Rex Stout - And Be a Villain

As you can see, it left plenty of coom for inch-by-inch digging and sifting, which was lucky for everybody from privates to inspectors who are supposed to earn their pay, for there was no other place to dig at all. Relationships and motives and suspicions had already had all the juice squeezed out of them. So by four o'clock Saturday afternoon a hundred grown men, if not more, were scattered around the city, doing their damnedest to uncover another little splinter of a fact; any old fact, about that box of Meltettes. Some of them, of course, were getting results. For instance, word had come from the laboratory that the box, as it came to them, had held eleven Meltettes; that one of them, which had obviously been operated on rather skilfully, had about twelve grains of cyanide mixed into its insides; and that the other ten were quite harmless, with no sign of having been tampered with. Meltettes, they said, fitted snugly into the box in pairs, and the cyanided one had been on top, at the end of the box which opened.

And other reports, including, of course, fingerprints. Most of them had been relayed to Cramer in my presence. Whatever he may have thought they added up to, it looked to me very much like a repeat performance by the artist who had painted the sugared coffee picture: so many crossing lines and overlapping colours that no resemblance to any known animal or other object was discernible.

Returning to the densely populated room with no name after my tour of inspection, I made some witty remark to Purley Stebbins and lowered myself into a chair. As I said, I could probably have bulled my way out and gone home, but I didn't want to. What prospect did it offer? I would have fiddled around until Wolfe came down to the office, made my report, and then what? He would either have grunted in disgust, found something to criticize, and lowered his iron curtain again, or he would have gone into another trance and popped out around midnight with some bright idea like typing an anonymous letter about Bill Meadows flunking in algebra his last year in high school. I preferred to stick around in the faint hope that something would turnup.

And something did. I had abandoned the idea of making some sense out of the crossing lines and overlapping colours, given up trying to get a rise out of Purley, and was exchanging hostile glares with Nancylee, when the door from the square hall opened and a lady entered. She darted a glance around and told Purley Inspector Cramer had sent for her. He crossed to the far door which led to Miss Eraser's bedroom, opened it, and closed it after she had passed through.

I knew her by sight but not her name, and even had an opinion of her, namely, that she was the most presentable of all the female dicks I had seen. With nothing else to do, I figured out what Cramer wanted with her, and had just come to the correct conclusion when the door opened again and I got it verified.

Cramer appeared first, then Deputy Commissioner O’Hara. Cramer spoke to Purley: “Get 'em all in here.” Purley flew to obey. Nat Traub asked wistfully: “Have you made any progress, Inspector?” Cramer didn't even have the decency to growl at him, let alone reply. That seemed unnecessarily rude, so I told Traub: “Yeah, they've reached an important decision. You're all going to be frisked.” It was ill-advised, especially with O’Hara there, since he has never forgiven me for being clever once, but I was frustrated and edgy. O’Hara gave me an evil look and Cramer told me to close my trap.

The others came straggling in with their escorts. I surveyed the lot and would have felt genuinely sorry for them if I had known which one to leave out. There was no question now about the kind of strain they were under, and it had nothing to do with picking a sponsor.

Cramer addressed them: “I want to say to you people that as long as you co-operate with us we have no desire to make it any harder for you than we have to. You can't blame us for feeling we have to bear down on you, in view of the fact that all of you lied, and kept on lying, about the bottle that the stuff came out of that killed Orchard. I called you in here to tell you that we're going to search your persons. The position is this, we would be justified in taking you all down and booking you as material witnesses, and that's what we'll do if any of you object to the search. Miss Fraser made no objection. A policewoman is in there with her now. The women will be taken in there one at a time. The men will be taken by Lieutenant Rowcliff and Sergeant Stebbins, also one at a time, to another room.

Does anyone object?” It was pitiful. They were in no condition to object, even if he had announced his intention of having clusters of Meltettes tattooed on their chests. Nobody made a sound except Nancylee, who merely shrilled: “Oh, I never!” I crossed my legs and prepared to sit it out. And so I did, up to a point.

Purley and Rowcliff took Tully Strong first. Soon the female dick appeared and got Elinor Vance. Evidently they were being thorough, for it was a good eight minutes before Purley came back with Strong and took Bill Meadows, and the lady took just as long with Elinor Vance. The last two on the list were Nancylee in one direction and Nat Traub in the other.

That is, they were the last two as I had it. But when Rowcliff and Purley returned with Traub and handed Cramer some slips of paper, O’Hara barked at them: “What about Goodwin?” “Oh, him?” Rowcliff asked.

“Certainly him! He was here, wasn't he?” Rowcliff looked at Cramer. Cramer looked at me.

I grinned at O’Hara. “What if I object, Commissioner?” “Try it! That won't help you any!” “The hell it won't It will either preserve my dignity or start a string of firecrackers. What do you want to bet my big brother can't lick your big brother?” He took a step toward me. “You resist, do you?” “You're damn' right I do.” My hand did a half-circle. “Before twenty witnesses.”

He wheeled. “Send him down, Inspector. To my office. Charge him. Then have him searched.” “Yes, sir.” Cramer was frowning. “First, would you mind stepping into another room with me? Perhaps I haven't fully explained the situation-” “I understand it perfectly! Wolfe has co-operated, so you say-to what purpose?

What has happened? Another murder! Wolfe has got you all buffaloed, and I'm sick and tired of it! Take him to my office!” “No one has got me buffaloed,” Cramer rasped. “Take him, Purley. I'll phone about a charge.”

CHAPTER Twenty-Three

There were two things I liked about Deputy Commissioner O’Hara's office. First, it was there that I had been clever on a previous occasion, and therefore it aroused agreeable memories, and second, I like nice surroundings and it was the most attractive room at Centre Street, being on a corner with six large windows, and furnished with chairs and rugs and other items which had been paid for by O’Hara's rich wife.

I sat at ease in one of the comfortable chairs. The contents of my pockets were stacked in a neat pile on a corner of O’Hara's big shiny mahogany desk, except for one item which Purley Stebbins had in his paw. Purley was so mad his face was a red sunset, and he was stuttering.

“Don't be a g-goddam fool,” he exhorted me. “If you clam it with O’Hara when he gets here he'll jug you sure as hell, and it's after six o'clock so where'll you spend the night?” He shook his paw at me, the one holding the item taken from my pocket. “Tell me about this!” I shook my head firmly. “You know, Purley,” I said without rancour, “this is pretty damn' ironic. You frisked that bunch of suspects and got nothing at all-I could tell that from the way you and Rowcliff looked. But on me, absolutely innocent of wrongdoing, you find what you think is an incriminating document. So here I am, sunk, facing God knows what kind of doom. I try to catch a glimpse of the future, and what do I see?” “Oh, shut up!” “No, I've got to talk to someone.” I glanced at my wrist. “As you say, it's after six o'clock. Mr Wolfe has come down from the plant rooms, expecting to find me awaiting him in the office, ready for my report of the day's events.