Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 02 (13 page)

I looked at his big hands folded on his lap, and nodded at his black eyes floating back into his head. He went on:

“Six years ago I gave Eugene Dreyer a tentative order for three Mantegnas—two small ones and a larger one. The price was one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. The paintings were in France. Paul Chapin happened to be in Europe at that time, and I wrote to ask him to look at them. After I received his report I ordered them. You know, I suppose, that for ten years Paul Chapin tried to be a painter. His work showed great sensitiveness, but his line was erratic and he had no feeling for form. It was interesting, but not good. I am told that he is finding himself in literature—I do not read novels.

“The paintings arrived at a time when I was overworked and had no leisure for a proper examination. I accepted them and paid for them. I was never happy with them; the friendly overtures which I made to those pictures from time to time, and there were many, were always repelled by them with an indelicacy, a faint harshness, which embarrassed and irritated me. I did not at first suspect them of imposture, I simply could not get along with them. But a few remarks made by expert persons finally aroused my suspicion. In September, nearly two months ago now, Enrico Santini, who knows Mantegna as I know the human viscera, visited this country. I asked him to look at my Mantegnas, and he pronounced them frauds. He further said that he knew their source, a certain talented swindler in Paris, and that it was not possible that any reputable dealer had handled them in good faith.

“I imagine it was the uncomfortable five years those pictures had given me, more than anything else, that caused me to act as I did with Dreyer. Ordinarily I am far too weak in my convictions to display any sort of ruthlessness, but on this occasion there was no
hesitation in me at all. I told Eugene that I wished to return the pictures and receive my money back without delay. He said he had not the money, and I knew he hadn’t, since I had within a year lent him considerable sums to tide him over. Nevertheless, I insisted that he must find it or suffer the consequences. I suspect that in the end I would have weakened as usual, and agreed to any sort of compromise, but unfortunately it is a trick of my temperament now and then to show the greatest determination of purpose when the resolution is most likely to falter. Unfortunately also, Mr. Santini was about to return to Italy. Eugene demanded an interview with him; that, of course, was a bluff.

“It was arranged that I should call at five o’clock Wednesday afternoon with Mr. Santini and Paul Chapin. Paul was included on account of the inspection he had given the pictures in France. I surmised that Eugene had arranged for his support, but as it turned out that was probably incorrect. We arrived. Eugene’s suavity—”

I interrupted, “Just a minute, doctor. Did Paul Chapin get to the gallery before you did?”

“No. We arrived together. I was in my car, and called for him at the Harvard Club.”

“Had he been there earlier that afternoon?”

“My dear sir.” Elkus looked sad at me.

“Okay. You wouldn’t know that. Anyway, the girl there says he hadn’t.”

“So I understand. I was saying, Eugene’s suavity was painful, because of the nervousness it failed to hide. He mixed highballs for us, jerkily, not himself. I was embarrassed and therefore brusque. I asked Mr. Santini to make a statement and he did so; he had written it down. Eugene contradicted him. They argued; Eugene was somewhat excited but Mr. Santini remained
cool. Finally Eugene called on Paul for his views, in obvious expectation of support. Paul smiled around at us, the smile that comes from his Malpighian capsules, and made a calm brief statement. He said that three months after his inspection of the pictures—a month after they had been shipped to New York—he had learned definitely that they had been painted by Vasseult, the greatest forger of the century, in 1924. That was the man Mr. Santini had named. Paul also said that he had kept silent about it because his affection for both Eugene and myself was so great that he could take no step that would injure either of us.

“I feared Eugene would collapse. He was plainly as astonished as he was hurt. I was of course embarrassed into silence. I do not know whether Eugene had in desperation swindled me, or whether he had himself been imposed upon. Mr. Santini rose. I did likewise, and we left. Paul Chapin came with us. It was noon the following day when I learned that Eugene had committed suicide by drinking nitroglycerin—apparently within a few minutes, at the most an hour, after we left. I learned it when the police arrived at my office to question me.”

I nodded, and sat and looked at him a while. Then all of a sudden I straightened up in my chair and shot at him, “What made
you
think it was suicide?”

“Now, Mr. Goodwin.” He smiled at me, sadder than ever. “Are all detectives alike? You know perfectly well why I thought it was suicide. The police thought so, and the circumstances indicated it.”

“My mistake.” I grinned. “I said no trick questions, didn’t I? If you’re willing to grant that a detective can have an idea in his mind, you know what mine is. Did Paul Chapin have any opportunity to put the nitroglycerin tablets in Dreyer’s highball? That ignorant
detective, and all the bright cops, seem to have the impression that you think he didn’t.”

Dr. Elkus nodded. “I labored to produce that impression. You know of course that Mr. Santini agreed with me. We are perfectly certain that Paul had no such opportunity. He went to the gallery with us, and we all entered the office together. Paul sat at my left, near the door, at least six feet away from Eugene. He touched no glass but his own. Eugene prepared the drinks and handed them around; we had only one. Departing, Paul preceded me through the door. Mr. Santini was ahead.”

“Yeah. That’s on the record. But in a fracas like that, so much excitement, there must have been some moving around, getting up and sitting down, walking back and forth …”

“Not at all. We were not excited, except possibly Eugene. He was the only one who left his chair.”

“Did he change his coat, or put it on or anything, after you got there?”

“No. He wore a morning coat. He did not remove it.”

“The bottle with what was left of the nitroglycerin was found in the pocket of his coat.”

“So I understand.”

I sat back and looked at him again. I would have given the roadster and a couple of extra tires to know if he was lying. He was as much out of my class as Paul Chapin was. There was no way for me to get at him that I could see. I said:

“Will you have lunch with Mr. Nero Wolfe tomorrow at one o’clock?”

“I’m sorry. I shall be engaged.”

“Friday?”

He shook his head. “No. Not any day. You are in error regarding me, Mr. Goodwin. I am not a knot to be untangled or a nut to be cracked. Give up your hope
that I am deceptive, as most men are; I am really as simple as I seem. Give up your hope, too, to demonstrate the guilt of Paul Chapin in the death of Eugene Dreyer. It is not feasible. I know it isn’t; I was there.”

“Could you make it Saturday?”

He shook his head and smiled, still sad. I got up from my chair and picked up my hat, and thanked him. But before I started for the door I said:

“By the way, you know that second warning Paul Chapin wrote—anyhow, somebody else wrote it. Is nitroglycerin oily and sweet-burning?”

“I am a surgeon, not a pharmacologist.”

“Well, try one guess.”

He smiled. “Nitroglycerin is unquestionably oily. It is said to have a sweet, burning taste. I have never tried it.”

I thanked him again and went out, and down to the street, and got in the roadster and stepped on the starter. As I rolled off downtown I was thinking that Dr. Leopold Elkus was exactly the kind of man that so often makes life a damn nuisance. I never yet have had any serious trouble with an out-and-out liar, but a man that might be telling the truth is an unqualified pain in the rumpus. And what with the Harrison line-up, and now this, I suspected that I began to perceive dimly that the memorandum Wolfe had concocted was going to turn out to be just a sheet of paper to be used for any purpose that might occur to you, unless we managed somehow to bust Elkus’s story wide open.

I had intended to stop off again at Fifty-sixth Street for another look at the Dreyer gallery, but after listening to Elkus I decided it would be a waste of time, considering how the place had been done over. I kept on downtown, headed for home. The best bet I could think of at the moment was a try at Santini. The
police had only questioned him once on account of his sailing for Italy that Thursday night, and of course the warnings hadn’t been received yet and they had no particular suspicions. Wolfe had connections in several cities in Europe, and there was a smart guy in Rome who had turned in a good one on the Whittemore bonds. We could cable him and set him on Santini and maybe get a wedge started. I’d have to persuade Wolfe it was worth about ninety-nine dollars in transatlantic words.

It was a quarter to eleven when I got there. In the office the phone was ringing, so I went on in with my hat and coat on. I knew Wolfe would eventually answer it from upstairs, but I thought I might as well get it. It was Saul Panzer. I asked him what he wanted and he said he wanted to report. I asked him what, and he said, nothing, just report. I was sore at everything anyway, so I got sarcastic. I said if he couldn’t find Hibbard alive or dead, maybe he could rig up a dummy that would do. I said I had just got a smack in the eye on another angle of the case, and if he was no better than I was he’d better come on down to the office with a pinochle deck, and I hung up on him, which alone is enough to aggravate a nun.

It took me five minutes to dig the address of the Roman snoop out of the file. Wolfe came down on time, right at eleven. He said good morning, sniffed at the air, and got seated at his desk. I was impatient, but I knew I’d have to wait until he had glanced through the mail, fixed the orchids in the vase, tried his pen to see if it was working, and rung for beer. After that was all over he murmured at me:

“Had you thought of venturing forth?”

“I tiptoed out at eight-thirty and just got back. Saul just telephoned. Another nickel wasted. If you
want to get puckered up, here’s a nice pickle to chew on.”

Fritz brought his beer and he poured a glass. I told him all about Elkus, every word of it, even that nitroglycerin was oily and sweet-burning. I thought if I gave him all of Elkus I could, he might get a notion. Then I handed him my own notion about the Roman. Right away, as I expected, he got restive. He blinked, and drank some more beer. He said:

“You can cable four thousand miles for a fact or an object, but not for a subtlety like this. As a last resort you or Saul Panzer might go to call on Mr. Santini in Florence; it might in the end be worth that chance.”

I tried an argument on him, for I couldn’t see any other move. I didn’t seem to be making much impression, but I kept on anyway, getting stubborn, because my main point was that it was only a matter of a hundred bucks. I was forgetting that I still had to tell him about the three Metropolitan men I had ordered for Eleventh Street. I got good and stubborn.

I was stopped in the middle of my stride by the sound of Fritz going down the hall to answer the doorbell. I didn’t try to pick it up again, but waited to see who it was.

Fritz stepped in and closed the door behind him. He said there was a lady there to see Wolfe. No card.

“Her name?”

Fritz shook his head; usually he was more correct. He looked uncertain.

“Show her in, Fritz.”

I felt uncertain too, when I saw her. They don’t come any uglier. She came in and stood looking straight at Wolfe, as if she was deciding how to do him over. At that she wasn’t really ugly, I mean she wasn’t hideous. Wolfe said it right the next day: it was more
subtle than plain ugliness, to look at her made you despair of ever seeing a pretty woman again. Her eyes were rather small, gray, and looked as if they’d never move again when they got fixed. She had on a dark gray woolen coat with a hat to match, and an enormous gray furpiece was fastened around her neck. She sat down on the chair I pulled up for her and said in a strong voice:

“I had a hard time getting here. I think I’m going to faint.”

Wolfe said, “I hope not. A little brandy.”

“No.” She gave a little gasp. “No, thank you.” She put her hand up to the furpiece and seemed to be trying to reach under it, behind. “I’ve been wounded. Back there. I think you’d better look at it.”

Wolfe shot me a glance, and I went. She got the thing unfastened in front, and I pulled it around and lifted it off. I gave a gasp then myself. Not that I haven’t seen a little blood here and there, but not often that much, and it was so unexpected. The back of the furpiece, inside, was soaked. The collar of her coat was soaked too. She was a sight. It was still oozing out, plenty, from gashes across the back of her neck; I couldn’t tell how deep they were. She moved and it came out in a little spurt. I dropped the furpiece on the floor and said to her:

“For God’s sake keep still. Don’t move your head.” I looked at Wolfe and said, “Somebody’s tried to cut her head off. I can’t tell how far they got.”

She spoke to Wolfe: “My husband wanted to kill me.”

Wolfe’s eyes on her were half closed. “Then you’re Dora Ritter.”

She shook her head, and the blood started, and I told her to quit. She said, “I am Dora Chapin. I have been married three years.”

W
olfe didn’t say anything. I stood behind her and waited, ready to catch her if she started to faint and fall forward, because I didn’t know how much it might open up. Wolfe hadn’t moved. He sat looking at her with his eyes nearly shut and his lips pushing out, and in, and out and in again.

She said, “He got into a fit. One of his cold fits.”

Wolfe said politely, “I didn’t know Mr. Chapin had fits. Feel her pulse.”

I reached out and got her wrist and placed my fingers. While I was counting she began to talk:

“He doesn’t have fits exactly. It’s a look that comes into his eyes. I am always afraid of him, but when I see that look I am terrified. He has never done anything to me before. This morning when I saw him look like that I said something I shouldn’t have said … look here.”