Prisoner's Base (18 page)

Pitkin studied him from under his brows. He wasn’t going to be caught off guard. “No,” he said.

“Why not? Many people can and do. Why couldn’t you?”

That took more study. Finally: “Because of the way I look at things.”

“How do you look at things?”

“From the standpoint of profit and loss. I’m a bookkeeper, and, the way I see it, there’s nothing to life but bookkeeping. That’s why Mr. Eads kept promoting me until he made me secretary and treasurer of the corporation—he knew how I looked at things. One rule is this: that if the risk of a transaction is very great it should not be considered at all, no matter what profit it offers if it is successful. That’s one of the basic rules that should never be broken. You apply that rule to the idea of committing a murder, and what do you get? There’s too much risk, so you don’t do it. The idea is no good. It’s all a matter of debit and credit, and with murder you start out with too big a debit. Every proposition on earth can be figured on a basis of profit and loss, and there’s no other practical way to figure anything.”

He sniffed. “When I say profit I mean earned profit, but not in the legal sense. I mean earned
de facto
, not
de jure.
Take the income I will get for the rest of my life from my ownership of stock in Softdown, Incorporated.
That is called unearned income, but actually I have earned it by the years of devoted service I have rendered to the company. I have earned it because I deserve it. But as a contrast, take the profit—the income—that Sarah Jaffee has been getting from her ownership of stock since the death of her father.”

He twisted around in his chair. “Mrs. Jaffee, I’d like to ask you, what have you ever done for the corporation? Tell me one single thing, small or large. Your average income in Softdown dividends for the past five years has been more than forty thousand dollars. Have you earned one cent of it?”

Sarah was staring at him. “My father did the earning,” she said.

“But you, personally?”

“No, of course not. I’ve never earned anything.”

Pitkin left her. “And take you, Mr, Hagh. What your claim amounts to in reality—you are demanding a share of the Softdown profits. Legally you may get something, I don’t know, but you certainly haven’t earned anything, and nobody related to you or connected with you has earned anything. Isn’t that correct?”

Hagh’s expression was tolerant. “It is perfectly correct, sir. I can feel no regret or embarrassment at being put in the class with the charming Mrs. Jaffee.” He smiled irresistibly at Sarah, who was next to him.

Pitkin untwisted to his normal position, focusing on Wolfe from under his brows. He sniffed. “You see what I mean when I say that life is nothing but bookkeeping?”

Wolfe nodded. “It’s not too recondite for me. How about Miss Eads? Wasn’t her position essentially the same as Mrs. Jaffee’s? Wasn’t she also a parasite? Or had the interest she had recently shown in the business made her an earner?”

“No. That was no service to the corporation. It was an interference.”

“Then she had earned nothing?”

“That’s right.”

“And deserved nothing?”

“That’s right.”

“But in a week she would have taken title to ninety per cent of the company’s stock, leaving you earners with nothing but your salaries. Wasn’t that deplorable?”

“Yes. We all thought so.”

“You, perhaps, with uncommon warmth because you are fiercely anti-feminist and hate to see a woman own or run anything?”

Pitkin sniffed. “That is not true.”

“So Miss Duday told Mr. Goodwin.”

“Miss Duday is spiteful and untrustworthy. About women, I merely feel that they too should be subject to the rules of bookkeeping and be permitted to take only what they earn, and on account of their defects of ability and character they are incapable of earning much more than a bare subsistence. The exceptions are very rare.”

Wolfe pushed his tray back, placed his palms on the chair arms, and moved his head slowly from left to right, from Helmar to Duday, and back again, taking them in.

“I think I’ve had enough of you,” he said, not offensively. “I’m not at all sure the evening has been well spent—whether, as Mr. Pitkin would put it, it shows a profit or loss, for you or for me.” He levered himself out of his chair and upright. “Mr. Parker, will you come with me? I’d like to consult you briefly before deciding where I’m at.”

Taking the wall detour as before, he headed for the
door, where Parker joined him, and they left together. I got up and canvassed for refills and got some takers, most of them leaving their seats. Viola Duday herded Sarah Jaffee to a far corner for a tête-à-tête. Andy Fomos crossed to them and joined in, uninvited; but in spite of their defects of ability and character they showed no signs of being in distress, so I didn’t intrude. When everyone had been attended to at the bar, I propped myself on the edge of Wolfe’s desk and closed my eyes and listened to the little hum they were making. I agreed with Wolfe—I had had enough for now, chiefly because I had caught no glimmer. Had he? I squeezed my eyes tight, concentrating, and the hum of the crowd kept me from hearing the door opening, but the hum stopped suddenly, and I raised my lids. They had returned. Parker crossed to Sarah. Wolfe came to his chair behind his desk but did not sit. He faced them.

“Miss Duday and gentlemen. I am not prepared to say yes or no. It’s past midnight, and I must digest what I have heard and seen. I make only this commitment: Mr. Parker will take no step on behalf of Mrs. Jaffee until he has heard from me sometime tomorrow, and he will notify you in advance through Mr. Helmar.”

Of course it wasn’t that easy. Helmar objected, and Brucker, but the loudest and stubbornest protests came from Irby, Eric Hagh’s lawyer, and Andy Fomos. Irby wanted the authenticity of his client’s document explicitly acknowledged by everyone. Fomos wanted to know when he would be made a director and how much he would be paid. While that minor tumult was proceeding, Bernard Quest went quietly to Sarah Jaffee and spoke to her persistently, but I saw her shake her head several times, so apparently he wasn’t doing so well.

First to give up and go was Fomos. He suddenly
threw up his arms and dashed for the hall, and I had to step en it to get there in time to see him disappearing onto the stoop. Next was Viola Duday, with no escort, and then Jay Brucker and Oliver Pitkin together. Bernard Quest left alone, and Perry Helmar. The only one who thought it appropriate to offer me a hand to shake when I let him out was Eric Hagh, who left with his lawyer, Irby. Last to go were Sarah Jaffee and Nathaniel Parker. I felt magnanimous as I dosed the door after them and put the bolt on. What the hell, let him take her home. I was still way ahead, with my coat-and-hat-disposal service.

As I started for the office, here came Wolfe, headed for his elevator.

“Which one?” I asked.

He halted, glaring. “Which one what?”

“Excuse me. I meant it only as a pleasantry. If you’re as stumped as you look, God help your client.”

He eyed me. “Archie. Do you know who killed Miss Eads and Mrs. Fomos?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think you know?”

“No, sir.”

“I do—or I did—but there’s a contradiction. What about Mrs. Jaffee? Is she a snake or a cheat?”

“No. Nice odds, say ten to one.”

“Then I need to ask her something, after consideration. Will you please have her here in the morning at eleven?”

I told him yes, and he proceeded to his elevator. My bed would have to wait a little, until I had helped Fritz put the office in order, especially ashtrays and the remains of the liquid refreshments. He was already in there, and I went to join him.

I
t was a hot night, and I had only a sheet over me, and it only up to my waist, so when the jangle of the phone roused me enough to realize what it was, my arm was free to reach and bring it to my ear. Awakened by it at night, I do not tell it, “Nero Wolfe’s residence, Archie Goodwin speaking.” For one thing, I am too indignant at the interruption, and for another, I am only one-fifth awake and not absolutely sure who or where I am.

“Yeah?” I said bitterly.

“Is this Nero Wolfe’s house?”

The voice got me one-half awake. “Yes. Archie Goodwin.”

“This is Sarah Jaffee. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Goodwin, did I wake you up?”

“Not quite. Go ahead and finish it.”

“I guess I should have waited until morning, but I thought you might have found them and wondered whose they were. Did you find any keys?”

“No. Why, did you lose some?”

“Yes, two on a ring, to the door downstairs and my apartment. They were in my bag.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m home in the apartment. I might—”

“How did you get in?”

“The elevator man. The night man has a key. I might have lost them in the Flamingo Club or the taxi, but I thought I ought to phone you in case you found them. I’m so sorry I bothered you. Good night.”

“Wait a minute.” I was sitting on the edge of the bed now, with the light on. The clock was ten minutes to two. I was fully awake, I didn’t want to scare her stiff, but the situation did not seem ideal. “Don’t ring off,” I told her. “Is Olga there?”

“No, she doesn’t sleep here.”

“You went to the Flamingo Club with Parker?”

“Yes, we stopped for a drink and a dance.”

“When did you miss the keys?”

“While I was coming up in the elevator. I went to get them from my bag, and they weren’t there.”

“Why not downstairs on the sidewalk?”

“I didn’t look for them there. The night man was there with the door open.”

“And Parker didn’t go up with you.”

“No.”

“Okay. Don’t ring off. Keep that phone at your ear and mouth.”

“Why—what—”

“Nothing. A million to one it’s nothing—you lost some keys, that’s all. But after what happened Monday night I’m nervous about keys, and you might as well humor me. After the night man let you into the apartment, how long were you there before you phoned me?”

“I called you right away. I wanted to get you before you were asleep. What do you mean, you’re nervous about keys? You don’t—”

“I mean I like you to some extent in spite of the bum coffee Olga makes, and I’m coming up there right away
just to make sure. Where’s the phone you’re talking from?”

“In the living room.”

“That’s at the other end from the foyer?”

“Yes. Did you say you’re coming up here?”

“Right. Will you take instructions from me?”

“I will if—yes. Of course.” Her voice was not steady.

“Then listen. This is almost certainly a false alarm, but listen anyway. Don’t ring off. When I say, ‘Go ahead,’ you say this to me, quote, ‘I don’t think so, but if you’ll hold the line I’ll go to the foyer and see if it’s there.’ Unquote. Do you want me to repeat that?”

“No, you don’t need to.”

“Sure you’ve got it all right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. As soon as you say that, put the phone down—just put it down, don’t ring off—and walk to the foyer, go straight to the outside door, open it and pass through and pull it shut with a bang. Go to the elevator and push the button, and keep your finger pushing the button until the elevator comes. Go downstairs with the elevator man and wait there till I come. Did you get all that?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do it just that way?”

“Yes, I—I will.”

“That’s the girl. Don’t forget to bang the door, because I’m going to keep the phone to my ear until I hear the door bang, and then I’ll start. After I get there you can have a good laugh at me for being so nervous, and then we’ll decide what to do next. For one thing, I’m a better dancer than Nat Parker, and it’s only two o’clock. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“I’m repeating it. When I say, ‘Go ahead,’ you say, ‘I
don’t think so, but if you’ll hold the line I’ll go to the foyer and see if it’s there.’ As soon as you say that, put the phone down, go to the foyer, open the outside door, go out, bang the door shut, ring for the elevator, and keep your finger on the button until it comes. Go downstairs and stick with the night man until I arrive. Wherever he goes, you go. Will you follow instructions?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all set?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“I don’t think so, but will you hold the line? Uh—hold the line, and I’ll go and see if it’s in the foyer.”

Good enough, I thought, with no rehearsal. There was a little clatter as she put the phone down. I could hear no footsteps, but the living room had rugs. Figuring that fifteen to twenty seconds ought to do it, and that thirty was the maximum if there were no snags, I started counting as I heard the phone drop. I can count and never be out more than three seconds in five minutes. As I counted I remembered that I had told Wolfe, when he gave Priscilla Eads eleven hours to hide, that it was like run sheep run, but this was more like prisoner’s base. The phone in the living room was one base, and the elevator outside was the other, and it was up to Sarah Jaffee to make the run without being tagged. It had been a lot of years since I had played prisoner’s base.

That had darted through my mind by the time I had counted ten. From then on the strain of listening kept it empty. If she gave it a healthy bang I would unquestionably hear it. I got to fifteen, to twenty—no bang. Thirty. I had the phone pressed to my ear. Forty, fifty, sixty—a full minute. It couldn’t possibly have taken her
that long, but I held onto the damn thing, counting automatically—ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six …

I hung up, with my brain humming, but one thing was a cinch—I needed clothes. As I got them on, I considered. If I spent time calling the Nineteenth Precinct, which was nearest to her, I might or might not get a lieutenant who preferred acting to arguing, especially since my one fact was that a woman’s keys were missing. There were several possible explanations for my not hearing the door bang, including the chance that she had failed to bang it. Various alternatives to calling the precinct offered themselves, but by the time I was dressed, and that wasn’t long, they had all been discarded.