Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 19 (9 page)

There was no use going on because the shrieks and hoots were drowning me out. Even Mrs. Adams loosened up enough to smile. Claire Burkhardt, the high school girl, choked on a bite of roll. I sat down and started on my soup, flushed with triumph. When it was a little quieter I demanded, “Her name?”

So many shouted it together that I had to get it from Sue Dondero, on my right. It was Cora Barth. I did not file it.

With Fritz having eleven places to serve, I had told him to leave the liquids to me. An advantage of that arrangement was that I knew what each one was drinking and could keep the refills coming without asking any questions, and another was that Sue Dondero offered
to help me. Not only was it nice to have her help, but also it gave me a chance to make a suggestion to her, while we were together at the side table, which I had wanted to make to someone upstairs but hadn’t got around to. She said yes, and it was agreed that for a signal I would pull at my right ear.

“I am pleased to see,” I told her, “that you are sticking to vermouth and soda. A girl with temples like yours has an obligation to society. Keep ’em smooth.”

“Not to society,” she dissented. “To spelling. Whisky or gin gives me a hangover, and if I have a hangover I can’t spell. Once I spelled lien l-e-a-n.”

“Good God. No, that’s for Nina Perlman.”

Having done all right with the soup, they did even better with the Mondor patties, As for talk and associated noises, they kept it going without much help from me, except for filling in a few gaps. But I was glad Wolfe wasn’t there to see how they treated the duckling, all but Eleanor Gruber and Helen Troy. The trouble was, they were full. I watched them pecking at it, or not even pecking, with two exceptions, and decided that something drastic was called for if I didn’t want a letdown. I raised my voice to get attention.

“Ladies, I need advice. This is—”

“Speech, speech!” Claire Burkhardt squeaked.

“He’s making one, you idiot!” somebody told her.

“Oyez, oyeth,” said Helen Troy.

“This,” I said, “is a democracy. No one can shove anything down people’s throats, not even Fritz’s salad. As your host and by no means unknown admirer, I want you to have a good time and go away from here saying, ‘Archie Goodwin can be trusted. He had us at his mercy, but he gave us a chance to say yes or no.’”

“Yes!” Blanche Duke called.

“Thank you.” I inclined my head. “I was about to
ask, how many feel like eating salad? If you want it, Fritz will enjoy serving it. But what if you don’t? Yes or no?”

There were six or seven noes.

“Do you still say yes, Miss Duke?”

“My God, no. I didn’t know you meant salad.”

“Then we’ll skip it. However, I won’t ask for a vote on the almond parfait. You should taste it, at least.” I turned to Fritz, at my elbow. “That’s how it is, Fritz.”

“Yes, sir.” He started removing plates still loaded with his duckling, one of his best dishes. I wasted no sympathy on him because I had warned him. I have had much more opportunity than he has to learn the eating habits of American females. At an affair of the Society of Gourmets that duckling would have drawn cheers.

Their reaction to the almond parfait made up for it some. In their relaxed condition they were more or less ignoring the code, and a couple of them took spoonfuls while Fritz was still serving. Portia Liss exclaimed, “Oh! It’s absolutely heavenly! Isn’t it, Mrs. Adams?”

“I can’t say, Portia. I haven’t any.”

But a few minutes later she conceded grudgingly, “It’s remarkable. Quite remarkable.”

Others had extravagant comments. Helen Troy finished first. She arose and shoved her chair back and put her palms on the table to lean on. Her pimples were purple now instead of pink.

“Oyeth, oyeth,” she said.

“Who’s making a speech?” someone demanded.

“I am. This is my maiden effort.”

Someone tittered.

“My
maiden
effort,” she insisted, “at my age. I’ve been thinking what we can do for Mr. Goodwin and I’m standing up to put it in the form of a motion. I move that
one of us goes and puts her arms around Mr. Goodwin’s neck and kisses him and calls him Archie.”

“Which one?” Mabel Moore demanded.

“We’ll vote on it. I nominate me. I’m already up.”

There were cries of dissent. Claire Burkhardt, at Helen Troy’s left, got her elbow and pulled her back onto her chair. Nominations were made. Someone suggested they should draw lots. Half an hour earlier I would have let it slide, on the chance that Sue or Eleanor would get elected, which would have been a pleasant experience, but at this stage I didn’t want to risk having a tone set that it might be hard to jostle them out of. So I spoke up.

“Don’t you think you ought to consult me?”

“Don’t butt in,” Blanche Duke said rudely.

“I’m sorry, but I have to. This is dangerous. If a certain one of you came close to me right now and put her arms around me and kissed me, I might be able to remember I’m your host and I might not. Whereas—”

“Which one?” voices demanded.

I ignored them. “Whereas if any other one did it, I couldn’t keep from showing my disappointment. You can’t expect me to tell you her name. We’ll forget it. Anyhow, nobody seconded the motion, so it would be illegal.”

I pulled at my right ear. “Another thing, the motion was put wrong. Doing it that way, who would it please most? Not me. You. I would much rather kiss than be kissed. But don’t misunderstand me, you’re my guests, and I would be happy to do something to please you. I’d love to please you. If you have a suggestion?”

Sue Dondero came through fine. “I have two.”

“Good. One at a time.”

“First, let all of us call you Archie.”

“Easy. If I may call you Charlotte and Blanche and
Dolly and Mabel and Portia and Eleanor and Claire and Nina and Helen and Sue.”

“Of course. Second, you’re a detective. Tell us something about being a detective—something exciting.”

“Well.” I hesitated and looked around, left and right. “Maybe I should treat it like the salad. Yes or no?”

I wasn’t sure all of them said yes, but plenty of them did. Fritz had the coffee cups in place and was pouring. I edged my chair back a little, crossed my legs, and worked my lips, considering.

“I’ll tell you,” I said finally, “what I think I’ll do. I could tell you about some old case that was finished long ago, but it might be more interesting if I pick one that we’re working on right now. I can skip the parts that we’re keeping to ourselves, if any. Do you like that idea?”

They said they did. Except Mrs. Adams, whose lips had suddenly become a thin line, and Dolly Harriton, whose smart gray eyes might have been a little disconcerting if she had been closer.

I made it casual. “I’ll have to hit only the high spots or it will take all night. It’s a murder case. Three people have been murdered: a man named Leonard Dykes, who worked in the office where you are, a girl named Joan Wellman, an editor in a publishing firm, and a girl named Rachel Abrams, a public stenographer and typist.”

There were murmurings, and looks were exchanged. Nina Perlman said emphatically, in a soft satin voice that five or six Manhattans had had no effect on, “I didn’t do it.”

“Three murders by one person?” Eleanor Gruber asked.

“I’ll come to that. Our first connection with it, not much of one, a cop came and showed us a list of fifteen
men’s names which had been written on a piece of paper by Leonard Dykes. They had found it between the pages of a book in Dykes’s room. Mr. Wolfe and I weren’t much interested and barely glanced at it. Then—”

“Why did the cop show you the list?” Dolly Harriton put in.

“Because they hadn’t found any men to fit any of the names, and he thought we might have a suggestion. We didn’t. Then, six weeks later, a man named John R. Wellman called and wanted us to investigate the death of his daughter, whose body had been found in Van Cortlandt Park—run over by a car. He thought she had been murdered, not killed by accident. He told us all about it, and showed us a copy of a letter Joan, his daughter, had written home. In it she said she had had a phone call from a man who gave his name as Baird Archer, author of a novel which he had submitted to Joan’s firm some months back.”

“Oh, my God,” Blanche Duke said morosely. “Baird Archer again.”

“I don’t want to bore you,” I declared.

Most of them said I wasn’t.

“Okay. Joan had read Archer’s novel and rejected it with a letter signed by her. On the phone he offered to pay her twenty dollars an hour to discuss his novel with him and tell him how to improve it, and she made a date to meet him the next day after office hours. So she said in her letter home. It was the evening of the next day that she was killed.”

I reached for my coffee cup, drank some, and leaned back. “Now hold on to your hats. It had been six weeks since the cop had shown us that list of names, and we had just glanced at it. But when Mr. Wolfe and I saw Joan’s letter home we immediately recognized the name of Baird Archer as one of those on Dykes’s list. That
proved there was some kind of connection between Leonard Dykes and Joan Wellman, and since they had both died suddenly and violently, and Joan had a date with Archer the day she died, it made it likely that their deaths were connected too, and connected with Archer. When you asked for something exciting about being a detective, if you meant something like tailing a murderer in Central Park and getting shot at, okay, that has its attractions, but it’s not half as exciting as our spotting that name. If we hadn’t, there would be one cop working on Dykes’s death in his spare time, and another one in the Bronx likewise on Joan Wellman, instead of the way it is, which you know something about. That’s what I call exciting.”

It didn’t seem essential to give the precise circumstances of the recognition of Baird Archer’s name. If Wolfe had been there he would have told it his way, but he wasn’t, and I was. Glancing around to see that coffee refills were being attended to and that cigarettes and matches were at hand for everyone, I resumed.

“Next I’m going to spill something. If it gets printed the cops won’t like it, and they sure won’t like me, but they don’t anyhow. A girl named Rachel Abrams was a public stenographer and typist with a little one-room office on the seventh floor of a building up on Broadway. Day before yesterday she went out the window and smashed to death on the sidewalk. More excitement for me as a detective, which is what I’m supposed to be talking about. It would probably have been called suicide or an accident if I hadn’t happened to walk into her office two or three minutes after she had gone out the window. In a drawer of her desk I found a little brown book in which she had kept a record of her receipts and expenses. Under receipts there were two entries showing that last September she had been paid
ninety-eight dollars and forty cents by a man named Baird Archer.”

“Ah,” Dolly Harriton said. There were other reactions.

“I’ll be dreaming about Baird Archer,” Nina Perlman muttered.

“I am already,” I told her. “As you can see, here’s a job for a detective if there ever was one. I won’t try to tell you how the cops are going at it, of course one or more of them has talked with all of you the past two days, but here’s how we see it, and how we’ll go on seeing it unless something shows we’re wrong. We believe that Dykes’s death was somehow connected with the manuscript of that novel. We believe that Joan Wellman was killed because she had read that manuscript. We believe that Rachel Abrams was killed because she had typed that manuscript. So naturally we want Baird Archer, and we want the manuscript. We’ve got to find one or both, or we’re licked. Any suggestions?”

“Good lord,” Sue Dondero said.

“Get a copy of the novel,” Portia Liss offered.

Someone snickered.

“Look,” I said impulsively, “unless you object I’m going to do something. There are a couple of people connected with this case upstairs now, waiting to see Mr. Wolfe. I think it would be interesting if they came down and told you about it.” I pressed the floor button with my toe. “Unless you’ve had enough?”

“Who are they?” Mrs. Adams wanted to know.

“The father of Joan Wellman and the mother of Rachel Abrams.”

“It won’t be very gay,” Dolly Harriton commented.

“No, it won’t. Things and people mixed up with detectives are seldom gay.”

“I want to see ’em,” Helen Troy said loudly. “It’s human nature.”

Fritz had entered, and I spoke to him. “Where are Mrs. Abrams and Mr. Wellman, Fritz? In the south room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you please ask them to be good enough to come down here?”

“Yes, sir.”

He went. I inquired about drinks and got three orders.

B
lanche Duke darned near ruined it.

When Wellman and Mrs. Abrams were ushered in by Fritz, ten pairs of eyes were focused on them, though in two or three cases the focusing required a little effort. I arose, performed the introductions, and brought them to the two chairs I had placed, one on either side of me. Mrs. Abrams, in a black silk dress or maybe rayon, was tight-lipped and scared but dignified. Wellman, in the same gray suit or its twin, was trying to take in all their faces without seeming to. He sat straight, not touching the back of the chair. I had my mouth open to speak when Blanche beat me to it.