Rex Stout - And Four to Go

“I want to invite you to call on me at my office. I have been asked to discuss certain matters with you, and-”

“Who asked you?”

“I am not at liberty to say. I shall-”

“What matters?” The “wh” was more off.

“If you will let me finish. The matters are personal and confidential, and concern you closely. That’s all I can say on the telephone. I am sure you-”

A snort stopped him, a snort that might be spelled “Tzchaahh!” followed by: “I know your name, yes! You are scum, I know, in your stinking sewer! Your slimy little ego in your big gob of fat! And you dare to- owulggh! ”

That’s the best I can do at spelling it. It was part scream, part groan, and part just noise. It was followed immediately by another noise, a mixture of crash and clatter, then others, faint rustlings, and then nothing. I looked at Wolfe and he looked at me. I spoke to my transmitter. “Hello hello hello. Hello! Hello?”

I cradled it and so did Wolfe. Flora Gallant was asking, “What is it? She hung up?”

We ignored her. Wolfe said, “Archie? You heard.”

“Yes, sir. If you want a guess, something hit her and she dragged the phone along as she went down and it struck the floor. The other noises, not even a guess, except that at the end either she put the receiver back on and cut the connection or someone else did. I don’t-Okay, Miss Gallant. Take it easy.” She had grabbed my arm with both hands and was jabbering, “What is it? What happened?” I put a hand on her shoulder and made it emphatic. “Take a breath and let go. You heard what I told Mr. Wolfe. Apparently something fell on her and then hung up the phone.”

“But it couldn’t! It is not possible!”

“That’s what it sounded like. What’s the number? The one downstairs?”

She just gawked at me. I looked at Wolfe and he gave me a nod, and I jerked my arm loose, sat at my desk, got the Manhattan book, flipped to the Gs and got the number, PL2-0330 and dialed it.

A cultured female voice came. “Alec Gallant Incorporated.”

“This is a friend of Miss Voss,” I told her. “I was just speaking to her on the phone, in her office, and from the sounds I got I think something may have happened to her. Will you send someone up to see? Right away. I’ll hold the wire.”

“Who is this speaking, please?”

“Never mind that. Step on it. She may be hurt.”

I heard her calling to someone, then apparently she covered the transmitter. I sat and waited. Wolfe sat and scowled at me. Flora Gallant stood for a good five minutes at my elbow, staring down at me, then turned and went to the red leather chair and lowered herself onto its edge. I looked at my wristwatch: 11:40. It had said 11:31 when the connection with Bianca Voss had been cut. More waiting, and then a male voice came.

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

“This is Carl Drew. What is your name, please?”

“My name is Watson, John H. Watson. Is Miss Voss all right?”

“May I have your address, Mr. Watson, please?”

“What for? Miss Voss knows my address. Is she all right?”

“I must have your address, Mr. Watson. I must insist. You will understand the necessity when I tell you that Miss Voss is dead. She was assaulted in her office and is dead. Apparently, from what you said, the assault came while she was on the phone with you, and I want your address. I must insist.”

I hung up, gently not to be rude, swiveled, and asked Flora Gallant, “Who is Carl Drew?”

“He’s the business manager. What happened?”

I went to Wolfe. “My guess was close. Miss Voss is dead. In her office. He said she was assaulted, but he didn’t say with what or by whom.”

He glowered at me, then turned to let her have it. She was coming up from the chair, slow and stiff. When she was erect she said, “No. No. It isn’t possible.”

“I’m only quoting Carl Drew,” I told her.

“It isn’t possible. He said that?”

“Distinctly.”

“But how-” She let it hang. She said, “But how-” stopped again, turned, and was going. When Wolfe called to her, “Here, Miss Gallant, your money,” she paid no attention but kept on, and he poked it at me, and I took it and headed for the hall. I caught up with her halfway to the front door, but when I offered it she just kept going, so I blocked her off, took her bag and opened it and dropped the bills in and closed it, handed it back, and went and pulled the door open. She hadn’t said a word. I stood on the sill and watched, thinking she might stumble going down the seven steps of the stoop, but she made it to the sidewalk and turned east, toward Ninth Avenue. When I got back to the office Wolfe was sitting with his eyes closed, breathing down to his big round middle. I went to my desk and put the phone book away.

“She is so stunned with joy,” I remarked, “that she’ll probably get run over. I should have gone and put her in a taxi.”

He grunted.

“One thing,” I remarked. “Miss Voss’s last words weren’t exactly gйnйreux. I would call them catty.”

He grunted.

“Another thing,” I remarked, “in spite of the fact that I was John H. Watson on the phone, we’ll certainly be called on by either Sergeant Stebbins or Inspector Cramer or both. When they go into whereabouts Flora will have to cough it up for her own protection. And we actually heard it. Also we’ll have the honor of being summoned to the stand. Star witnesses.”

He opened his eyes. “I’m quite aware of it,” he growled. “Confound it. Bring me the records on Laelia gouldiana.”

No orchid ever called a genius a slimy little ego in a big gob of fat. I remarked on that too, but to myself.

Chapter 2

SURE I APPRECIATE IT,” Cramer declared. “Why shouldn’t I? Very thoughtful of you. Saves me time and trouble. So it was eleven-thirty-one when you heard the blow?”

Inspector Cramer, big and brawny with a round red face and all his hair, half of it gray, had nothing to be sarcastic about as he sat in the red leather chair at six-thirty that Tuesday afternoon, and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. It was his reaction, not to the present circumstances, but to his memory of other occasions, other experiences he had undergone in that room. He had to admit that we had saved him time and trouble when I had anticipated his visit by typing out a complete report of the session with Flora Gallant that morning, including the dialogue verbatim, and having it ready for him in duplicate, signed by both Wolfe and me. He had skimmed through it first, and then read it slowly and carefully.

“We heard no blow, identifiably,” Wolfe objected. His bulk was comfortably arranged in his oversize chair back of his desk. “Mr. Goodwin wrote that statement, but I read it, and it does not say that we heard a blow.”

Cramer found the place on page four and consulted it. “Okay. You heard a groan and a crash and rustles. But there was a blow. She was hit in the back of the head with a chunk of marble, a paperweight, and then a scarf was tied around her throat to stop her breathing. You say here at eleven-thirty-one.”