Rex Stout - Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

Wolfe nodded. "Seventy pounds. Perhaps eighty. Death will see to that. Does it concern you?"

"Yes, it does." He curled his pudgy hands over the ends of the chair arms. "Any conflict with natural health is an impertinence, and I resent it." His voice was bigger than he was. "It is my concern for health that brought me here – the health of one of my patients, Mrs. Barry Fleming. You sent a man – that man" – his eyes darted to me and back to Wolfe – "to torment her. She was already in a state of strain, and now she threatens to collapse. Can you justify it?"

"Easily." Wolfe's brows were up. "Both the intention and the deed, but it's the deed you challenge. Mrs. Fleming's state of strain was partly from the shock of her sister's death, but mostly from the fear that her way of life would be exposed. Mr. Goodwin rendered her a service by making it clear that the exposure is inevitable unless certain steps are taken. That should propel her not to collapse, but to action, if she is -"

"What kind of action?"

"The only kind that could be effective. Did she tell you all that Mr. Goodwin said?"

"Her husband did. That if the man they have arrested, Orrie Cather, is tried, everything about Isabel will come out. That Cather is innocent, and the only hope is to get enough evidence to make them release him. You call that a service, to tell her that?"

"If it's valid, yes. It's obvious. Do you question it?"

"Yes. I think it was a cheap trick. Why do you say Cather is innocent? Can you prove it?"

"No, but I intend to."

"I don't believe it. I think you're merely trying to raise enough dust to make it hard to convict him. There is no reason why you should want to do Mrs. Fleming a service, but if you did want to you could. You could persuade Cather and his lawyer to make it unnecessary for certain facts to be brought out at his trial. I know you won't, but you could."

"You would like me to?"

"Certainly. For Mrs. Fleming that – it might save her life."

"But you know I won't?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you bother to come?"

"She asked me to. They both did. They think it was just a trick, your sending him with that hogwash, and so do I. Why do you say Cather is innocent?"

Wolfe squinted at him. "You should arrange your mind better, Doctor. As Mr. Goodwin explained to Mrs. Fleming, it will serve her interest if Mr. Cather is innocent, but you don't like that. You contend. Is it possible that you are less concerned about your patient's health than about your own? Did you kill Isabel Kerr?"

Gamm goggled. "Why, you -" He swallowed. "Damn your impertinence!"

"Naturally you damn it. But since I have assumed that Mr. Cather did not kill her, for reasons I prefer not to disclose, I need to know who did. As a man whose repeated advances to her were spurned, you are eligible. Persistent mortification can become insupportable. It's a question of character and temperament, and I know nothing of yours; I would have to consult people who know you well – for instance, Mr. and Mrs. Fleming. But I can collect facts. Where were you last Saturday morning from eight o'clock to noon? If you can establish -"

He stopped because his audience was going. Dr. Gamm didn't have the figure or the style for an impressive exit, it was more like a waddle, but it got him to the door and on through. I took my time rising and crossing to the hall, and got there just as he was opening the front door. When he was out and the door closed I went back in, raised my arms for a good stretch and an uncovered yawn, and said, "Another one down. He wouldn't have walked out, he wouldn't have dared, until he found out if you have anything and how much. Or tried to."

Wolfe's lips were tight. He loosened them to say, "He's either a murderer or a jackass."

"Then he's a jackass. It seems to me -"

The phone rang and I went and got it. It was Saul, reporting on a couple of names. I told him we could match him and wished him better luck tomorrow.

He didn't have it, and neither did we. Thursday was even emptier than Wednesday, though I tried hard because Wolfe had paid me a compliment. Partly he was merely desperate, but the fact remains that Wednesday evening he told me to go and give the neighborhood a play. It was the first time he had ever sent me on something that Saul had already covered, and I admit it would have been highly satisfactory to get a break – for example, a janitor across the street who had seen a stranger enter that building Saturday morning, a stranger who could have been Dr. Gamm or Stella Fleming or Barry Fleming or Julie Jaquette, or even Avery or Minna Ballou. Or even just a stranger, to try to find. What the hell, there are only twelve million people in the metropolitan area. Actually it was a farce without a laugh. Not only had Saul and Fred seen everyone, but also the cops had worked it hard, trying to find somebody who could put Orrie Cather there. During the long day I spoke with more than forty people, all ages and sizes and colors, and they had already been spoken to so often that they had their answers down pat. At six-thirty I called it a week and went home to dinner. The only thing that had happened there was that Parker had called to say that he had seen Orrie again, and had talked with an assistant district attorney, and he still thought it was inadvisable to start action to get him out on bail.

So back in the office after dinner Wolfe put his coffee cup down and said, "Four days and nights of nothingness," and I put mine down and said, "No argument."

"Confound it," Wolfe said, "ask questions."

"If there were any good ones," I said, "you would ask them yourself. All right, Jill Hardy. Why did she want my arms around her? Because she had killed Isabel Kerr and was going to confess and wanted to soften me up but Cramer interrupted?"

"I don't want chaff. I want a question."

"So do I. Stella Fleming. She is subject to fits, for instance going for me with claws. But if she had one Saturday morning and killed her sister, would she have gone back that evening and got the superintendent to let her in so she could discover the body? I don't believe it. A thousand to one."

"Negative," he muttered. "Something positive."

"Try this. Barry Fleming. Why did he invite me in, knowing how his wife was? Because I had told him we were going to clear Orrie, and he wanted to find out if we knew or suspected that he had killed Isabel. That's positive."

"But vain without a motive."

"Oh, if you want motive. Mrs. Ballou. Her chat with me was a production. She's really a hellcat and nuts about her husband. Boiling with jealousy. Only in that case I'm a sap and you'll have to fire me."

"I'll consider it. Mr. Ballou."

I shook my head. "Your turn. You had him."

"I reject him, provisionally. Cracking that woman's skull with an ashtray was an act of passion, not within his compass. There is a question: why would he like to know when Orrie first heard his name? Why is it not important now but still he would like to know?"

I shook my head again. "We'd better skip that. Probably curiosity as to whether it coincided with a change he noticed in the way she reacted to Kipling and Service and London. That wouldn't interest you. I agree on his compass. All right, Miss Jackson. She's yours too, you wished her well."