Death of A Doxy (10 page)

Back in 1958, eight years back, a man named Simon Jacobs should not have been stabbed to death and his body dragged behind a bush in Van Cortlandt Park, but he was, and Nero Wolfe and I would never forget it. We should have known it might happen and taken steps, and we hadn’t. Once is enough for that kind of goof, which accounts for the fact that I did not arrive at the Maidstone Hotel at ten o’clock Saturday morning. I arrived at nine-thirty. Mail deliveries in New York are terrible, but there was one chance in a billion that the postman would get to 2938 Humboldt Avenue extra early that one day, and the subway is rapid transit.

A hotel manager doesn’t like it if a guest tells him she wants to post a guard outside her door because she expects to be murdered, so we hadn’t bothered the Maidstone manager. Instead, we had invited the hotel dick, I mean security officer, up to the room, and Julie Jaquette had told him that a man had been annoying her, and he might even take a room in the hotel, and she didn’t want any trouble. It helped that he had heard of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin and that I slipped him a double sawbuck. He even offered to supply a chair.

Since I had brought the Times and a magazine along, I didn’t have to invent games to pass the time. There were do not disturb signs on the doorknobs of her suite, and the chambermaids skipped them. The traffic was light all morning. I hope I’m not a snob, but I decided that on the whole I preferred the tenants of the seventh floor of 2938 Humboldt Avenue to those of the ninth floor of the Maidstone. They had all looked worried too, more or less, but you had the feeling that you could stand hearing about theirs. Of course people in hotels aren’t like people at home. I was deciding why that was so when one of her doors, the one to the bedroom, opened enough to let her head through, and she stuck it out and asked, “What do you want for lunch?”

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to twelve. “I’ll make out,” I said. “A bellboy will be up later. All arranged.”

“Huh. You’re slipping. I’m ordering breakfast. What if he fixes the waiter and poisons it'You’ll have to taste. What for you?”

“Just double your breakfast.”

“I always have bacon and eggs. I’ll open the other door.”

She did. In a minute it opened a crack, but I didn’t go in. Remember Simon Jacobs, and have a look at the waiter while he’s still out in the hall. It sometimes happens that the difference between being sensible and being silly doesn’t depend on you at all, it depends on something or somebody else. That time it was silly to wait out in the hall for a look at the waiter. When he came, at half past twelve, wheeling the chow wagon down the hall, I watched him to the bedroom door and then went to the other one.

The meal was served in the bedroom, with her in bed and me at a table the waiter brought in. She was in the same blue thing as the day before, which made me feel at home. Since Fritz never fries eggs, they made me feel away from home. We talked about Isabel, or rather she did. She had been trying to figure out a way to persuade her to give up the idea of getting married, and she thought she might possibly have made it. She explained that the reason there is no such thing as a good husband is that there is no such thing as a good wife and vice versa, and how are you going to get around that'We had got to the muffins and jam, and she was telling me how right Isabel had been to realize that she wasn’t cut out for show business, when the phone rang, and she twisted around and reached for it.

The first thing she said was “Hello,” and the second thing she said was “Yes, Mr. Fleming, this is Julie Jaquette,” and I beat it to the other room and got at the phone, but I didn’t hear much. He said, “Would two o’clock be all right?” and she said, “Half past two would be better,” and he said, “All right, I’ll be there,” and that was it. As I re-entered the bedroom she asked if I had heard it, and I said yes and went to my table.

“I suppose,” she said, “we’d better decide what charity I’ll give it to. Or have you arranged that too?”

“That’s not funny.” I poured coffee. “I’m going to call you Julie.”

“That’s not funny either. Will he bring his own ashtray?”

“Sure. I assume he’s coming here.”

“Yes.”

“I told you we couldn’t arrange details until we see how he reacts. He certainly doesn’t intend to come and have them phone up, and take the elevator, and walk in and do you, and walk out again.”

“Then you can be in the closet. Or in here.” She pushed the over-the-bed table away. “I’m going to dress up for this. My best. Take your coffee to the other room.”

I obeyed. For a hotel the sitting room wasn’t bad ' dark green carpet and light green walls, with the regulation chairs and an oversized couch, and a big window that looked down on Central Park. After I finished the coffee I went to the window for a look out. It was Saturday, but also it was February, and there wasn’t much stirring in the park. There was still some snow under the bare trees and along the top of the park wall, but you could call it white only because it wasn’t black.

Julie, when she came, was black ' a plain black tailored dress with half-sleeves and no trim to speak of. I know when things fit, and no wonder she called it her best, the way it fitted. I said so and then took her to the window. “I’m about to give an order,” I said. “See that stone wall over there'What time do you get home from work?”

“About half past one. I finish my last turn at one.”

“Fine. The park will be empty. So when you get home tonight you turn on the lights and come and stand here to look out at the park, and the man behind the stone wall with his rifle resting on the wall pulls the trigger, and if he’s any good at all down you go. Therefore you do not come and stand here and look out. You lower the blind and close the drapes before you leave for work. That’s an order.”

“It’s a damn silly one. Way up here'At that angle'Go get a rifle and try it. You couldn’t even hit the window.”

“The hell I couldn’t. Before I was twelve years old I got many a squirrel with a twenty-two in trees nearly this high. Are you going to obey orders or not?”

She said she would, and we went and sat on the couch and discussed the operation. She wanted to handle it with me in the other room listening, and she had a reason: if I sat in I might say something she wouldn’t like but couldn’t object to with him there. It got a little warm, and at one point she threatened to bow out and I could see him downstairs, but finally it was agreed that I would be present, seen but not heard unless I thought it was absolutely essential. We were barely on speaking terms when the phone rang and she was informed that Mr. Fleming was below and wanted to come up. I stayed on the couch. I stayed put when the knock sounded and she went and opened the door and he entered. Seeing it and not knowing, you would have thought it was she, not he, who needed watching. She turned to close the door, and he turned to keep her in view, and it wasn’t until she had passed him and he turned again that he saw me.

He spoke. He said, “Oh,” but didn’t know he was saying it. Then he stood and stared. Julie faced him and said, “I believe you have met Mr. Goodwin. I’ll take your coat.”

His mouth opened, but no words came. He tried again and managed it. “I thought you ' this would be private.”

She nodded. “I suppose you would rather have it private, but I thought I’d better be careful with a ' with you. Have you got the money?”

He was having trouble with his eyes. He wanted them to stay on her, but they wanted me in. “I’m afraid,” he said, “there’s a serious misunderstanding. I’m afraid Isabel told you some things that weren’t true. I’m afraid -“

“Nuts. Milton Thales. Tha-lez. I know exactly how you got it and who you got it from. The only reason I haven’t told the cops is because Isabel wouldn’t want me to. She would want me to make you cough it up, and that’s what I’m doing. I think she would also want me to tell her sister, because she intended to, and I think I ought to, but first I want the money. Have you got it?”

“No. Honestly, Miss Jaquette, really -“

“Nuts.” She whirled. “What do you think, Mr. Goodwin?”

Formal, yet. She could have made it Archie. “I think you’re wasting your time,” I said. “I think I ought to call Inspector Cramer and tell him to come and get him. I suggest Cramer because he handles homicide and he may be interested.” I rose and went to the stand where the phone was and lifted the receiver and started to dial.

Fleming’s voice came, not a yell, but loud. “No!”

I turned. “No?”

“I’ll give you the money.” From that angle the light was bouncing off his cheekbones. “I couldn’t get it today, the bank’s closed. I’ll bring it Monday.”

I cradled the phone. Julie said, “All of it. Five thousand.”

“Yes. Of course.” His eyes went with me back to the couch, and then to her. “What you said ' I don’t think Isabel would want you to tell my wife, now that she ' I’m sure she wouldn’t. Promise me you won’t. I’m going to give you the money.”

Julie shook her head. “I’m not promising anything.”

“Promise me you won’t tell her before Monday. We can talk about it Monday. I can tell you why ' we can talk about it.”

I spoke because I considered it absolutely essential for him to know he had some time to play with. “I’m here too,” I said. “I can’t speak for Miss Jaquette, but I can for me. I promise positively to say nothing to your wife until after you return the five grand, provided it’s Monday. Then we’ll see.”

“All right,” she said. “Archie’s promise is no good without mine. I promise too.”

He put his hat on. If he had known he was putting it on, in a lady’s room with the lady present, he would have been shocked. He wanted to say something more, but didn’t know what, and he turned, slow and stiff, and headed for the door. Then he forgot his manners again. When he shut the door he left it open a crack. Julie went and pushed it shut and then came to me and asked, “How was I?”

“Terrible. You called me Mr. Goodwin and then Archie. He’ll think you don’t know your own mind.”

“I think you don’t know yours. I thought the idea was to fox him into killing me.”

“Into trying to. It sounds better, now that I’ve got acquainted with you.”

“All right, you’ve hashed it. I knew damn well you should have stayed in the other room. Now he knows he’d have to kill you too.”

“He does not. Didn’t I explain that'Sit down.” I patted the couch, and she sat. “It’s simple. He thinks they can’t get him for the murder without you because you’re the only one who can supply the motive. Of course you wouldn’t go on the stand and swear that Isabel told you she was going to tell him that she was going to tell Stella about the blackmail, but he thinks you would. He also thinks you will tell Stella, not before Monday, but soon after, and apparently that bites him even deeper, I don’t know why; he must see more in her than I do. So you’re a double-breasted danger, but I’m not. I’m only hearsay. As he sees it, I can only tell what you told me, but you can tell what Isabel told you herself. That’s equally true for the witness stand and for Stella. She would probably believe you, but not me. We haven’t got a single item of evidence to connect him with either the blackmail or the murder, but if he hands you five thousand bucks’ worth of currency, that would be evidence. He never will. So you’ll have to be removed, but I’m just a nuisance. Sorry.”

“Huh. You have dealt me in.”

“Up to your neck. I apologize for one thing. I should have made it clear that once you were in you couldn’t get out. I apologize.”

“I don’t want out. I think he killed her.”

“Certainly he did.”

“What do we do now?”

“Whatever you had on your program, if there’s room for company. It’s three o’clock Saturday afternoon. If you go out, Saul Panzer is downstairs and we’ll escort you. If you stay in, I’ll be in the hall.”

“Do you play gin?”

I said I did, and that took care of the afternoon, after I went down and told Saul he was done for the day, provided he would call Fred and tell him to be at the Maidstone entrance or in the lobby at five minutes to seven, prepared to spend the night in the ninth-floor hall after our return from the Ten Little Indians. The three hours of gin cost me $8.75. She wasn’t so good and I’m not so bad, but since she was going to drop ten bucks to Saul on their bet I thought it only fair not to bear down. She was a neater shuffler than anyone I know except Lon Cohen. We knocked off at six o’clock for a bite to eat, sandwiches and coffee from room service, and for her to change.

I had seen quite a few of the Manhattan spots, mostly with Lily Rowan, but had never been inside the Ten Little Indians, on Monarch Street. I spent that evening not only inside, but partly way inside, in Julie’s dressing room, which was about six by eight, par for a headliner in a place with a four-dollar cover charge. When she was on I went out to the battlefield and stood in the rear at one side. Fred was at the center, near the door. Julie earned her pay, probably about a grand a week, maybe more. This is not a scout report on an artiste, so I’ll let it go at that; she earned her pay. The Saturday-night mob certainly thought so; they loved her. For that matter, so did I, but on different grounds. One of them loved her so much that around midnight he somehow made it to her dressing room, so boiled that I had to be careful not to tip him over.

There was no taxi problem when the three of us made our exit into the windy winter night, because Julie had a standing arrangement with a hackie for a quarter past one. During the ride uptown she and Fred resumed a discussion they had started on the ride downtown; they had agreed it would be a good idea for her to rent one of his four children for the summer and were considering which one and the price. Knowing him, I hoped she didn’t think he meant it, and knowing her, I hoped he didn’t think she did.

When we stopped at the curb at the Maidstone, the doorman was right there to open the door, and we piled out and the cab rolled on. I wasn’t going in; I was to relieve Fred up in the hall at ten o’clock and should have been in bed two hours ago. We were grouped on the sidewalk, Julie in the middle, when the first shot was fired. I reacted to the sound, a loud, sharp crack, and Fred reacted to the bullet, though I didn’t know that immediately. He went down. I’m not certain whether the second shot was fired before, or after, or while, I was flattening Julie. If you think it would have been better manners just to cover her, I agree, but to do that properly you have to know which direction the bullets are coming from. I did cover her when I had her down. I twisted around to look up, and the damn fool doorman was standing there with his mouth open, staring across the street. No more shots. I ordered Julie, “Stay flat, don’t move,” and got to my feet, and as I did so Fred said, “The bastard hit me.” He was on one knee, with his other leg stretched out, propping himself with a hand. I asked him where, and he said his leg. The doorman said, “Over there by the wall, I saw it.” Julie said nothing. Good for her. I looked around. A bellboy was coming out of the hotel. A man and woman had stopped at the corner and were gawking. In the other direction, uptown, a bull was coming on the trot. I told Julie again to stay flat, and hopped. He just might be crazy enough to stick, thinking she might get up and he could try again. I had to scramble to see over the wall. There was practically no light behind it, but there was enough snow to spot anything as big as a man, and he wasn’t there. When I got back across, the cop was bending over Fred and telling the bellboy to phone for an ambulance. Julie hadn’t moved. I helped her up, told Fred I would be back, and started for the entrance with her. The cop said wait, he wanted names, and I told him he had heard me say I would be back, and went on. The desk clerk and the elevator man were there, and the clerk went and got the key and the elevator man came and took us up. Julie was trying not to tremble, and succeeding, and I decided she didn’t want my hand on her arm as she walked from the elevator to her door.