Some Buried Caesar (37 page)

Beginning with my ushering Pete Drossos into the dining room Tuesday evening, and ending with
my report of my talk with Jean Estey, which Fred had not heard, he went right through it, omitting nothing. They sat absorbing it, each in his manner—Saul slumped and relaxed, Fred stiff and straight, with his eyes fastened on Wolfe as if he had to listen with them too, and Orrie with his temple propped against his fingertips for a studio portrait. As for me, I was trying to catch Wolfe skipping some detail so I would have the pleasure of supplying it when he was through, but nothing doing. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.

He glanced up at the clock. “It’s twenty past seven, and dinner’s ready. We’re having fried chicken with cream gravy and mush. We won’t discuss this at the table, but I wanted you to have it in your minds.”

It was going on nine by the time we were back in the office, having discussed all of five chickens, with accessories, so fully that they were settled for good. Wolfe, after getting arranged in his chair, scowled at me and then at them.

“You don’t look very alert,” he said peevishly.

They didn’t jerk to attention. While none of them had had as much of him as I had, they knew how he hated to work during the hour or so after dinner, and what was eating him wasn’t that they weren’t alert but that he didn’t want to be.

“We can go downstairs,” I suggested, “and play some pool while you digest.”

He snorted. “My stomach,” he asserted, “is quite capable of handling its affairs without pampering. Has any of you gentlemen a pressing question before I go on?”

“Maybe later,” Saul suggested.

“Very well. It is, as you see, hopeless. It is excessively
complex, but no sources of information are available to us. Archie can try with others as he did with Miss Estey, but he has no lever. The police will tell me nothing. On occasion, in the past, I have had tools wherewith to pry things out of them, but not this time. Since they know everything I know, I have nothing to bargain with. Of course we know presumptively what they’re doing. They’re finding out, or trying to, whether any woman known to Mrs. Fromm had a scratch on her cheek Tuesday evening or Wednesday. If they find her that could settle it; but they may not find her, since what that boy called a scratch, staring at her as he did, might have been a slight mark that she could have rendered practically unnoticeable as soon as she got a chance. Also the police are trying to find a woman known to Mrs. Fromm who wore spider earrings, and again, if they succeed, that could settle it.”

Wolfe upturned a palm. “And they’re trying to trace the car that killed the boy and Matthew Birch. They’re examining every inch of Mrs. Fromm’s car. They’re rechecking Birch’s movements and connections and associates. They’re piecing together, minute by minute, everything Mrs. Fromm did and said after she left this office yesterday. They’re badgering not only those who were with Mrs. Fromm last evening, but everyone who can be remotely suspected of knowledge of a pertinent fact. They’re checking on the whereabouts of all possible culprits—for Tuesday evening when a woman told Peter Drossos to get a cop, for later that evening when Birch was killed, for Wednesday evening when the boy was killed, and for yesterday evening when Mrs. Fromm was killed. They’re asking who had reason to fear or hate Mrs. Fromm or will profit in any way by
her death. In those activities they are using a hundred men, or a thousand—all of them trained, and some of them competent.”

He compressed his lips and shook his head. “They can’t afford to fail on this one, and they won’t dally. As we sit here they may have marked their prey and are ready to seize him. But until they do, I propose to use Mrs. Fromm’s money or part of it, for a purpose that she would surely have sanctioned. With all their advantages, the police will certainly forestall us, but I intend to persuade myself that I am justified in keeping that money; and besides, I resent the assumption that people who come to me for help can be murdered with impunity. That’s the personal reason.”

“We’ll get the bastard!” Fred Durkin blurted.

“I doubt it, Fred. You understand now why I called you to this conference and told you all about it instead of simply assigning you to errands as usual. I wanted you to know how hopeless it is, and also I wanted to consult you. There are dozens of possible approaches to the problem, and there are only three of you. Saul, where do you think you might start?”

Saul hesitated. He scratched his nose. “I’d like to start two places at once. Assadip and earrings.”

“Why Assadip?”

“Because they’re interested in displaced persons, and Birch was with the Immigration and Naturalization Service. That’s the one chance I see for any connection between Birch and Mrs. Fromm. Of course the cops are on it, but on that kind of prying around anyone might get a lucky break.”

“Since Angela Wright, the Executive Secretary of Assadip, was present at the dinner last evening, she is probably unapproachable.”

“Not by a displaced person.”

“Oh.” Wolfe considered. “Yes, you might try that.”

“And anyhow, if she’s too busy with cops and so on, they must have a couple of stenographers and someone to answer the phone. I’ll need a lot of sympathy.”

Wolfe nodded. “Very well. In the morning. Take two hundred dollars, but a displaced person would not be lavish. What about earrings?”

“I couldn’t do both.”

“No, but what about them?”

“Well, I get around some, and I keep my eyes open, but I have never seen spider earrings, either on a woman or in a window. You said that Pete said big gold spiders with their legs stretched out. People would notice that. If she wore them before Tuesday, or after, the cops have already got her spotted or soon will have, and you’re probably right, for us it’s hopeless. But there’s a chance she didn’t, and was it the same ones Mrs. Fromm was wearing yesterday? It might pay to try to find some shop that ever sold any spider earrings. The cops are so busy on it from the other angle maybe they haven’t started on that. Am I wrong?”

“No. You’re seldom wrong. If we find that woman first—”

“I’ll take it,” Orrie said. “I’ve never seen any spider earrings either. How big were they?”

“The ones Mrs. Fromm wore yesterday were about the size of your thumbnail—that is, the circumference described by the tips of the extended legs. Archie?”

I responded. “I’d say a little larger.”

“Were they gold?”

“I don’t know. Archie?”

“My guess is yes, but don’t quote me.”

“Well made?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll take it.”

Wolfe was frowning at him. “A month might do it.”

“Not the way I’ll work it, Mr. Wolfe. I did a favor once for a guy that’s a salesman at Boudet’s, and I’ll start with him. That way I can get going tomorrow even if it is Sunday—I know where he lives. One thing I may have missed—is there any line at all on whether the ones Mrs. Fromm had on yesterday were the same as those the woman in the car was wearing Tuesday?”

“No.”

“Then there may be two different pairs?”

“Yes.”

“Right. I’ve got it. Last one across is a rotten egg.”

“Will you need to pay your friend, the salesman at Boudet’s?”

“Hell, no. He owes me a favor.”

“Then take a hundred dollars. If you find anything that offers promise, avoid any hint that the police might be grateful for news of it. We might ourselves find it desirable to bid for official gratitude. At the slightest sign of a trail, phone me.” Wolfe transferred to Durkin. “Fred, where do you start?”

Fred’s big broad face showed pink. He had done jobs for Wolfe, off and on, for nearly twenty years, and being consulted on high-level strategy was something new to him. He clamped his jaw, swallowed, and said in a much louder voice than was called for, “Them earrings.”

“Orrie has the earrings.”

“I know he has, but look. Hundreds of people must’ve seen ’em on her. Elevator men, maids, waiters—”

“No.” Wolfe was curt. “In all that area the police are so far ahead that we could never catch up. I have explained that. With our meager forces we must try to find a trail not already explored. Has anyone a suggestion for Fred?”

They exchanged glances. No one volunteered.

Wolfe nodded. “It is certainly difficult. One way to avoid panting along at the heels of the police, with the air polluted by their dust, is to make an assumption that they may not have made, and explore it. Let’s try one. I assume that Tuesday afternoon, when the car stopped at the corner and the woman driver told the boy to get a cop, the man in the car with her was Matthew Birch.”

Saul frowned. “I don’t get it, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Good. Then it probably hasn’t occurred to the police. I admit it is extremely tenuous. But later that day, that night, that same car ran over Birch and killed him, in a place and manner indicating that it had carried him to the spot. Therefore, since he was in the car late in the evening, why not assume that he was in it early in the evening? I choose so to assume.”

Saul maintained his frown. “But the way it stands, wouldn’t the assumption be that the man who ran the car over the boy Wednesday was the one who had been with the woman Tuesday? Because he knew the boy could identify him? And on Wednesday Birch was dead.”

“That’s probably the police assumption,” Wolfe conceded. “Its worth is obvious, so I don’t reject it; I
merely ignore it and substitute one of my own. Even a false assumption may serve a purpose. Columbus assumed that there was nothing but water between him and the treasures of the Orient, and he bumped into a continent.” His eyes moved. “I don’t expect you to bump into a continent, Fred, but you will proceed on my assumption that Birch was in the car with the woman. Try either to validate it or to disprove it. Take a hundred dollars—no, take three hundred, you never waste money. Archie will supply you with a photograph of Birch.” He turned to me. “They should all have photographs of everyone involved. Can you get them from Mr. Cohen?”

“Not tonight. In the morning.”

“Do so.”

He surveyed his meager forces, left to right and back again. “Gentlemen, I trust I have not dulled your ardor by dwelling on the hopelessness of this enterprise. I wanted you to understand that the situation is such that any tidbit will be a feast. I have on occasion expected much of you; this time I expect nothing. It is likely that—”

The doorbell rang.

As I got up and crossed the room I glanced at my wrist. It was 9:55. In the hall, switching on the stoop light and approaching the door, I saw it was two men, both strangers. I opened up and told them good evening.

The one in front spoke. “We want to see Mr. Nero Wolfe.”

“Your names, please?”

“Mine is Horan, Dennis Horan. I phoned him this morning. This is Mr. Maddox.”

“Mr. Wolfe is busy. I’ll see. Step in?”

They entered. I took them into the front room,
glanced at the soundproofed door connecting with the office to check that it was closed, invited them to sit, and left them. Going by way of the hall, I shut that door, returned to the office, and told Wolfe, “Two tidbits in the front room. One named Horan, who wanted you to cough up the ten grand, with a sidekick named Maddox.”

He ran true to form. He glowered at me. Having finished with the briefing, he was all set to relax with a book, and here I was bringing him work to do. If we had been alone he would have indulged in one or two remarks, but after what he had just been telling the squad about hopelessness he had to control it, and I admit he did it like a man.

“Very well. Let Saul and Fred and Orrie out first, after you have given them expense money as specified.”

I went to the safe for the dough.

F
rom their manner, and glances that passed between them as I ushered the callers into the office and got them into chairs, I gathered that I had been too hasty in assuming they were sidekicks. The glances were not affectionate.

Dennis Horan was a little too much. His eyelashes were a little too long, and he was a little too tall for his width and a little too old for campus tailoring. He needed an expert job of toning down, but since he had apparently spent more than forty years toning up I doubted if he would consider an offer.

Maddox made it plain to Wolfe that his name was James Albert Maddox. He had been suffering with ulcers from the cradle on, close to half a century—or if not, it was up to him to explain how his face had got so sour that looking at him would have turned his own dog into a pessimist. I put them into a couple of the yellow chairs which the boys had vacated, not knowing which of them, if either, rated the red leather one.

Horan opened up. He said that he had not intended, on the phone that morning, to intimate that Wolfe was doing or contemplating anything improper
or unethical. He had merely been trying to safeguard the interests of his former friend and client, Mrs. Damon Fromm, who had been—

“Not your client,” interposed Maddox in a tone that matched his face perfectly.

“I advised her,” Horan snapped.

“Badly,” Maddox snapped back.

They regarded each other. Not sidekicks.

“Perhaps,” Wolfe suggested dryly, “it would be well for each of you to tell me, without interruption, to what extent and with what authority you represent Mrs. Fromm. Then contradictions can be composed or ignored as may seem desirable. Mr. Horan?”

He was controlling himself. His thin tenor was still thin, but it wasn’t as close to a squeak as it had been on the phone. “It is true that I was never Mrs. Fromm’s attorney of record in any action. She consulted me in many matters and showed that she valued my advice by frequently acting upon it. As counsel for the Association for the Aid of Displaced Persons, which I still am, I was closely associated with her. If she were alive I don’t think she would challenge my right to call myself her friend.”

“Are you an executor of her estate?”

“No.”

“Thank you. Mr. Maddox?”

It hurt him, but he delivered. “My law firm, Maddox and Welling, was counsel for Damon Fromm for twelve years. Since his death we have been counsel for Mrs. Fromm. I am the executor of her estate. I interrupted because Mr. Horan’s statement that Mrs. Fromm was his client was not true. I have something to add.”