Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 (15 page)

“Yes, madam, I did.”

“Then you could do that in the morning. I’m afraid I couldn’t listen now—I’m pretty tired.” Her hands, on her lap, tightened into fists and then relaxed. She turned to her younger daughter. “Phoebe, you’ll have to go home and get things for us.” She went back to Wolfe. “Your spare room—will it do for two?”

“Admirably. There are twin beds.”

“Then my daughter Phoebe will be with me. I don’t think you need to fear for my safety—I’m sure she won’t kill me in my sleep. Tomorrow afternoon, if I’m still here, you will have to excuse me. My husband’s funeral will be at four o’clock.”

“Mother,” Jerome said quietly, “let me take you home.”

She didn’t use breath to answer him, but asked Wolfe, “Will I have to walk upstairs?”

“No indeed,” Wolfe said, as if that made everything fine and dandy. “You may use my elevator.”

The fact is we have two spare rooms. Wolfe’s room is at the rear of the house on the second floor, which he uses because its windows face south, and there is another bedroom on that floor in front, unoccupied. On the third floor my room is the one at the front, on the street, and there is another spare at the rear which we call the South Room, We put Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe there because it is large, and has better furniture and rugs, its own bathroom, and twin beds. I had told them where I could be found in case of fire.

I heard a noise. That put it up to me to decide whether I was awake or asleep, and I went to work on it. But I didn’t feel like working and was going to let it slide when there was another noise.

“Mr. Goodwin.”

Recognizing the name, I opened my eyes. An attractive young woman in a blue summer negligee, with hair the color of maple sirup, was standing at the foot of my bed. There was plenty of daylight from the windows to get details.

“I didn’t knock,” she said, “because I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“You’ve disturbed me,” I asserted, swinging my legs around and sitting on the bed’s edge. “What for?”

“I’m hungry.”

I looked at my wrist. “My God, it’ll be time for breakfast in three hours, and Fritz will bring it up to you. You don’t look on the brink of starvation.” She didn’t. She looked all right.

“I can’t sleep and I’m hungry.”

“Then eat. The kitchen is on the same—” I stopped, having got enough awake to remember that (a) she was a guest and (b) I was a detective. I slipped
my feet into my sandals, arose, told her, “Come on,” and headed for the door. Halfway down the first flight I thought of a dressing gown, but it was too hot anyway.

Down in the kitchen I opened the door of the refrigerator and asked her, “Any special longing?”

“No, just food. Bread and meat and milk would be nice.”

We got out an assortment: salami, half a Georgia ham, pâté, cheese, cucumber rings, Italian bread, and milk. She volunteered to slice some ham, and was very nifty at it. Now that she had broken my sleep I saw no reason to let her monopolize things, so I joined in. I took the stool and let her have the chair. I had happened to notice before that she had good teeth, and now I also noticed that they knew how to deal with bread and meat. She chewed as if she meant it, but with no offense.

We made conversation. “When I heard my name and opened my eyes and saw you,” I told her, “I supposed it was one of two things. Either you had been drawn to my room as a moth to a candle, or you wanted to tell me something. When you said you were hungry it was a comedown. However—” I waved a hand, and on the way back it snared a slice of salami.

“I don’t think there’s much moth in me,” she said. “And you’re not so hot as a candle, with your hair like that and in those wrinkled pajamas. But I do want to tell you something. The hunger was just an opening.”

“My pajamas always get wrinkled by the middle of the week no matter how careful I am. What’s on your mind?”

She finished with a bite of cheese. Then she drank some milk. Then she arranged for her eyes to meet mine.

“We’re more apt to do some good if you’ll tell
me
something. What makes you think Pompa didn’t kill Floyd Whitten?”

That got me wide awake and I hastily shifted things around inside my head. Up to then the emphasis had been on this interesting, informal, early-morning, intimate association with a really pretty specimen, but she had made it quite different. Having never seen H. R. Landy, I didn’t know how much she looked like her father, but her manner and tone as she asked that question, and the look in her fine young eyes, had sure come straight from the man who had built up a ten-million-dollar business.

I grinned at her. “That’s a swell way to repay me for getting up to feed you. If we have any evidence it’s Mr. Wolfe’s, not mine, so ask him. If we haven’t any you wouldn’t be interested.”

“I might be. Try me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of boring you. More milk?”

“Then I’ll bore you. I know Pompa pretty well. I have been with him a lot the past two years, working with him—I suppose you know that. He’s an awful old tyrant in some ways, and he certainly is pig-headed, but I like him. I don’t believe he would have killed Floyd Whitten for the only motive he had, and I know darned well he wouldn’t have killed him by stabbing him in the back.”

I frowned. “What kind of a dodge is this? You’re out of my reach. Have you told that to the cops?”

“Of course not. I haven’t told it to you, either, in case they ask me, and anyhow it’s just my opinion. But that’s what I think, and you see what it means. If Pompa didn’t do it then one of us did, and I know
we
didn’t. Or take it the way you’re looking at it, that that’s a lie, that we’re all lying together—even so,
there’s no way on earth of proving we’re lying, so it goes back on Pompa and he’ll have to suffer for it. But I’ve told you what I think about him, and so I wonder if he has told the police all the details, and if they believe him. I would like to help him if I can—I mean it. Has he told about the front door being open?”

“I don’t know. What front door, up at your house?”

She nodded. “As we told you, I left the room several times during that half-hour, to make sure Mother and Pompa were still in the living room. And each time, all the time, the front door wasn’t closed. It was standing a little open. I supposed that when Mother came down to keep Pompa from going, he had already opened the front door to leave when she stopped him, and they neglected to close it when they went into the living room. That must have been it, because I had looked out there before, before Mother and Pompa came down, and so had Eve and Jerome, and the front door had been closed up to then.”

I was letting the tingles inside of me enjoy themselves, and staying deadpan. “That’s very interesting,” I granted. “You’ve told about this, have you?”

“No, I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know—I just didn’t mention it. It didn’t occur to me until this evening, from the questions Mr. Wolfe asked, how important it was. Of course the door being open meant that any time during that half-hour someone could have gone in and upstairs, and killed Floyd, and out again. So I wonder if Pompa has told about it. He must know it, since he must have opened the door himself and not closed it. I thought maybe he had told about it and they hadn’t believed him. But they would have to believe him if I said I saw the door open too. Wouldn’t they?”

“It would help,” I conceded. “And of course it
would split it wide open. It would be a beautiful out, not only for Pompa, but for everybody. Two are much better than one, and three would be simply splendid. Do you suppose there’s any chance that your mother remembers about the open door too?”

Her eyes left mine, and she covered up fairly well by reaching for the milk bottle and pouring herself a third of a glass. I didn’t mark it against her, for she was too young to be expected to meet any and all contingencies.

“I sure was hungry and thirsty,” she said, retrieving. “I don’t know about Mother. I didn’t ask her about it because she was completely all in. But when I tell her I saw it, and she puts her mind on it, I’m practically certain she’ll remember about the door being open. She’s very observant and she has a good memory. I don’t think there’s any question about her remembering it. That would clear up everything, wouldn’t it?”

“It would at least scatter the clouds all over the sky,” I conceded. “What would be even sweeter would be if the first couple of times you ventured forth you noticed the door was open, and the last time you saw it had been closed. That would be really jolly. You probably have a good memory too, so why don’t you try it on that?”

But she wasn’t having any fancy touches from comparative strangers. Nope, she remembered it quite clearly, the door had been open all the time. Furthermore, she remembered going to close it herself, when her mother and brother and Dan Bahr had gone upstairs to get Floyd Whitten. I didn’t think it would be polite to urge her, and while we were cleaning up and putting things back in the refrigerator I told her that it was darned white of her to come out
with it like that, and this was a real break for Pompa, and I would give Wolfe the good news just as soon as he was awake. We went back up the two flights together, and in the upper hall I took her offered hand and got a fine firm clasp and a friendly smile. Then I went back to bed and was sound asleep before I knew it.

My eyes opened again without any order from me. Naturally that was irritating, and I wondered why I couldn’t sleep. Seeing it was broad daylight, I glanced at my wrist. It was a quarter past nine. I jumped out and leaped for the bathroom, set a record dressing, ran down to the kitchen, and asked Fritz if Wolfe was awake. Yes, he had breakfasted at eight-fifteen as usual and was up in the plant rooms. There had just been word from the South Room, on the house phone, from the guests, and Fritz was getting their trays ready. On account of my snack at dawn I wasn’t starving, so I had my orange juice and some toast and coffee, and then went, three steps at a time, up to the roof.

Wolfe was in the intermediate room inspecting some two-year Miltonia roezelis. The brief glance he gave me was as sour as expected, since he hates being interrupted up there.

I apologized without groveling. “I’m sorry I overslept, but it was Phoebe’s fault. She has a nerve. She came to my room, and damned if she didn’t complain about my wrinkled pajamas.”

He dehydrated me with a look. “If true, boorish. If false, inane.”

“Just adjectives. She came because she was hungry, and I took her down and fed her. But what she really wanted was to peddle a lie. Would you care to buy a good lie? It’s a beaut.”

“Describe it.”

“She offers to trade an out for Pompa for an out for the dining-room gang. During that crucial half-hour, each time she sallied to the reception hall she noticed that the front door was part way open. Mama will corroborate. But Pompa will have to say that when he started to beat it he got as far as the front door and had opened it when Mom caught up with him, and neither of them closed it before they went into the living room. Which is that, boorish or inane?”

Wolfe finished inspecting a plant, returned it to the bench, and turned to inspect me. He seemed to have a notion there was something wrong with my necktie, as there may well have been since I had set a record.

“What inspired you to use Miss Alving’s name to get in to Mrs. Whitten?” he demanded.

“Hell, I had to use something. Knowing how women are apt to feel about their husbands’ former sweethearts, I thought that was as good as anything and probably better.”

“Was that all?”

“Yep. Why, did I spill salt?”

“No. On the contrary. Do you know where Miss Alving can be found?”

I nodded. “She’s the toy buyer at Meadow’s. But you certainly have changed the subject. What about that Grade A lie, do we want it at the price? Phoebe will be after me as soon as she gets through breakfast.”

“We’ll see. That can wait. How do you know it’s a lie? Come in the potting room where we can sit down. I have some instructions.”

Never to find yourself in a situation where you have to enter a big department store is one of the minor reasons for not getting married. I guess it would also be a reason for not being a detective. Anyway, Meadow’s is unquestionably a big department store, and that Thursday morning I had to enter it in the practice of my profession. The toy department is on the fourth floor, I suppose to give the kids more fun on the escalators. By the time I got there the sweat on my back was starting to freeze in the conditioned air, and I had to resist an impulse to go up another flight and buy a topcoat.

The salesperson I approached said she thought Miss Alving was busy and would I wait. I found an empty chair over by the scooters. I thought contact with the chair’s back might melt the ice on mine, but it was plastic, so I sat straight. After a while a woman came hurrying to me, and I arose.

“Miss Julie Alving?”

“Yes, I’m Miss Alving.”

When Marko had told us about Floyd Whitten’s former love whom he had ditched when he married the boss, I had made a casual mental comment that there was something droll about a man living in sin with a toy buyer, but one look at Julie Alving showed me that such casual comments can be silly. She was forty and looked it, and she was not an eyestopper in any obvious way, but everything about her, the way she walked, the way she stood, her eyes and mouth and whole face, seemed to be saying, without trying or intending to, that if you had happened to be hers, and she yours, life would be full of pleasant and interesting surprises. It wasn’t anything personal, it was
just her. I was so impressed, in spite of her age, that I was smiling at her before I knew it.

I spoke. “My name’s Archie Goodwin, Miss Alving, and I work for Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of him? The detective?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Her voice was a little thin.

“He would like to see you. He would appreciate it very much if you can get away for an hour and come to his office with me. He has something to say to you on behalf of Mrs. Floyd Whitten.”

I thought for a second she was going to topple. The way her head jerked up and then came down again as all her muscles sagged, it was as if I had landed an uppercut. My hand even started to reach, to be there if the muscles really quit, but she stayed upright.