Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 31 (11 page)

I told him. He said Mrs. Irwin was expecting me, and led me into a smaller room where a woman was sitting at a desk. As I entered she spoke, with a snap. “I hope to goodness you didn’t run over my girls.”

“Absolutely not,” I assured her. “I stopped to let them by.”

“Thank you.” She motioned to a chair. “Sit down. The snow has tried to smother us, but they have to get air and exercise. Are you a newspaperman?”

I told her no and was going to elaborate, but she had the floor. “Mr. Byne said your name is Archie Goodwin and you’re a friend of his. According to the newspaper there was an Archie Goodwin at that party at Mrs. Robilotti’s. Was that you?”

I was at a disadvantage. With her smooth hair, partly gray, her compact little figure, and her quick brown eyes wide apart, she reminded me of Miss Clark, my high school geometry teacher out in Ohio, and Miss Clark had always had my number. I had waited until I saw her to decide just what line to take. First I had to decide whether to say it was me or it was I.

“Yes,” I said, “that was me. It also said in the paper that I work for a private detective named Nero Wolfe.”

“I know it did. Are you here as a detective?”

She certainly liked to come to the point. So had Miss Clark. But I hoped I was man enough not to be afraid of a woman. “The best way to answer that,” I told her, “is to explain why I came. You know what happened at that party and you know I was there. The idea seems to be that Faith Usher committed
suicide. I have got the impression that the police may settle for that. But on account of what I saw, and what I didn’t see, I doubt it. My personal opinion is that she was murdered, and if she was, I would hate to see whoever did it get away with it. But before I start howling about it in public I want to do a little checking, and I thought the best place to check on Faith Usher herself was here with you.”

“I see.” She sat straight and her eyes were straight. “Then you’re a knight with a plume?”

“Not at all. I’d feel silly with a plume. My pride is hurt. I’m a professional detective and I try to be a good one, and I believe that someone committed murder right before my eyes, and how do you think I like that?”

“Why do you believe it was murder?”

“As I said, on account of what I saw and what I didn’t see. A question of observation. I would prefer to let it go at that, if you don’t mind.”

She nodded. “The professional with his secrets. I have them too; I have a medical degree. Did Mrs. Robilotti send you here?”

That decision wasn’t hard to make. Grantham House wasn’t dependent on Mrs. Robilotti, since it had been provided for by Albert Grantham’s will, and it was ten to one that I knew what Mrs. Irwin thought of Mrs. Robilotti. So I didn’t hesitate.

“Good heavens, no. To have a suicide in her drawing room was bad enough. If she knew I was here looking for support for my belief that it was murder she’d have a fit.”

“Mrs. Robilotti doesn’t have fits, Mr. Goodwin.”

“Well, you know her better than I do. If she ever did have a fit this would call for one. Of course, I may
be sticking my neck out. If you prefer suicide to murder as much as she does I’ve wasted a lot of gas driving up here.”

She looked at me, sizing me up. “I don’t,” she said bluntly.

“Good for you,” I said.

She lifted her chin. “I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you what I have told the police. Of course, it’s possible that Faith did kill herself, but I doubt it. I get to know my girls pretty well, and she was here nearly five months, and I doubt it. I knew about the bottle of poison she had—she didn’t tell me, but one of the other girls did—and that was a problem, whether to get it away from her. I decided not to, because it would have been dangerous. As long as she had it and went on showing it and talking about using it, that was her outlet for her nerves, and if I took it away she would have to get some other outlet, and there was no telling what it might be. One reason I doubt if she killed herself is that she still had that bottle of poison.”

I smiled. “The police would love that.”

“They didn’t, naturally. Another reason is that if she had finally decided to use the poison she wouldn’t have done it there at that party, with all those people. She would have done it somewhere alone, in the dark, and she would have left a note for me. She knew how I felt about my girls, and she would have known it would hurt me, and she would have left a note. Still another reason is the fact that she was actually pretty tough. That bottle of poison was merely the enemy that she intended to defeat somehow—it was death, and she was going to conquer it. The spirit she had,
down deep, showed sometimes in a flash in her eyes. You should have seen that flash.”

“I did, Tuesday evening when I was dancing with her.”

“Then she still had it, and she didn’t kill herself. But how are you going to prove it?”

“I can’t. I can’t prove a negative. I would have to prove an affirmative, or at least open one up. If she didn’t poison her champagne someone else did. Who? That’s the target.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Good heavens! That’s obvious, certainly, but if you’ll believe me, Mr. Goodwin, it hadn’t occurred to me. My only thought was that Faith had not killed herself. My mind had stopped there.” Her lips tightened. She shook her head. “I can’t help it,” she said emphatically. “I wish you success, anyhow. I would help you if I could.”

“You already have,” I assured her, “and maybe you can more. If you don’t mind a few questions. Since you’ve read the paper, you know who was there Tuesday evening. About the three girls—Helen Yarmis, Ethel Varr, and Rose Tuttle—they were all here at the time Faith Usher was, weren’t they?”

“Yes. That is, the times overlapped. Helen and Ethel left a month before Faith did. Rose came six weeks before Faith left.”

“Had any of them known her before?”

“No. I didn’t ask them—I ask the girls as few questions as possible about their past—but there was no indication that they had, and there isn’t much going on here that I don’t know about.”

“Did any trouble develop between any of them and her?”

She smiled. “Now, Mr. Goodwin. I said I would
help you if I could, but this is ridiculous. My girls have their squabbles and their peeves, naturally, but I assure you that nothing that happened here put murder into the heart of Helen or Ethel or Rose. If it had I would have known it, and I would have dealt with it.”

“Okay. If it wasn’t one of them I’ll have to look elsewhere. Take the three male guests—Edwin Laidlaw, Paul Schuster, and Beverly Kent. Do you know any of them?”

“No. I had never heard their names before.”

“You know nothing about them?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“What about Cecil Grantham?”

“I haven’t seen him for several years. His father brought him twice—no, three times—to our summer picnic, when Cecil was in his middle teens. After his father died he was on our Board of Directors for a year, but he resigned.”

“You know of no possible connection between him and Faith Usher?”

“No.”

“What about Robert Robilotti?”

“I have seen him only once, more than two years ago, when he came to our Thanksgiving dinner with Mrs. Robilotti. He played the piano for the girls and had them singing songs, and when Mrs. Robilotti was ready to leave, the girls didn’t want him to go. My feelings were mixed.”

“I’ll bet they were. Faith Usher wasn’t here then?”

“No.”

“Well, we’re all out of men. Celia Grantham?”

“I knew Celia fairly well at one time. For a year or so after she finished college she came here frequently,
three or four times a month, to teach the girls things and talk with them; then suddenly she quit. She was a real help and the girls liked her. She has fine qualities, or had, but she is headstrong. I haven’t seen her for four years. I am tempted to add something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I wouldn’t if I thought you would misunderstand. You are looking for a murderer, and Celia would be quite capable of murder if she thought the occasion demanded it. The only discipline she recognizes is her own. But I can’t imagine an occasion that would have led her to kill Faith Usher. I haven’t seen her for four years.”

“Then if she had had contact with Faith Usher you wouldn’t know about it. Least but not last, Mrs. Robilotti.”

“Well.” She smiled. “She is Mrs. Robilotti.”

I smiled back. “I agree. You certainly have known her. She was Mrs. Albert Grantham. I am tempted to add something.”

“You may.”

“I wouldn’t if I thought you would misunderstand. I feel that if you knew anything that would indicate that Mrs. Robilotti might have killed Faith Usher you would think it was your duty to tell me about it. So I can simply ask, do you?”

“That’s rather cheeky, Mr. Goodwin. But I simply answer, I do not. Ever since Mr. Grantham died Mrs. Robilotti has been coming here about once a month except when she was traveling, but she has never been at ease with the girls, nor they with her. Of course she came while Faith was here, but as far as I know she never spoke with her except as one of a group. So my answer to your question is no.”

“Who picks the girls to be invited to the annual dinner on Grantham’s birthday?”

“When Mr. Grantham was alive, I did. The first few years after he died, Mrs. Grantham did, on information I supplied. The last two years she has left it to Mr. Byne, and he consults me.”

“Is that so? Dinky didn’t mention that.”

“‘Dinky’?”

“Mr. Byne. We call him that. I’ll ask him about it. But if you don’t mind telling me, how does he do it? Does he suggest names and ask you about them?”

“No, I make a list, chiefly of girls who have been here in the past year, with information and comments, and he chooses from that. I make the list with care. Some of my girls would not be comfortable in those surroundings. On what basis Mr. Byne makes his selections, I don’t know.”

“I’ll ask him.” I put a hand on her desk. “And now for the main point, what I was mostly counting on if you felt like helping me. It’s very likely that the event or the situation, whatever it was, that led to Faith Usher’s death dated from before she came here. It could have happened after she left, but you wouldn’t know about that anyway. She was here nearly five months. You said you ask the girls as few questions as possible about their pasts, but they must tell you a lot, don’t they?”

“Some of them do.”

“Of course. And of course you keep it in confidence. But Faith is dead, and you said you’d help me if you could. She must have told you things. She may even have told you the name of the man who was responsible for her being here. Did she?”

I asked that because I had to. Mrs. Irwin was
much too smart not to realize that that was the first and foremost question a detective would want answered about Faith Usher’s past, and if I hadn’t asked it she would have wondered why and might even have been bright enough to suspect that I already knew. There wasn’t much chance that she had the answer, in view of her tone and manner when she said that she had never heard of Edwin Laidlaw.

“No,” she said. “She never said a word about him to me, and I doubt if she did to any of the girls.”

“But she did tell you things?”

“Not very much. If you mean facts, people she had known and things she had done, really nothing. But she talked with me a good deal, and I formed two conclusions about her—I mean about her history. No, three. One was that she had had only one sexual relationship with a man, and a brief one. Another was that she had never known her father and probably didn’t know who he was. The third was that her mother was still alive and that she hated her—no, hate is too strong a word. Faith was not a girl for hating. Perhaps the word is repugnance. I made those three conclusions, but she never stated any of them explicitly. Beyond that I know nothing about her past.”

“Do you know her mother’s name?”

“No. As I said, I have no facts.”

“How did she get to Grantham House?”

“She came here one day in March, just a year ago. She was in her seventh month. No letter or phone call, she just came. She said she had once read about Grantham House in a magazine and she remembered it. Her baby was born on May eighteenth.” She
smiled. “I don’t have on my tongue the dates of all the births here, but I looked it up for the police.”

“Is there any possibility that the baby is involved? I mean in her death? Anything or anyone connected with it or its adoption?”

“Not the slightest. Absolutely none. I handle that. You may take my word for it.”

“Did she ever have any visitors here?”

“No. Not one.”

“You say she was here five months, so she left in August. Did someone come for her?”

“No. Usually the girls don’t stay so long after the baby comes, but Faith had rather a bad time and had to get her strength back. Actually someone did come for her—Mrs. James Robbins, one of our directors, drove her to New York. Mrs. Robbins had got a job for her at Barwick’s, the furniture store, and had arranged for her to share a room with another girl, Helen Yarmis. As you know, Helen was there Tuesday evening. Helen might know if anything—Yes, Dora?”

I turned my head. The woman who had opened the door—middle-aged and a little too plump for her blue uniform—stood holding the knob. She spoke. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but Katherine may be going to rush things a bit. Four times since nine o’clock, and the last one was only twenty minutes.”

Mrs. Irwin was out of her chair and moving. By the time she reached me I was up too, to take the hand she offered.

“It may be only a prelude,” she said, “but I’d better go and see. I repeat, Mr. Goodwin, I wish you success, in spite of what success would mean. I don’t
envy you your job, but I wish you success. You’ll forgive me for rushing off.”

I told her I would, and I could have added that I’d rather have my job than hers, or Katherine’s either. As I got my coat from a chair and put it on I figured that if she had been there fifteen years and had averaged one a week Katherine’s would be the 780th, or even at two a month it would be the 360th … On my way out to the car I had a worry. If I met the girls on their way back the maneuver would have to be repeated with me headed downhill and them up, and I didn’t like the idea of them rubbing their fronts along the side of the car again, with the door handles. But luckily, as I started the engine, here they came, straggling from the tunnel of the driveway into the cleared space. Their faces were even pinker and they were puffing. One of them sang out, “Oh, are you going?” and another one called, “Why don’t you stay for lunch?” I told them some other time. I was glad I had turned the car around on arrival. I had an impulse to tell them Katherine was tuning up for her big act to see how they would take it, but decided it wouldn’t be tactful, and when they had cleared the way I fed gas and rolled. The only one who didn’t tell me good-bye was out of breath.