Homicide Trinity (12 page)

You would suppose that all .32 cartridges would send a bullet the same distance into a mattress, the same mattress, but they don’t. It took me a quarter of an hour to find it, and by the time I got back upstairs Wolfe was at table in the dining room, which is across the hall from the office. Before I joined him I removed the shell, returned the Drexel’s own cartridge to its place, and put the gun in the safe and the bullet in an envelope in my desk drawer.

We were back in the office, Wolfe dictating and me taking, when company came. I had been right on both counts: it was Inspector Cramer in person, and it was 2:55 when the doorbell rang and I went to the hall for a look through the one-way glass panel in the front door, and there he was on the stoop, no sign of a sag in the heavy broad shoulders, the round red face framed by his turned-up overcoat collar and the brim of his gray felt which should have been retired long ago. Since he had no appointment it would have been proper to open the door the two inches allowed by the chain bolt and greet him through the crack, but that always annoyed him, and if it turned out that I had tampered with evidence it wouldn’t hurt to show him now that I had my good points. So I pulled the door wide open. Without even a nod, let alone a civil greeting, he crossed the sill, tramped down the hall into the office and on to Wolfe’s desk, and demanded, “What time did Mrs. Barry Hazen get here this morning?”

Wolfe tilted his head back to look up at him and inquired, “Is that snow on your hat?”

Having entered and detoured around him, I too looked at the hat. There was nothing whatever on it except signs of age, and outdoors the sun was shining. It would fluster any man to have it put to him that one removes one’s hat when one enters a house, but Cramer is ready for anything when he faces Wolfe. It didn’t faze him. He merely barked, “I asked you a question!”

“Half past eleven,” Wolfe said.

“When did she leave?”

“Shortly before one o’clock.”

Cramer took his overcoat off, ignored my offer to take it, put it on the arm of the red leather chair, and sat. “An hour and a half,” he said, not barking but a little hoarse. He is always a little hoarse when he is dealing with Wolfe. “What did she have to say?” He hadn’t touched the hat.

Wolfe swiveled and leaned back. “Mr. Cramer. I know that Mrs. Hazen’s husband has been shot and
killed. She was with me when the news came on my radio. I know that when I have been consulted by a person who is in any way connected with a death by violence you automatically assume that I have knowledge of evidence that would be useful in your investigation. Sometimes your assumption is valid; sometimes it isn’t. This time it isn’t; that is my considered opinion. Mrs. Hazen consulted me in confidence. If at any time I have reason to think that by refusing to disclose what she told me I am obstructing justice, I’ll communicate with you at once.”

Cramer got a cigar from a pocket, rolled it between his palms, stuck it in his mouth, and clamped his teeth on it. He does that instead of counting ten, when he knows that the words that are on his tongue would make things worse instead of better. He took the cigar from his mouth. “Some day,” he said, “you’re going to fall off and get hurt, and this could be it. If and when you find it gets too hot to hang onto it any longer, and you turn loose, and you have obstructed justice by not telling me now, I’ll get your hide. Nothing and no one will stop me. I’m asking you to tell me what Mrs. Barry Hazen said when she came to see you nine hours after her husband was murdered.”

Wolfe shook his head. “I decline to tell you because I believe, as matters stand now, that it is not pertinent to your inquiry. Should I have occasion to change my mind—and by the way, I can offer you an opportunity to change it for me. Archie, where’s that bullet?”

I got the envelope from my drawer, took the bullet out, and handed it to him. Cramer’s sharp gray eyes were on me and followed the bullet back to Wolfe. Wolfe took it in his fingers, barely glanced at it, handed it back to me, and said, “Give it to Mr. Cramer.” As I did so he turned to Cramer. “This will be pointless if you have found the weapon that was used to shoot Mr. Hazen. Have you?”

“No.”

“It will also be pointless if you have not found the bullet that killed him. Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest that you have your laboratory compare that bullet with it. If you find that they were shot by the same gun let me know at once and I’ll have some information for you. I would want to see the laboratory report, certified.”

“You would.” Cramer’s eyes were slits and his lips tightened. “Where did you get this bullet?”

“I’ll tell you, or I won’t, when I get your report.”

“By God.” Cramer was hoarser. “This
is
pertinent. This is evidence. I’ll take you down, both of you—”

“Nonsense. Evidence of what? I don’t know and neither do you. If it wasn’t fired by the gun that killed Mr. Hazen it is evidence of nothing, and I am not obliged to account for it until I know. I’m not indulging in a prank, Mr. Cramer. There is a possibility that the bullets will match, and if so it will indeed be evidence. Let me know.”

Cramer opened his mouth to say something, vetoed it, got to his feet, put the bullet in his pocket, threw the cigar at my wastebasket and missed, picked up his coat and put it on, ignoring my offer to help, and marched out. I went to the hall to see that when the door shut he was on the outside. When I returned to the office Wolfe growled. “Confound these interruptions. We have forty minutes. Where were we on that letter to Mr. Hewitt?” I sat, got my notebook, and told him.

At four o’clock, when he left to go up to the plant rooms for his two-hour afternoon session with the orchids, I got busy at the typewriter. On various occasions I have had a little trouble turning out perfect letters to orchid collectors and providers of food specialties when my mind had other interests and concerns, and that day was one of the worst. Cramer had left at 3:20. He would lose no time getting the bullet to the laboratory; they probably had it by 3:50, or four o’clock at the latest. Examining two bullets with a comparison microscope is a simple chore; ten minutes is ample to decide if they were fired by the same gun. 4:10. Allow a quarter of an hour for writing the report, which
wouldn’t have to be in shape for a judge and jury. 4:25. Cramer would have a man there waiting for it. He should phone by 4:30, or ring the doorbell by 4:45. He didn’t.

By 5:15 I had to keep my jaw set to hit the right keys. If you think I was keyed up more than the circumstances warranted, look it over. If the bullets matched I was a sap. It was a million to one that the murderer hadn’t sneaked into the house to put the gun back in the drawer in Hazen’s room; why would he? Murderers often do crazy things, but not that crazy. Therefore Mrs. Hazen had lied, and she had either killed him or knew who did, and I was a beetlehead. I had to do three of the letters twice.

By six o’clock, when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, I had begun to relax. He went to his desk and started on the letters I had put there, which he always reads with care. After he had finished a couple and signed them I remarked, “Of course Cramer wouldn’t bother to phone if the bullets didn’t match.”

He grunted.

“And the laboratory got it more than two hours ago, so we might as well—”

The doorbell rang, and the bottom of my spine curled. Cramer had waited until six o’clock, when he knew Wolfe would be available. I went to the hall and switched the stoop light on, and my spine went back to normal. It was a stranger, a man about my age, maybe a little younger, with no hat and a mop of brown hair shuffled by the wind. I had never been so delighted to see a stranger, but had it under control by the time I got to the door and opened it and said, “Yes, sir?”

“I want to see Nero Wolfe. My name’s Weed, Theodore Weed.”

I should have had him wait there while I went and told Wolfe, that was the routine, but I was so glad to see him that I invited him in and helped him off with his coat. Then I went to the office and announced, “Theodore Weed to see you. One of the dinner guests. The one who—”

“What does he want?”

He knew damn well I hadn’t had time to ask what he wanted. I said, “You.”

“No. I’ve been pestered enough on a matter in which I have no interest. Tell him so and don’t—”

Weed was there. He crossed to the red leather chair, plumped into it as if he owned it, and said, “I’m not going to pester you. I’m going to hire you.”

Wolfe glared at me. I had let a man in without consulting him; he would have something to say about that when we were alone. Weed was going on. “I know you come high, but I pay my bills. Do you want a retainer?”

Wolfe had transferred the glare to him. “No. You not only intrude, you presume. Archie, show him the door.”

“Now wait a minute. I’m not very …” He let it hang and started to work his jaw. He had plenty of jaw, a little bony but not out of proportion. He got it under control. “All right, I started wrong. I’ll try again. Mrs. Barry Hazen came to see you this morning and left a gun with you. Where is it?”

“Intrusion and presumption,” Wolfe said, “and now effrontery. I must insist—”

“Damn it, I know she did! She told me so! She was here when she heard about it, that they had found his body! And she wanted to hire you, she wanted to give you a check, and you wouldn’t take it!” He paused to control his jaw. “So I want to hire you, and I’ll pay your bill. I just left the District Attorney’s office and she’s still there. They wouldn’t let me see her, but she’s there and they’re going to charge her with murder. I can’t see why it’s presumption for me to want to hire you—you’re in the detective business and my money is as good as anybody’s. All right, I got ahead of myself asking you about the gun, but when I’m your client there’s no reason why you shouldn’t tell me where it is.” He stuck a hand in his pocket and brought out a wad of bills, not a thick one, and unfolded it.

I was trying to decide. Either he thought that Lucy Hazen had killed her husband, and was being chivalrous,
or he didn’t think she had but was selling Wolfe the idea that he did think so. Whichever it was, he was willing to spend money on it, for he got up from his chair to put the bills on Wolfe’s desk.

As Wolfe started to speak the phone rang, and I turned and got it. It was Lucy Hazen. She asked for Wolfe, and I told her to hold it and turned to him. “The woman that brought the sausage this morning wants to know if it will do. If you want to ask Fritz you can talk on the kitchen extension.”

He got up and went, and I held on. In a moment his voice was in my ear. “This is Nero Wolfe. Mrs. Hazen?”

“Yes. You said this morning that if I need your services you would see.” Her voice was shaky. “I do need them. I’m going to be arrested, and I—”

“Where are you?”

“At the District Attorney’s. I don’t know any—”

“Say only what you must say on the telephone.”

“I’m in a booth with the door closed.”

“Pfui. It is probably not only heard but also recorded. Say only what you must.”

“All right.” A little pause. “He said I could phone a lawyer, and I don’t know any except my husband’s, and I don’t want him. Will you get one for me?”

“I’ll send one to you. After speaking with him you can decide whether to engage him.”

“I will. Of course. But I want to engage you too. You said you would if I needed you.”

“I said I would see.” A pause, longer than hers. If he committed himself he would have to work, and he would rather eat than work. “Very well.” He growled it. “I am engaged. One question: have you disclosed any of your conversation with me? Yes or no.”

“No.”

“Satisfactory. One instruction: if you have an intention to reject property left you by your husband you will neither declare it nor indicate it. You’re going to have some bills to pay.”

“But I don’t want anything from him! I told you—”

“We’re on the phone. The lawyer will join me in that instruction. His name is Nathaniel Parker. Archie, get Mr. Parker. I’ll talk from here.”

I
pushed the button down, released it, dialed Parker’s home number, got him, buzzed the kitchen, and Wolfe got on. He gave Parker the necessary facts, and not much more—nothing of what Mrs. Hazen had told us that morning, nothing about the gun. He did say that I had formed the conclusion that she had not shot her husband, and that he had accepted it. Parker was to arrange for bail if she was bailable, if they held her on the big charge he was to get what he could at the DA’s office. I waited to hang up until Wolfe was at the office door. He went to his desk, sat, leveled his eyes at Theodore Weed, and spoke.

“Now sir. That was timely. It was Mrs. Hazen on the phone. I have sent—”

“Where is she?”

“At the District Attorney’s office. She thinks she is going to be held. I have sent a lawyer to her, and I have agreed to act in her behalf. You were assuming that I declined her offer of a check because I thought she was guilty of murder or at least was implicated, but you were wrong. She is now my client.” He wiggled a finger at the bills on the desk. “Your money. Take it.”