Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 02 (17 page)

“You don’t say!” I looked at him. “That might turn out to be right. Elkus, huh?”

“Yeah. You and Wolfe won’t talk. Do you want me to talk?”

“I’d love it.”

He filled his pipe again. “You know about the Dreyer thing. Do you know who bought the nitroglycerin tablets? Dreyer did. Sure. A week before he died, the day after Elkus phoned him that the pictures were phony and he wanted his money back. Maybe he had ideas about suicide and maybe he didn’t; I think he didn’t; there’s several things people take nitroglycerin for in small doses.”

He took a drag at the pipe, pulled it in until I expected to see it squirt out at his belly-button, and went on leaving it to find its way by instinct. “Now, how did Chapin get the tablets out of the bottle that day? Easy. He didn’t. Dreyer had had them for a week, and Chapin was in and out of the gallery pretty often. He had been there a couple of hours Monday afternoon, probably for a talk about Elkus’s pictures. He could have got them then and saved them for an opening. The opening came Wednesday afternoon.—Wait a minute. I know what Elkus says. That Thursday morning a detective questioned Santini too, the Italian expert, and it checked, but of course at that
time it looked like nothing but routine. Since then I’ve sent a request to Italy, and they found Santini in Florence and had a good long talk with him. He says it was like he told the detective in the first place, but he forgot to mention that after they all left the office Elkus went back for something and was in the office alone for maybe half a minute. What if Dreyer’s glass was then maybe half full, and Elkus, having got the tablets from Chapin, fixed it up for him?”

“What for? Just for a prank?”

“I’m not saying what for. That’s one thing we’re working on now. For instance, what if the pictures Dreyer sold Elkus were the real thing—it was six years ago—and Elkus put them away and substituted phonies for them, and then demanded his money back? We’re looking into that. The minute I get any evidence what for, I’ll arrange for some free board and room for Elkus
and
Chapin.”

“You haven’t got any yet.”

“No.”

I grinned. “Anyway, you’re working in a lot of nice complications. I’ll have to tell Wolfe about it; I hope to God it don’t bore him. Why don’t you just decide to believe it was suicide after all, and let it go at that?”

“Nothing doing. Especially since Hibbard disappeared. And even if I wanted to, George Pratt and that bunch wouldn’t let me. They got those warnings. I don’t blame them. Those things sound like business to me, even if they are dolled up. I suppose you’ve read them.”

I nodded. He stuck his paw in his breast pocket and pulled out some papers and began looking through them. He said, “I’m a damn fool. I carry copies of them around with me, because I can’t get rid of a hunch that there’s a clue in them somewhere, some kind of a clue,
if I could find it. Listen to this one, the one he sent last Friday, three days after Hibbard disappeared:

“I ask you, does that sound like business?” Cramer folded it up again. “Did you ever see a guy that had been beaten around the head enough so that things were busted inside? Did you ever notice one? All right, get this:
to suck the air in through the bubbling blood.
Does that describe it? I’ll say it does. The man that wrote that was looking at it, I’m telling you he was looking right at it. That’s why, as far as Andrew Hibbard is concerned, all I’m interested in is stiffs. Chapin got Hibbard as sure as hell, and the only question is where did he put the leavings. Also, he got Dreyer, only with that one Elkus helped him.”

The Inspector stopped for a couple of pulls at his pipe. When that had been attended to he screwed his
nose up at me and demanded, “Why, do
you
think it was suicide?”

“Hell no. I think Chapin killed him. And maybe Harrison, and maybe Hibbard. I’m just waiting to see you and Nero Wolfe and the Epworth League prove it on him. Also I’m annoyed about Elkus. If you get Elkus wrong you may gum it.”

“Uh-huh.” Cramer screwed his nose again. “You don’t like me after Elkus? I wonder if Nero Wolfe will like it. I hope not to gum it, I really do. I suppose you know Elkus has got a shadow on Paul Chapin? What’s he suspicious about?”

I lifted my brows a little, and hoped that was all I did. “No. I didn’t know that.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

“No. Of course you have one, and we have …” I remembered that I never had got hold of Del Bascom to ask him about the dick in the brown cap and pink necktie. “I thought that runt keeping the boys company down there was one of Bascom’s experts.”

“Sure you did. You didn’t know Bascom’s been off the case since yesterday morning. Try having a talk with the runt. I did, last night, for two hours. He says he’s got a goddam legal right to keep his goddam mouth shut. That’s the way he talks, he’s genteel. Finally I just shooed him away, and I’m going to find out who he’s reporting to.”

“I thought you said, Elkus.”

“That’s my idea. Who else could it be? Do you know?”

I shook my head. “Hope to die.”

“All right, if you do don’t tell me, I want to guess. Of course you realize that I’m not exactly a boob. If you don’t, Nero Wolfe does. I arrested a man once and he turned out to be guilty, that’s why I was made an
inspector. I know Wolfe expects to open up this Mr. Chapin and get well paid for it, and therefore if I expected him to pass me any cards out of his hand I
would
be a boob. But I’ll be frank with you, in the past six weeks I’ve made so many grabs at this cripple without getting anything that I don’t like him at all and in fact I’d like to rip out his guts. Also, they’re giving me such a riding that I’m beginning to get saddle-sores. I would like to know two things. First, how far has Wolfe got?—Sure, I know he’s a genius. Okay. But has he got enough of it to stop that cripple?”

I said, and I meant it, “He’s got enough to stop any guy that ever started.”

“When? I won’t lose any sleep if he nicks Pratt for four grand. Can you say when, and can I help?”

I shook my head. “No twice. But he’ll do it.”

“All right. I’ll go on poking around myself. The other thing, you might tell me this, and I swear to God you won’t regret it. When Dora Chapin was here this morning did she tell Wolfe she saw nitroglycerin tablets in her husband’s pocket any time between September eleventh and September nineteenth?”

I grinned at him. “There are two ways I could answer that, inspector. One way would be if she had said it, in which case I would try to answer it so you couldn’t tell whether she had or not. The other way is the one you’re hearing: she wasn’t asked about it, and she said nothing about it. She just came here to get her throat cut.”

“Uh-huh.” Cramer got up from his chair. “And Wolfe started working on her from behind. He would. He’s the damnedest guy at getting in the back door … well. So-long. I’ll say much obliged some other day. Give Wolfe a Bronx cheer for me, and tell him that as far as I’m concerned he can have the
money
and
the applause of the citizens in this Chapin case, and the sooner the better. I’d like to get my mind on something else.”

“I’ll tell him. Like to have a glass of beer?”

He said no, and went. Since he was an inspector, I went to the hall and helped him on with his coat and opened the door for him. At the curb was a police car, one of the big Cadillacs, with a chauffeur. Now, I thought, that’s what I call being a detective.

I went back to the office. It looked dismal and gloomy; it was nearly six o’clock and the dark had come over half an hour ago and I had only turned on one light. Wolfe was still upstairs monkeying with the plants; he wasn’t due down for seven minutes. I didn’t feel like sitting watching him drink beer, and had no reason to expect anything more pertinent out of him, and I decided to go out and find a stone somewhere and turn it up to see what was under it. I opened a couple of windows to let Cramer’s pipe-smoke out, got my Colt from the drawer and put it in my pocket from force of habit, went to the hall for my hat and coat, and beat it.

I
didn’t know Perry Street much, and was surprised when I walked up in front of number 203, across the street, having left the roadster half a block away. It was quite a joint, stucco to look like Spanish, with black iron entrance lamps and no fire escapes. On both sides were old brick houses. A few cars were parked along the block, and a couple of taxis. On my side of the street was a string of dingy stores: stationery, laundry, delicatessen, cigar store and so on. I moved along and looked in. At the delicatessen I stopped and went inside. There were two or three customers, and Fred Durkin was leaning against the end of the counter with a cheese sandwich and a bottle of beer. I turned around and went out, and walked back down to where the roadster was and got inside. In a couple of minutes Fred came along and climbed in beside me. He was still chewing and working his tongue in the corners. He asked me what was up. I said, nothing, I had just come down to gossip. I asked him:

“Where’s the other club members?”

He grinned. “Oh, they’re around. The city feller is probably in the laundry, I think he likes the smell. I suppose Pinkie is down at the next corner, in the
Coffee Pot. He usually deserts his post around this time to put on the nose bag.”

“You call him Pinkie?”

“Oh, I can call him anything. That’s for his necktie. What do you want me to call him?”

I looked at him. “You’ve had one or ten drinks. What’s the big idea?”

“I swear to God I haven’t, Archie. I’m just glad to see you. It’s lonesome as hell around here.”

“You chinned any with this Pinkie?”

“No. He’s reticent. He hides somewhere and thinks.”

“Okay. Go on back to your pickle emporium. If you see any kids scratching their initials on my car, pat ’em on the head.”

Fred climbed out and went. In a minute I got out too, and walked down to the next corner, where if you was blind the smell would have told you Coffee Pot. I went in. There were three little tables along the wall, and half a dozen customers at the counter. Pinkie was there all right, along at one of the little tables, working on a bowl of soup, trying to get the spoon out of his mouth. He had his brown cap on, over one ear. I went over alongside his table and said to him, keeping my voice low:

“Oh, here you are.”

He looked up. I said, “The boss wants to see you right away. I’ll sit on the lid here a while. Make it snappy.”

He stared at me a couple of seconds, and then squeaked so that I nearly jumped. “You’re a goddam filthy liar.”

The little runt! I could have reached down and jerked his gold teeth out. I slid the other chair back with my toe and sat down and put my elbows on the
table and looked at him, “I said, the boss wants to see you.”

“Oh, yeah?” He sneered at me with his mouth open, showing his gilded incisors. “You wouldn’t string a guy, would you, mister? By God, I’ll tell the goddam world you wouldn’t. Who was I talking to a while ago on the goddam telephone?”

I grinned. “That was me. Listen here a minute. I can see you’re tough. Do you want a good job?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’ve got one. If you’d just move your goddam carcass away from my table …”

“All right, I will. Go on and eat your soup, and don’t try to scare me with your bad manners. I might decide to remove your right ear and put it where the left one is, and hang the left one on your belt for a spare. Go on and eat.”

He dropped his spoon in the soup-bowl and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”

“Well,” I said, “I was having tea with my friend, Inspector Cramer, this afternoon, and he was telling me how much he enjoyed his talk with you last night, and I thought I’d like to meet you. That’s one story. Then another story might be that a certain guy whose name I needn’t mention has got the idea that you’re selling him out, and I’m supposed to find out, and I thought the quickest way was to ask you. How many people are you working for?”

“Of all the goddam curiosity!” He sucked something from between his teeth with his tongue. “Last night the goddam inspector, and now you. Hell, my soup’s getting cold.”

He got up from his chair and picked up the bowl and carried it ten feet to the table at the end. Then he came back for the bread and butter and glass of water
and took them. I waited till he was through moving, then I got up and went to the end table and sat down across from him. I was sore because my nifty opening had gone wild. The counterman and the customers were watching us, but only to pass the time. I reached in my pocket and got out my roll and peeled off a pair of twenties.

“Look here,” I said, “I could spot you in a day or two, but it would cost both money and time, and I’d just as soon you’d get it. Here’s forty bucks. Half now if you tell me who’s paying you, and the other half as soon as I check it. I’ll find out, anyhow, this’ll just save time.”

I’ll be damned if he didn’t get up and pick up his soup again and start back for the first table. A couple of the customers began to laugh, and the counterman called out, “Hey, let the guy eat his soup, maybe he just don’t like you.” I felt myself getting sore enough to push in somebody’s nose, but I knew there was no profit in that, so I swallowed it and put on a grin. I picked up the runt’s bread and butter and water and took it down and set it in front of him. Then I went and tossed a dime on the counter and said, “Give him some hot soup and put poison in it.” Then I left.

I walked the block back to the roadster, not in a hurry. Fred Durkin was in the cigar store as I passed by. I had a notion to see him and tell him to keep an eye on his friend Pinkie and maybe catch him on a phone call or something, but knowing how his mind worked I thought it would be better to let it stay on his main job. I got in the roadster and headed uptown.