Rex Stout - And Four to Go

Frimm nodded. “Oh, yes. More than plausible. She is a professional photographer, on the staff of Seсorita, the magazine. I haven’t spoken with her since-I haven’t seen her, but I presume she was on assignment.”

“When did you see her last?”

“A month ago. When our engagement was broken off.”

“Who and what broke it off?”

“We did. By mutual consent. We agreed that we were not suited for each other.” Frimm’s lips tightened. “As I told you, Mr. Wolfe, this suspicion of the police is completely ridiculous.”

“No doubt.” Wolfe went to Bynoe. “You understand, sir, that I cannot undertake to establish negatives. I cannot end the speculations and innuendoes by proving that Mr. Frimm did not discard Miss Innes because Mrs. Bynoe had supplanted her in his desires, and that Miss Innes was not moved to avenge her smart. These facts can be established only by eliminating them; they can be eliminated only by providing a substitute; and the only acceptable substitute is one of the three men who were there with cameras. Do you know anything about them?”

“No. I have been told their names, but I don’t remember them. My mind is not working. Henry?”

“Yes, Mr. Bynoe. Joseph Herrick, a newspaper photographer, on the Gazette. Augustus Pizzi, with a firm of commercial photographers-just a moment-” Frimm closed his eyes. He opened them. “Yes. All-over Pictures, Incorporated. And Alan Geiss, a free-lance photographer.” He saw I was writing in my notebook, and asked if I had them, and I told him yes. He returned to Wolfe. “I had never heard of any of them, and neither had Mr. Bynoe. So far as we know, none of them ever had anything to do with Mrs. Bynoe or with anything she was connected with.”

Wolfe grunted. “He wouldn’t have, since that would point him. More likely, he was paid to do it; and if he won’t talk, as he surely won’t, where do we look for the man or woman who paid him? Have you any idea, Mr. Frimm?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“No faintest notion?”

“No. I don’t know of anyone who even disliked Mrs. Bynoe, let alone anyone who might want-who might want her to die.”

“Have you, Mr. Bynoe?”

“No. Naturally the police wanted to know that, and I have thought about it. In fact, they insisted, but I could give them no names.”

“Then it’s no wonder they find Miss Innes attractive.” Wolfe lifted his chin. “Let us avoid misunderstanding, sir. If you hire me to end speculations about your wife I will undertake it conditionally, the condition being that I find no reason to doubt your statement that they are without foundation. Should I find such a reason, I withdraw and bill you for my fee, and if I have acquired evidence of a crime I inform the police.”

“You will find no such reason,” Bynoe said stiffly. “And I assure you I would not expect you to suppress evidence of a crime. Your intimation that I might is offensive.” He swallowed. “Mr. Hewitt told me that you would be offensive, and I suppose I must tolerate it-either that or just… go home and sit and wait and do nothing.” His jaw worked. “I accept your condition. My only alternative-No. I accept it. Do you wish a check for a retainer?”

Wolfe said that wasn’t necessary and started asking questions. I had my notebook open, but after half an hour there wasn’t much in it but an assortment of negatives. They knew nothing at all about Herrick or Pizzi or Geiss; they could name no one who might have had a motive; Mrs. Bynoe had come from an old and respected family, the daughter of an Episcopalian bishop, and to their knowledge there was no scar on her past; and so on down the line. The only faint glimmer was contributed by Bynoe: that on Friday evening he had thought something was troubling her and had asked her what it was, and she had said that Good Friday was no day to speak of human failings and she wouldn’t bother him with it until after Easter. That wasn’t much help, since he couldn’t furnish a guess on what it had been.

When I went to let them out I stood on the sill long enough to see that the limousine waiting for them at the curb was a Rolls-Royce, and then returned to the office. Wolfe was hunched forward in his chair with his eyes closed and his lips screwed up.

“Does it hurt?” I asked cheerfully.

He grunted.

I stood and looked down at him. “A very fine client,” I declared. “He probably has a couple of hundred million left and that pink Vanda plant. It’s too bad you can’t fill his order. The way it stacks up, your best move is to hide the orchids. If only we could figure a way to frame Tabby-”

“Shut up,” he growled. His eyes opened. “That woman. I’ll have to see her.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “Tonight if possible. Get her here.”

“Sure. In a box. She’s probably downtown with the DA, if they like her as much as Frimm thinks they do, but you need her worse than they do. I’ll whistle her out. First I’ll see if she’s listed.” I went to my desk for the Manhattan phone book, turned to the I’s and found an entry: “Innes Iris 116 Arbor… SUlvn 7-6608.” I told Wolfe, “This must be her,” and reached for the phone.

“One moment,” he said. “I have a suggestion.”

Chapter 5

AT MIDNIGHT OF THAT Easter Sunday I was propped against the wall of a corridor on an upper floor of 155 Leonard Street, and getting tired of it, having been there well over an hour. After Wolfe had made his suggestion, and I had dialed the Sullivan number and got no answer, I had rung the Gazette. Lon Cohen wasn’t there, but his assistant told me that the latest report was that Iris Innes was still at the DA’s office, and, knowing that they rarely keep at a woman all night even when she is charged, I had got the sedan from the garage, and driven downtown and posted myself outside the anteroom. At midnight I was still posted. Three minutes later she showed. The door opened and there she was, but not alone.

It took me two seconds to size up her escort. He was not an assistant DA. He was not her lawyer. He was therefore a dick on the DA’s staff, one I didn’t know, and he did not have her in custody. His mission was merely to see her to a police car for transportation. With that settled, I fronted them as they started down the corridor and said, “Hi, Iris. I’ll take you home.”

“Who are you?” the dick demanded.

“A friend of hers. Any objection?”

“I can use a friend,” she said, and took my arm, and we headed for the elevator. The dick said something to our backs, and we ignored it. When we reached the elevator and I glanced back, he was standing there making up his mind whether action was called for, and he was still there when the door opened and I ushered her in. Down in the ground-floor corridor a journalist tried to head us off, and, recognizing me as well as her, tagged along out to the sidewalk, where I got rude and gave him an elbow in the ribs.

When we were half a block away I spoke. “I’ve got a car parked around the corner.”

“No, thanks,” she said. “Just find me a taxi. I’ve never been put in a taxi by a prince of the blood. Only you’re more like a Boy Scout.”

We turned the corner. “Why I took your cue,” she said, “he was going to take me home and I had had all I could stand of cops for one day. How did you know I wasn’t under arrest?”