words the day he got here. Monday. I had been here two weeks and I was riding the horse he had had last year, and he wanted it, and I liked it. When I went out Tuesday morning he had his saddle on it, and I took it off, and he tried to stop me. He swung a bridle at me and skinned my ear with the bit, and I roughed him up a little. After that we didn't speak, but I kept the horse, so I didn't have to shoot him. Anyway I'm not a hunter and I wouldn't know how to load Farnham's gun. I didn't even know he had one."