Rex Stout - Death of a Dude

Meaning where the hell have you been. So I moved a chair to face him, sat, and said, "I told you he would be late. He just came."

"You have spoken with him?"

"No. I doubt if I should."

"Why? Is he drunk?"

"No. But I have a case to put. Haight is still there and shows no sign of leaving. So I get Sam, now or later, and bring him, and in an hour, or six hours, either you get something or you don't. If you don't, you've wasted a lot of time and energy, which would be regrettable but that often happens. If you do, and when Sam leaves Haight is still there, what will happen will be worse than regrettable. Haight will-"

"I am not obtuse, Archie." He closed the book with a finger in at his place.

"I concede that."

"Isn't that"-he aimed a thumb-"an outside door?"

"Yes. I'm not obtuse either. I suppose you saw the brawny baboon who was standing there when I came, and you may have noticed that he followed me inside. That's a deputy sheriff, Ed Welch. I'm his subject for the evening. If I ushered Sam Peacock out the front entrance and around to the back, to that door, he would be close behind, and Haight would be even keener to work on him when he left. Of course leaving by that door wouldn't help; Welch would be out there waiting for him. I'm not sure we weren't both a little obtuse, especially me. I might have known Haight would be here. I should have hunted Sam up this afternoon, or even at suppertime, instead of that goddam real Montana trout deal. So all you have to show for tonight is a trout recipe which you will of course pass on to Fritz, and a subtle sentence in ancient classical Armenian. Tomorrow is Sunday and Sam will probably have a day off, but I'll find him and bring him. The more I look at it, the more I like Sam Peacock. I do not believe that Brodell had no suspicion that there was someone in the neighbourhood who would like to get him, and I also do not believe that during all of Tuesday and all of Wednesday, and part of Thursday, he didn't say a single word that would provide a hint. Didn't I say that, or something like it, three days ago?"

"Not three. Two. Thursday afternoon. You said you had tried to use what you called my 'filter job' on him, and he wouldn't cooperate."

"He certainly wouldn't. You got more out of him last night than I had in three tries. But now it's you, not just me, and you're official, and he knows it. I suggest that we now leave by the back door and I drive you to where your bed is so you can get a night's sleep, and tomorrow I'll bring him. I'll come back for the others."

He made a face. "What time is it?" he growled.

I looked. "Twenty-four minutes to midnight."

"I'm in the middle of an exposition that is refreshing my memory." He poured beer and opened the book. "Perhaps you should tell Miss Rowan we are going."

I said it wasn't necessary, that we usually stayed until around one o'clock, and went to look over his shoulder to see what was refreshing his memory. It was a volume of Macaulay's Essays, and he was on Sir William Temple, of whom I had no memory to be refreshed. I moved around, with my eyes and sometimes my hands on museum pieces, but my mind was on people, specifically Morley Haight and Ed Welch. I was not admiring them. If a sheriff and his top deputy are so strong on law and order that they stay on the job Saturday night, they could find better things to do than try to trip up a pair of worthy citizens who had been authorized by the county attorney to investigate a crime in their territory. They needed to have their noses pushed in, and I considered three or four possible ways of taking a stab at it when I got back, but none of them was good enough.

It was close to midnight when Wolfe finished the beer, closed the book, switched the lamp off, picked up the other two books, went to return them to their places on the shelves, and asked me, "The glass and bottles?"

At home, at that time of night, he would have taken them to the kitchen himself, but this was far away and called for allowances, and I made them and obliged. When I returned from the kitchen he was in another chair, bending over to turn a corner of a rug up for inspection. He knew a lot about rugs and I could guess what he was thinking, but he didn't even grunt. He put the corner down and got up, and I went and opened the back door, which had a Murdock lock, and he came. He asked if we should turn the lights out and I said no, I would when I returned.

Outside, a little light from the draped windows helped some for the first twenty yards, but when we turned the corner of the deepest wing of Vawter's it was good and dark, with no moon and most of the stars behind clouds.

We took it easy on the rough ground. No other car had joined the station wagon there in back of the building. I had taken the ignition key but hadn't locked the doors, and, leading the way, and regarding it as common courtesy, not pampering, to open the door for Wolfe on his side, I did so. That gave us light, the ceiling light, and the light gave us news. Bad news. We both saw it through the closed window. On the rear seat. Rather, partly on the seat. His torso was on the seat, but his head was hanging over the edge and so was most of his legs.

Wolfe looked at me and took a step so I could open the door. I didn't want to touch the damn door or anything else, but it was possible that he was breathing, even in that position, so I pressed the latch and pulled it open and leaned in. The best quick test is to lay something light and fluffy on the nostrils, but nothing that would do was handy and I reached for a wrist. No perceptible pulse, but that proved only that if the blood was moving it was dawdling. The wrist was warm, but of course it would be since I had seen him on the dance floor only an hour ago. The only blood in sight was some blobs on his bruised ear, and I stretched across to get fingertips on his skull and felt a deep dent. I backed out and stood and said, "It's barely possible he's alive. I stay here and you go in. You'll have to tell that sheriff sonofabitch, and that's a lousy break too. Tell him to bring a doctor, there are at least two there." I reached in the front to the dash and got the flashlight, switched it on, and focused it on the entrance to the passage between the buildings. "That's the shortest way. Here." I offered him the flashlight but he didn't take it. He spoke.

"Wouldn't it be possible to-"

"You know damn well it wouldn't. There's one chance in a million he's alive, and if so he may talk again. You don't have to tell him it's Sam Peacock, just say a man. Here."

He took the flashlight and went.

Chapter 10

The human mind is a jumbo joke, at least mine is. There were a dozen or more urgent questions it could have been considering as Wolfe disappeared in the passage, but what it was asking was, how will Lily get home? I had that answered, fairly satisfactorily, and was deciding what to work on next when I heard footsteps in the passage. It was Haight, with a flashlight, presumably Lily's. He came, looked in at the news, turned to me, and asked, "Is this your car?"

He couldn't have asked a dumber question if he had tried all night. How could it be my car if I didn't have one and he knew it? "You'll find the registration card," I said, "in the dash compartment. Is a doctor coming?"

"Get in the front seat," he said, "and stay there." He transferred the flashlight to his left hand and aimed it at my eyes and put his right hand on the butt of the gun at his belt.