Rex Stout - Death of a Dude

To save me the trouble of providing a fitting reply she made for the door, taking her purse from her slacks pocket. I crossed to Wolfe and asked him, "Have you met Sheriff Haight?"

"No," he said.

"That's him." I pointed noticeably. "Do you want to?"

"No."

I turned to Haight. "Good evening. Do you want to ask Mr Wolfe or me something? Or tell us something?"

"No," he said.

Thinking that was enough noes for a while, I went and handed the man at the door two bucks and passed through. The musicians were taking a rest, but as I was winding through the mob across to where I knew Lily would be, they started up, something I couldn't name, and Lily came to meet me, and we were off. Also on. We had moved together so many hours to so many beats that on a dance floor we were practically a four-legged animal.

We don't usually talk much while we're dancing, but in a minute she said, "He followed you in."

"Who? Haight?"

"No, the other one."

"I supposed he would. I didn't want to please him by looking back."

After another minute: "What does that ape think he's doing, sitting there?"

"Hoping. Hoping for an excuse to bounce us out of his county."

After another minute, during which we saw Diana hopping with a guy in a purple shirt and Levi's, and Wade with a girl in a sweater and a mini: "You said he was going to be in Woody's rooms."

"So did he. Evidently he decided to watch the herd arrive and spot the murderer. He is capable of deciding absolutely anything."

After two more minutes: "What is it about Sam Peacock? No, I take it back. I will not ask questions. It's just that seeing him sitting there, if it goes on much longer he'll decide I have to be obliterated, and damn it, he's the only man on earth I could be afraid of. Do you want to tell me about Sam Peacock or not?"

"Not. It may get us a lead, but don't hold your breath. As for Nero Wolfe, forget it. This will do him good. He even ate some of Carol's mashed potatoes. You didn't involve him and neither did I; he involved himself, and he's fully aware of it. He's aware of everything."

"I haven't seen Sam Peacock."

"He's always late. Last week he didn't come until nearly eleven. I told you, remember, I heard him tell a girl that when he was a yearling they had to tie his mother up before she'd let him suck."

When the band stopped for breath I took Lily to her favourite spot by an open window and went on a tour to see who was there, and to confer with myself. Deputy Sheriff Ed Welch was standing over by the band platform and I passed by with my elbow missing his by half an inch to show him how nonchalant I was. If Morley Haight was going to stay put on that chair in the Gallery, and he probably would when Wolfe went inside, I didn't like the program. Seeing me take Sam Peacock in to Wolfe, Haight would of course sit tight and collar Sam when he came out, and Sam was the one and only person from whom Wolfe might pry something to bite on. Not just his trying to slide past the Thursday morning when Brodell had gone for a look at Berry Creek; there was also all day Tuesday and all day Wednesday, when Brodell had been with him and no one else. And if Wolfe got a hint from Sam and Sam knew it, Haight would worm it out of him. I did not like the prospect that if we got a glimmer Haight would get it too, and I knew Wolfe wouldn't. As I moseyed past the door I took a look through at the Gallery. Haight was there, at Woody's desk, with a paperback, and Wolfe wasn't.

Moving around, and standing near a corner when the band was going, in the next half-hour I saw maybe 183 faces I had seen before, and I had names for about half of them, including most of the people you have met-everybody at Farnham's, and Pete Ingalls and Emmett Lake at the Bar JR. Pete was dancing with Lily, and she wiggled a finger at me as they went by. No Sam Peacock, but I saw a friend of his, the girl who had told him the week before that he looked awful. She had on the same cherry-coloured shirt, or one just like it. When the band stopped and she walked away from her partner, looking as if she hadn't enjoyed it much, I went and headed her off and said, "I dance better than he does."

"I know you do," she said, "I've seen you. You're Archie Goodwin."

At close quarters she looked younger and prettier. Some do. "If you know my name," I said, "I ought to know yours."

"Peggy Truett. Thank you for telling me how good you dance. Now I know."

"That was just coiling the rope. The next move is to show you. I was leading up to it."

"I bet you were." She brushed back a strand of wavy blond hair. "You're shy, that's your trouble, I know. I'm not. Sure, I'd like to accept your kind invitation, but I guess I won't. I've seen you here a lot of times, last year and this year, and maybe you saw me, but you never headed in to me before, so why now? That's easy. You want to ask me about Sam Peacock."

"Do I? What about him?"

"You know damn well what about him. You and that fatty Nero Wolfe, last night you pumped him good just because he wrangled that dude and that was his job. If I was him I wouldn't give you-"

Her eyes left me, went past me, for something in my rear, and then all of her left. As she brushed my arm going by I turned for a look and saw Sam Peacock arriving. He saw Peggy Truett coming and came to meet her, and I looked at my wrist and saw that in nine minutes it would be eleven o'clock. The band started up and I moved to the wall, over near the door, and stood noticing pairings on the floor with my eyes only-Lily and Woody, Bill Farnham and Mrs Amory, Pete Ingalls and Diana Kadany, Armand DuBois and a woman in a black dress, Wade Worthy and a girl from an upriver ranch. Ed Welch, the deputy, was sitting on the edge of the platform, a little higher than on a chair.

I was as useless there as a bridle without a bit, and I went out to the Gallery. Sheriff Haight was still there, with his feet up on Woody's desk, with a magazine. He had a glance for me but no words, and I had none for him. I stepped across for a look at the greatest sentence in American literature, which put me an arm's length from him, counted to a hundred, and turned around. Yes. The deputy was there. I thought of three different remarks to make to him, all witty, vetoed all of them, crossed to the door at the back, opened it and passed through, and shut it.

I was in Woody's kitchen, which was fully as modern as the one at the cabin, though much smaller. Next came the bedroom and bath, also small and functional, and then the room that Lily called the Museum. It was big, about 24 by 36, with six windows, and it contained one or more specimens of nearly every item Woody's father had peddled. Name it and Woody would show it-anything from eight different brands of chewing tobacco, plug and twist, in a glass case, to an assortment of lace curtains on a rack. The heaviest item was a 26-inch grindstone, not mounted, and the biggest one was a combination churn and ice-cream freezer. About the only things in the room that didn't qualify were the chairs and the lights and the shelves of books, which were all in hard covers. No paperbacks; it was Woody's personal library.

When I entered, two of the books were on a small table by the wall and one was in the hands of Nero Wolfe, who was in a big, roomy chair by the table. At his left was a reading lamp and at his right, on the table with the other two books, were a glass and two beer bottles, one empty and one half full. He was so well fixed that I should have about-faced and beat it, but he looked up and said, "Indeed."