Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe (4 page)

“I took the first plate,” a girl blurted—another
whose name I didn't know. “I took it in and gave it to the man in my chair, the one at the left corner at the other side of the table, and I stayed there. I never left the dining room.”

“Your name, please?”

“Marjorie Quinn.”

“Thank you. Now the second plate. Who took it?”

Apparently nobody. Wolfe gave them ten seconds, his eyes moving to take them all in, his lips tight. “I advise you,” he said, “to jog your memories, in case it becomes necessary to establish the order in which you took the plates by dragging it out of you. I hope it won't come to that.” His head turned. “Felix, I have neglected you purposely, to give you time to reflect. You were in the dining room. My expectation was that after I had learned who had served the first course to Mr. Pyle you would corroborate it, but now that there is nothing for you to corroborate I must look to you for the fact itself. I must ask you to point her out.”

In a way Wolfe was Felix's boss. When Wolfe's oldest and dearest friend, Marko Vukcic, who had owned Rusterman's restaurant, had died, his will had left the restaurant to members of the staff in trust, with Wolfe as the trustee, and Felix was the maître d'hôtel. With that job at the best restaurant in New York, naturally Felix was both bland and commanding, but now he was neither. If he felt the way he looked, he was miserable.

“I can't,” he said.

“Pfui! You, trained as you are to see everything?”

“That is true, Mr. Wolfe. I knew you would ask me this, but I can't. I can only explain. The young woman who just spoke, Marjorie Quinn, was the first one in with a plate, as she said. She did not say that as she served it one of the blinis slid off onto the table, but it did. As I sprang toward her she was actually about to
pick it up with her fingers, and I jerked her away and put it back on the plate with a fork, and I gave her a look. Anyway, I was not myself. Having women as waiters was bad enough, and not only that, they were without experience. When I recovered command of myself I saw the red-headed one, Choate, standing back of Mr. Pyle, to whom she had been assigned, with a plate in her hand, and I saw that he had already been served. As I moved forward she stepped to the right and served the plate to you. The operation was completely upset, and I was helpless. The dark-skinned one, Iacono, who was assigned to you, served Mr. Kreis, and the—”

“If you please.” Wolfe was curt. “I have heard them, and so have you. I have always found you worthy of trust, but it's possible that in your exalted position, maître d'hôtel at Rusterman's, you would rather dodge than get involved in a poisoning. Are you dodging, Felix?”

“Good God, Mr. Wolfe, I
am
involved!”

“Very well. I saw that woman spill the blini and start her fingers for it, and I saw you retrieve it. Yes, you're involved, but not as I am.” He turned to me. “Archie. You are commonly my first resort, but now you are my last. You sat next to Mr. Pyle. Who put that plate before him?”

Of course I knew that was coming, but I hadn't been beating my brain because there was no use. I said merely but positively, “No.” He glared at me and I added, “That's all, just no, but like Felix I can explain. First, I would have had to turn around to see her face, and that's bad table manners. Second, I was watching Felix rescue the blini. Third, there was an argument going on about flowers with spots and streaks, and I
was listening to it and so were you. I didn't even see her arm.”

Wolfe stood and breathed. He shut his eyes and opened them again, and breathed some more. “Incredible,” he muttered. “The wretch has incredible luck.”

“I'm going home,” Fern Faber said. “I'm tired.”

“So am I,” another one said, and was moving, but Wolfe's eyes pinned her. “I advise you not to,” he said. “It is true that Miss Faber is eliminated as the culprit, and also Miss Quinn, since she was under surveillance by Felix while Mr. Pyle was being served, but I advise even them to stay. When Mr. Pyle dies the doctors will certainly summon the police, and it would be well for all of you to be here when they arrive. I had hoped to be able to present them with an exposed murderer. Confound it! There is still a chance. Archie, come with me. Fritz, Felix, Zoltan, remain with these women. If one or more of them insist on leaving do not detain them by force, but have the names and the times of departure. If they want to eat feed them. I'll be—”

“I'm going home,” Fern Faber said stubbornly.

“Very well, go. You'll be got out of bed by a policeman before the night's out. I'll be in the dining room, Fritz. Come, Archie.”

He went and I followed, along the pantry corridor and through the two-way door. On the way I glanced at my wrist watch: ten past eleven. I rather expected to find the dining room empty, but it wasn't. Eight of them were still there, the only ones missing being Schriver and Hewitt, who were probably upstairs. The air was heavy with cigar smoke. All of them but Adrian Dart were at the table with their chairs pushed back at various angles, with brandy glasses and cigars. Dart was standing with his back to a picture of honkers on
the wing, holding forth. As we entered he stopped and heads turned.

Emil Kreis spoke. “Oh, there you are. I was coming to the kitchen but didn't want to butt in. Schriver asked me to apologize to Fritz Brenner. Our custom is to ask the chef to join us with champagne, which is barbarous but gay, but of course in the circumstances …” He let it hang, and added, “Shall I explain to him? Or will you?”

“I will.” Wolfe went to the end of the table and sat. He had been on his feet for nearly two hours—all very well for his twice-a-day sessions in the plant rooms, but not elsewhere. He looked around. “Mr. Pyle is still alive?”

“We hope so,” one said. “We sincerely hope so.”

“I ought to be home in bed,” another one said. “I have a hard day tomorrow. But it doesn't seem …” He took a puff on his cigar.

Emil Kreis reached for the brandy bottle. “There's been no word since I came down.” He looked at his wrist watch. “Nearly an hour ago. I suppose I should go up. It's so damned unpleasant.” He poured brandy.

“Terrible,” one said. “Absolutely terrible. I understand you were asking which one of the girls brought him the caviar. Kreis says you asked him.”

Wolfe nodded. “I also asked Mr. Schriver and Mr. Hewitt. And Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Brenner, and the two men who came to help at my request. And the women themselves. After more than an hour with them I am still at fault. I have discovered the artifice the culprit used, but not her identity.”

“Aren't you a bit premature?” Leacraft, the lawyer, asked. “There may be no culprit. An acute and severe gastric disturbance may be caused—”

“Nonsense. I am too provoked for civility, Mr.
Leacraft. The symptoms are typical of arsenic, and you heard Mr. Pyle complain of sand, but that's not all. I said I have discovered the artifice. None of them will admit serving him the first course. The one assigned to him found he had already been served and served me instead. There is indeed a culprit. She put arsenic in the cream
en passant
, served it to Mr. Pyle, returned to the kitchen for another portion, and came and served it to someone else. That is established.”

“But then,” the lawyer objected, “one of them served no one. How could that be?”

“I am not a tyro at inquiry, Mr. Leacraft. I'll ravel it for you later if you want, but now I want to get on. It is no conjecture that poison was given to Mr. Pyle by the woman who brought him the caviar; it is a fact. By a remarkable combination of cunning and luck she has so far eluded identification, and I am appealing to you. All of you. I ask you to close your eyes and recall the scene. We are here at table, discussing the orchids—the spots and streaks. The woman serving that place”—he pointed—“lets a blini slip from the plate and Felix retrieves it. It helps to close your eyes. Just about then a woman enters with a plate, goes to Mr. Pyle, and puts it before him. I appeal to you: which one?”

Emil Kreis shook his head. “I told you upstairs, I don't know. I didn't see her. Or if I did, it didn't register.”

Adrian Dart, the actor, stood with his eyes closed, his chin up, and his arms folded, a fine pose for concentration. The others, even Leacraft, had their eyes closed too, but of course they couldn't hold a candle to Dart. After a long moment the eyes began to open and heads to shake.

“It's gone,” Dart said in his rich musical baritone. “I
must have seen it, since I sat across from him, but it's gone. Utterly.”

“I didn't see it,” another said. “I simply didn't see it.”

“I have a vague feeling,” another said, “but it's too damn vague. No.”

They made it unanimous. No dice.

Wolfe put his palms on the table. “Then I'm in for it,” he said grimly. “I am your guest, gentlemen, and would not be offensive, but I am to blame that Fritz Brenner was enticed to this deplorable fiasco. If Mr. Pyle dies, as he surely will—”

The door opened and Benjamin Schriver entered. Then Lewis Hewitt, and then the familiar burly frame of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide West.

Schriver crossed to the table and spoke. “Vincent is dead. Half an hour ago. Doctor Jameson called the police. He thinks that it is practically certain—”

“Hold it,” Purley growled at his elbow. “I'll handle it if you don't mind.”

“My God,” Adrian Dart groaned, and shuddered magnificently.

That was the last I heard of the affair from an aristologist.

“I did not!” Inspector Cramer roared. “Quit twisting my words around! I didn't charge you with complicity! I merely said you're concealing something, and what the hell is that to scrape your neck? You always do!”

It was a quarter to two Wednesday afternoon. We were in the office on the first floor of the old brownstone
on West 35th Street—Wolfe in his oversized chair. The daily schedule was messed beyond repair. When we had finally got home, at five o'clock in the morning, Wolfe had told Fritz to forget about breakfast until further notice, and had sent me up to the plant rooms to leave a note for Theodore saying that he would not appear at nine in the morning and perhaps not at all. It had been not at all. At half past eleven he had buzzed on the house phone to tell Fritz to bring up the breakfast tray with four eggs and ten slices of bacon instead of two and five, and it was past one o'clock when the sounds came of his elevator and then his footsteps in the hall, heading for the office.

If you think a problem child is tough, try handling a problem elephant. He is plenty knotty even when he is himself, and that day he was really special. After looking through the mail, glancing at his desk calendar, and signing three checks I had put on his desk, he had snapped at me, “A fine prospect. Dealing with them singly would be interminable. Will you have them all here at six o'clock?”

I kept calm. I merely asked, “All of whom?”

“You know quite well. Those women.”

I still kept calm. “I should think ten of them would be enough. You said yourself that two of them can be crossed off.”

“I need them all. Those two can help establish the order in which the plates were taken.”

I held on. I too was short on sleep, shorter even than he, and I didn't feel up to a fracas. “I have a suggestion,” I said. “I suggest that you postpone operations until your wires are connected again. Counting up to five hundred might help. You know damn well that all twelve of them will spend the afternoon either at the District Attorney's office or receiving official callers
at their homes—probably most of them at the DA's office. And probably they'll spend the evening there too. Do you want some aspirin?”

“I want
them
,” he growled.

I could have left him to grope back to normal on his own and gone up to my room for a nap, but after all he pays my salary. So I picked up a sheet of paper I had typed and got up and handed it to him. It read:

“Fern Faber's out,” I said, “and I realize it doesn't have to be one of those five, even though Lucy Morgan took the last plate. Possibly one or two others took plates after Peggy Choate did, and served the men they were assigned to. But it seems—”

I stopped because he had crumpled it and dropped it in the wastebasket. “I heard them,” he growled. “My faculties, including my memory, are not impaired. I am merely ruffled beyond the bounds of tolerance.”

For him that was an abject apology, and a sign that he was beginning to regain control. But a few minutes later, when the bell rang, and after a look through the one-way glass panel of the front door I told him it was Cramer, and he said to admit him, and Cramer marched in and planted his fanny on the red leather chair and opened up with an impolite remark about concealing facts connected with a murder, Wolfe had cut loose; and Cramer asked him what the hell was that
to scrape his neck, which was a new one to me but sounded somewhat vulgar for an inspector. He had probably picked it up from some hoodlum.

Ruffling Cramer beyond the bounds of tolerance did Wolfe good. He leaned back in his chair. “Everyone conceals something,” he said placidly. “Or at least omits something, if only because to include everything is impossible. During those wearisome hours, nearly six of them, I answered all questions, and so did Mr. Goodwin. Indeed, I thought we were helpful. I thought we had cleared away some rubble.”