Homicide Trinity (18 page)

“You can’t prove that,” Mrs. Oliver blurted.

“But I can,” he told her. “Item, you have in your bag a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For what? Account for it. I advise you, madam, to hold your tongue. I would prefer to tell Mr. Cramer only what I must to support my suggestion, and I’ll go beyond that only if you force me to. You shouldn’t have challenged me. Now that you have, were the amounts that you paid Mr. Hazen, ostensibly for professional services, actually paid under coercion?”

She looked down at the bag in her lap, looked up again, and said, “Yes.”

“Then don’t interrupt me.” Wolfe returned to Cramer. “Mr. Hazen had in his possession various objects, I don’t know what, to substantiate his demands. Last evening I told these four people that I had secured these objects and that I would surrender them for one million dollars, giving them twenty-four hours to meet my terms. They are here. Three of them—”

“The objects are here?” Cramer demanded.

“No. I don’t know where they are. I have never seen them. The people are here. This will go better if you keep your questions until I’m through. Three of them—Mrs. Oliver, Mrs. Talbot, and Mr. Perdis—came prepared to pay, and that was what I was after. I was acting on the premise, certainly worth a test, that one of Hazen’s victims had killed him, and to kill him might have been futile unless he got the object or objects that had made it possible for Hazen to bleed him. For a moment I abandon fact for surmise. Mr. Khoury did get the object or objects. By some ruse, probably with the promise of a large sum of money as a lure, he induced Hazen to get his car from the garage Monday night and drive somewhere, and to have with him the object or objects. That surmise is not haphazard. The others came here this evening prepared to pay, but not Mr. Khoury. He knew I had nothing to support my threat. Even when I told him that the objects pertaining to him would be given to the police in ninety minutes he was unmoved.”

“Get back to facts,” Cramer growled. His head turned. “Mr. Khoury, do you want to comment?”

“No.” From Khoury’s smile you might have thought he was enjoying it. “This is fascinating. I thought I had decided not to bring my share of the million because I didn’t believe he had anything that threatened anybody.”

Wolfe, ignoring him, stayed at Cramer. “For a fact I submit the conversation at the gathering Monday evening after Mrs. Hazen and Mr. Weed had left. Of course you and your staff have it in detail, but you didn’t know that Hazen was a blackmailer and that he not only bled his prey, he was pleased to torment them. In that conversation he introduced topics that obviously referred to the pinch he had them in—for instance, poison. I don’t know which of those present that touched, and am not concerned. But one of his topics pointed clearly at Mr. Khoury. He remarked that his wife’s father had been a great inventor, a genius; and
his wife’s father, Titus Postel, had been associated with Mr. Khoury. So it seemed likely that his hold on Mr. Khoury was in some way connected with Titus Postel, but at the time I learned that, yesterday evening,
I
had no reason to single out Mr. Khoury for special attention, so I merely noted it for possible future application.”

Wolfe took a breath. “But two incidents today did single out Mr. Khoury. Shortly after one o’clock you phoned me to say that the gun I had given you had been the property of Titus Postel and that he had committed suicide with it five years ago; and soon after that, on the telephone with Mr. Khoury, he informed me that he would be present this evening but that he was declining my proposal. He didn’t put it in those terms, but that was the gist.”

Khoury made a noise, a subdued snort. Cramer said, “Yes, Mr. Khoury?”

“Nothing,” Khoury said.

Wolfe resumed. “Now the guns. Call them Gun H, Mr. Hazen’s, the one he was shot with, left in his car; and Gun P, Mr. Postel’s, which I gave you this morning. My account of them is not established fact, but it is more than mere surmise because it is based on a high degree of probability. When Mr. Khoury went to that grotesque dinner party Monday evening he had Gun P with him. During the—”

“You can prove he had it?”

“Certainly not. I’m telling you what happened, not what I can prove. During the evening he found or made an opportunity to go to Mr. Hazen’s bedroom, took Gun H from the drawer, and put Gun P in its place. With a double purpose: first, and minor, so that Hazen would find a gun there—they were the same make—if he looked for it. Second, and major, to implicate Mrs. Hazen. He intended to leave Gun H in the car after he killed Hazen. The police would of course learn that it had been Hazen’s, kept in that drawer in his room, and when they found Gun P there in its place, the gun that had belonged to Mrs. Hazen’s father, they would naturally assume that she had put it there in a witless effort
to mislead them. By the way.” His head turned. “Mrs. Hazen. The gun that had belonged to your father—was it in your possession?”

Lucy’s lips formed a “No,” but there was almost no sound where I sat, five steps away.

“When did you see it last?”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” I could hear her now. “When they told me the gun I brought you was the one my father shot himself with I thought they were lying. I don’t understand.”

“No wonder. Neither do the police. Did you ever have that gun—your father’s?”

“I had it for a while. They gave it to me after … after he died. I kept it with some of his things. But it disappeared.”

“How long after his death did it disappear?”

“I don’t know. It was about two years after that I noticed it was gone.”

“Had you any idea who took it?”

“I didn’t know, but I thought perhaps Mrs. Khoury had. I didn’t ask her. She thought I shouldn’t keep it because it only reminded me …” She let it hang. “Is it true that my husband was a blackmailer?”

“Yes. And your former employer is not only a murderer, he tried to make you his scapegoat. You have been unfortunate in your choice of male associates, but I can relieve your mind about one you didn’t choose, your father. He didn’t commit suicide; he was murdered. By Mr. Khoury.”

“No,” Khoury said. “Another one? You’re piling it on.”

Wolfe leveled his eyes at him. “Your aplomb is admirable, sir,” he said, no sarcasm. “Of course you’re counting on what I said at the beginning, that I have no evidence. You’re too sanguine. The evidence almost certainly exists, but to get it will require authority and a large trained staff, and I have neither. I am obliged to Mr. Hazen for a valuable hint, his remark that Mrs. Hazen’s father was a great inventor and a genius. That suggested that you might have cheated him out of the
proceeds of his genius, and immediately after talking with you on the phone today I put a man on it.”

Wolfe turned to Cramer. “The man was Saul Panzer. You know his capacities. He phoned me about an hour ago, just before I called you, and what he reported was the basis for my statement to Mrs. Hazen, that Khoury killed her father. I don’t tell you what he reported because you will get it from him, and also because I don’t want Mr. Khoury to know what has been uncovered, and neither do you. As I said, I am only offering a suggestion, but I trust it is cogent enough to persuade you to restrict Mr. Khoury’s movements, and to put some men to work. He may have taken Hazen’s keys on the chance that they might be useful, and he may still have them, though not on his person. Find them. Ransack his premises. He may even still have the object or objects he certainly took; find them. If you see his wife before he is allowed to communicate with her you may learn something about Gun P.” He flipped a hand. “But this is superfluous; you know your job. If I have—”

Khoury had moved. No rush, he wasn’t a bit disturbed, but he was on his feet. “Really,” he said, “there’s a limit.” His straight line to the door was in front of Mrs. Oliver and Perdis and Lucy, but it would have been bad manners to cross their bows, so he started around. On past Mrs. Oliver, and Perdis, and Lucy, with Stebbins at her shoulder, before Cramer spoke. “Stop him, Purley.” Khoury whirled, saying through his teeth, “Don’t touch me.”

“Nuts,” Purley said, and began going over him for a gun. Gun X, maybe. Anyway, Khoury couldn’t have made it to the hall because Theodore Weed was there filling the door.

I
’ll have to leave it with two loose ends.

First, the object or objects pertaining to Anne Talbot, Mrs. Oliver, Perdis, and presumably other assorted Hazen clients. They have never turned up. At least, the cops never found them. If one of the clients did, he didn’t announce it. So if the hints Hazen scattered around at the dinner party aroused your curiosity, I can’t satisfy it.

Second, the fee that Wolfe had certainly earned. Lucy refused to take any of Hazen’s leavings; she wouldn’t even take the house. That was noble, and even decent, considering how he had got it, but private detectives have to eat. Unquestionably Nero Wolfe has to eat. There’s a chance that she’ll get a chunk of Khoury’s pile eventually, on account of the evidence Cramer dug up that Khoury had stolen a couple of Titus Postel’s inventions, but Khoury, who is now in the death house while his lawyers hop around from court to court, has admitted nothing, and neither has his wife. So if you’re curious as to how much Wolfe collected for his thirty-six hours’ work I can’t satisfy you on that either.

As for a third point you might be curious about, whether Lucy and Theodore Weed have found out how they feel about each other, you may have one guess. If you need more than one, what do you suppose makes the world go around?

M
y rule is, never be rude to anyone unless you mean it. But when I looked through the one-way glass panel of the front door and saw her out on the stoop, my basic feelings about the opposite sex were hurt. Granting that women can’t stay young and beautiful forever, that the years are bound to show, at least they don’t have to let their gray hair straggle over their ears or wear a coat with a button missing or forget to wash their face, and this specimen was guilty on all three counts. So, as she put a finger to the button and the bell rang, I opened the door and told her, “I don’t want any, thanks. Try next door.” I admit it was rude.

“I would have once, Buster,” she said. “Thirty years ago I was a real treat.”

That didn’t help matters any. I have conceded that the years are bound to show.

“I want to see Nero Wolfe,” she said. “Do I walk right through you?”

“There are difficulties,” I told her. “One, I’m bigger than you are. Two, Mr. Wolfe can be seen only by
appointment. Three, he won’t be available until eleven o’clock, more than an hour from now.”

“All right, I’ll come in and wait. I’m half froze. Are you nailed down?”

A notion struck me. Wolfe believes, or claims he does, that any time I talk him into seeing a female would-be client he knows exactly what to expect if and when he sees her, and this would show him how wrong he was.

“Your name, please?” I asked her.

“My name’s Annis. Hattie Annis.”

“What do you want to see Mr. Wolfe about?”

“I’ll tell him when I see him. If my tongue’s not froze.”

“You’ll have to tell me, Mrs. Annis. My name—”

“Miss
Annis.”

“Okay. My name is Archie Goodwin.”

“I know it is. If you’re thinking I don’t look like I can pay Nero Wolfe, there’ll be a reward and I’ll split it with him. If I took it to the cops they’d do the splitting. I wouldn’t trust a cop if he was naked as a baby.”

“What will the reward be for?”

“For what I’ve got here.” She patted her black leather handbag, the worse for wear, with a hand in a woolen glove.

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell Nero Wolfe. Look, Buster, I’m no Eskimo. Let the lady in.”

That wasn’t feasible. I had been in the hall with my hat and overcoat and gloves on, on my way for a morning walk crosstown to the bank to deposit a check for $7417.65 in Wolfe’s account, when I had seen her through the one-way glass panel aiming her finger at the bell button. Letting her in and leaving her in the office while I took my walk was out of the question. The other inhabitants of that old brownstone on West 35th Street, the property of Nero Wolfe except for the furniture and other items in my bedroom, were around but they were busy. Fritz Brenner, the chef and housekeeper, was in the kitchen making chestnut soup. Wolfe was up in the plant rooms on the roof for his two-hour
morning session with the orchids, and of course Theodore Horstmann was with him.

I wasn’t rude about it. I told her there were several places nearby where she could spend the hour and thaw out—Sam’s Diner at the corner of Tenth Avenue, or the drug store at the corner of Ninth, or Tony’s tailor shop where she could have a button sewed on her coat and charge it to me. She didn’t push. I said if she came back at a quarter past eleven I might have persuaded Wolfe to see her, and she turned to go, and then turned back, opened the black leather handbag, and took out a package wrapped in brown paper with a string around it.

“Keep this for me, Buster,” she said. “Some nosy cop might take it on himself. Come on, it won’t bite. And don’t open it. Can I trust you not to open it?”

I took it because I liked her. She had fine instincts and no sense at all. She had refused to tell me what was in it, and was leaving it with me and telling me not to open it—my idea of a true woman if only she would comb her hair and wash her face and sew a button on. So I took it, and told her I would expect her at a quarter past eleven, and she went. When I had seen her descend the seven steps to the sidewalk and turn left, toward Tenth Avenue, I shut the door from the inside and took a look at the package. It was rectangular, some six inches long and three wide, and a couple of inches thick. I put it to my ear and held my breath, and heard nothing. But you never know what science will do next, and there were at least three dozen people in the metropolitan area who had it in for Wolfe, not to mention a few who didn’t care much for me, so instead of taking it to the office, to my desk or the safe, I went to the front room and stashed it under the couch, If you ask if I untied the string and unwrapped the paper for a look, your instincts are not as fine as they should be. Anyhow, I had gloves on.