The Mother Hunt (17 page)

I swear I hadn’t known duckling was on for lunch when I ordered it on the way. “I had a bite at the beach,” I lied. To Wolfe: “Mrs. Valdon wants you to get the murderer. I told her the cops would get him sooner or later if she wanted to pull out, but she said, quote, ‘I want Nero Wolfe to get him.’ Unquote.”

He growled. “You know quite well that that locution is vile.”

“I feel vile. Do you know you have company?”

“Yes. Mr. Bingham came half an hour ago. I was at lunch; I haven’t seen him. I told him through Fritz that I would not see him unless he got Mr. Haft and Mr. Krug to come, and he used the telephone.” He was putting Brie on a cracker. “What took you so long? Was she difficult?”

“No. I dawdled. I was afraid to lunch with you. I thought you might throw your plate at me. Is Krug coming?”

“I don’t know.”

“You actually wouldn’t have seen Bingham if he had balked?”

“Certainly I would. But he had to wait until I finished lunch, and he might as well try to get the others.” He aimed a finger at me. “Archie. I am making an effort to control myself. I advise you to do the same. I realize that the provocation is as insupportable for you—”

The doorbell rang. I moved, but Wolfe snapped, “No. Fritz will go. Have some cheese. Coffee? Get a cup.”

Fritz had gone. I got a cup and poured, and plastered a cracker with Brie. I was controlling myself. It might be Willis Krug at the door, but it might be Inspector Cramer, and if so, fur would fly. But when Fritz returned he said he had shown Mr. Krug to the office, and I took too big a sip of hot coffee and scalded my tongue. Wolfe took another cracker, and cheese, and then another. Finally he asked me politely if I wanted more, pushed his chair back, rose, thanked Fritz for the meal as always, and moved. I followed.

As we entered the office Leo Bingham bounced up
out of the red leather chair and boomed, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Wolfe detoured around him. My route was between Wolfe’s desk and the other two. Wolfe sat and said, “Sit down, Mr. Bingham.”

“By God, if you—”

“Sit down!” Wolfe roared.

“I want to—”

“Sit down!”

Bingham sat.

Wolfe eyed him. “In my house I do the bawling,” he said. “You came to see me, uninvited. What do you want?”

“I was invited,” Julian Haft said. “What do
you
want?” His thin tenor was close to a squeak.

“I didn’t come to go on the air,” Bingham said. “You wanted Krug and Haft, and here they are. When you’re through with them I’ll speak with you privately.”

Wolfe’s head turned slowly to the right, to take his eyes past Haft to Krug, who was nearest me, and back again to the left. “It saves time,” he said, “to have all three of you, because I wish to ask each of you the same question. And no doubt each of you would like to ask me the same question. Your question would be, why was a picture of Carol Mardus among those I sent you on Tuesday? My question is, why did none of you identify it?”

Bingham blurted, “You sent it to them too?”

“I did.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I’m going to tell you, but with a long preamble. First, to clear the way, you should know that what I told you in this room nearly six weeks ago was pure
invention. Mrs. Valdon had received no anonymous letters.”

Bingham and Krug made noises. Haft adjusted his balloon-tired cheaters to stare better.

Wolfe ignored the noises. “It wasn’t about anonymous letters that Mrs. Valdon came to me, it was about a baby that had been left in the vestibule of her house. She hired me to learn who had left it there and who its mother was. And father. I failed miserably. After a week of fruitless effort I decided to try the conjecture that Mrs. Valdon’s late husband had been the father, and I asked her to get the cooperation of three or four of his close associates. You know how that resulted. Mr. Upton refused my request. Each of you three gave me a list of the names of women who had been in contact with Mr. Valdon in the spring of last year, the period when the baby had been conceived. I remark in passing that the name of Carol Mardus was on none of the lists.”

“She’s dead,” Bingham blurted.

“She is indeed. Of course the procedure was to learn if any of the women listed had given birth to a baby at the time indicated. Four of them had, but the babies were all accounted for. That effort, again fruitless, took nearly four weeks. Close to desperation, I tried another conjecture, that the mother of the baby would like to see it, and I arranged for publication—but perhaps you saw the page in the
Gazette
about Mrs. Valdon?”

They all had.

“It worked. Hidden cameras were attached to the baby carriage, and pictures were taken of everyone who stopped for a look. That was the source of the pictures that were sent to each of you gentlemen on Monday and Tuesday. Each of you reported that he recognized none of them, but Mrs. Valdon recognized Carol Mardus and
named her. Inquiry disclosed that she had gone to Florida last September, but remained there into the winter, had entered a hospital on January sixteenth under an alias and given birth to a baby, and had returned to New York on February fifth, with the baby. Obviously I had found the mother of the baby left in Mrs. Valdon’s vestibule, since the newspaper article had lured her to Washington Square to look at it. Naturally I wished to see her, and yesterday morning Mr. Goodwin was going to telephone her, but she anticipated him. She phoned—when, Archie?”

“Ten minutes to nine.”

“And came shortly after twelve. She had—”

“She came
here?”
Leo Bingham.

“Yes, sir. She had learned that inquiries had been made about her and wanted to know why. I told her, and I asked questions, but she answered only three of them—that she knew you, Mr. Bingham, and you, Mr. Haft, and that neither of you, nor Mr. Krug, her former husband, was the father of the baby. She sat there”—he pointed to Bingham in the red leather chair—“while I asked several other questions, but answered none of them, and rose abruptly and departed. And now she’s dead.”

No one spoke. Bingham was leaning forward, his elbows on the chair arms, his jaw clamped, his eyes fastened on Wolfe. King’s eyes were closed. In profile his long bony face looked even longer. Haft’s mouth was screwed up and he was blinking. From the side I could see his eyelashes flick behind the cheaters.

“So that’s why she …” Krug said, and let it hang.

“You’ve admitted you’re a liar,” Bingham said.

“You say she didn’t answer your questions,” Haft
said. “Then she didn’t say she was the mother of the baby.”

“In words, no. Implicitly, yes. I am being open. Since she is dead, and since Mr. Goodwin was present, we could give any account we pleased. I am reporting candidly. It is indubitable that Carol Mardus was the mother of the baby left in Mrs. Valdon’s vestibule and that she was gravely disquieted to learn that I knew it and could demonstrate it. It is all but certain that some other person, X, was in some manner deeply involved, that she told X of her conversation with me, and that X, fearing that she would disclose his involvement, killed her. I am going to find X and expose him.”

“This is … fantastic,” Krug said.

“You may be candid,” Haft said, “but it seems to me—what kind of involvement? He killed her just because he was involved in leaving a baby in a vestibule?”

“No. Does the name Ellen Tenzer mean anything to you, Mr. Haft?”

“No.”

“To you, Mr. Krug?”

“Ellen Tenzer? No.”

Bingham asked, “Wasn’t that the name of the woman whose body was found in a car? Strangled? A few weeks ago?”

“It was. She was a retired nurse. She had boarded the baby that was left in Mrs. Valdon’s vestibule, and Mr. Goodwin found her and spoke with her, and X killed her. The menace from Carol Mardus was not only that she would disclose his involvement with the baby, whatever it was, but that she knew he had murdered Ellen Tenzer.”

“How did she know that?” Haft demanded.

“Presumably by inference. Presumably she knew
that her baby had been in the care of Ellen Tenzer. Presumably she read newspapers, and knew what had happened to Ellen Tenzer, and knew that Mr. Goodwin had gone to ask her about buttons on a baby’s overalls, and knew that the police inquiry was centered on the baby she had recently boarded. As you see, I
am
being candid. I could simply say that Carol Mardus admitted this or that, and Mr. Goodwin would confirm it. I prefer to be open because I need your help.”

“Are
you open?” Bingham demanded.

“Yes.”

“All this is straight—the baby, Lucy Valdon, Carol here yesterday, Ellen Tenzer?”

“It is.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No. I’m—”

“my not?”

“I’m about to go into that.” Wolfe’s eyes went right and left. “I have a proposal for you gentlemen. I’m assuming that you want the murderer of Carol Mardus brought to account, as I do. If I tell the police what I know I’ll tell them
all
I know. I’ll tell them of the lists of names you supplied me with—of course including the detail that Mr. Upton refused to supply one—and that the name of Carol Mardus appeared on none of them. I’ll tell them of the pictures that were sent to you for identification, and that each of you reported that he recognized none of them, though the one of Carol Mardus was an excellent likeness. That will make it unpleasant for you, possibly even painful. The police are not witlings; they will know that each of you may have had a private reason for your reserve not relevant to their investigation; but they will also know that if one of you was involved with Carol Mardus regarding the
baby, and if you killed Ellen Tenzer, you would certainly have omitted her name from your list and you would not have identified the picture. So they will be importunate with all of you.”

“You seem to be saying,” Krug said dryly, “that you are keeping all this from the police out of consideration for us.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Not likely. I owe you no consideration at all, and you owe me none. But perhaps we can be mutually helpful. I would prefer not to help the police get the murderer because I want to get him myself, and I intend to. He has dared me with flagrant impudence. My client, Mrs. Valdon, gave me information in confidence, and I’ll reveal it only under compulsion.”

Haft had removed the cheaters and was fingering the bows. “You said you had a proposal.”

“Yes. I can save you gentlemen severe annoyance by not telling the police what I know. In return you will answer some questions. Many questions. You may refuse to answer any specific one, but a refusal is often more informative than a reply. The point is, all of you will remain until I have finished. It may take hours. I don’t expect to get all that is in your minds and memories regarding Carol Mardus, but I’ll get all I can.”

“You would probably get more,” Krug said, “if you took us separately.”

Wolfe shook his head. “This is better. What one omits another may supply. And it’s safer, since it must be all or none. If one of you would rather answer to the police than to me, I withdraw the proposal. You, Mr. Krug?”

“I’ll answer to the police anyway. I’m Carol’s divorced husband. Of course the list and the picture would make it worse. And if you’re as good as your
reputation … I’ll take you. I’ll answer your questions.”

“Mr. Bingham?”

“I’m in. I
may
answer your questions.”

“Mr. Haft?”

He had the cheaters back on. “It seems to me all one-sided. You can tell the police about the lists and the pictures whenever you please.”

“True. You risk that. I know I won’t, if all of you accept my proposal, but you don’t. Your choice is between a certainty and a possibility.”

“Very well. I accept the proposal.”

Wolfe swiveled to look up at the clock. Ten minutes to three. Good-by schedule. He couldn’t possibly make it. He swiveled back. “It will take a while,” he said. “Will you have something to drink?”

They all would, and Wolfe rang for Fritz. Scotch and soda for Haft, bourbon and water for Krug, brandy with water on the side for Bingham, milk for me, and beer for Wolfe. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Haft got up and crossed over to the bookshelves and looked at titles. Bingham asked to use the phone and then decided not to. Krug sat fidgeting, staring here and then there, lacing and unlacing his fingers. When his bourbon and water came he took some, had trouble with the swallowing, and nearly coughed it out. Wolfe opened the bottle of beer, dropped the cap in the drawer—they always go there so he can keep count—poured, watched the foam go down to an inch, and drank.

He licked his lips and focused on the divorced husband. “I have a suggestion, Mr. Krug. Tell me about Carol Mardus—your association with her, her association with others, anything that you think might be material. I’ll interrupt with questions only if I must.”

W
illis Krug took his time. He looked at Haft, not merely a glance, then at Bingham, and then at his glass, which was resting on his leg and had the fingers of both his hands curled around it. When he spoke his eyes stayed on the glass.

“There are people,” he said, “quite a few people, who could probably tell you as much about Carol and me as I can. Maybe more for her part of it. We were married for exactly fourteen months. I wouldn’t go through that again for …” He raised his eyes to Wolfe. “You know I was Dick Valdon’s agent.”

Wolfe nodded.

“Carol sent him to me. I had never met her or heard of her. She was a reader on
Distaff
, and she had persuaded Manny Upton to take three of Dick’s stories, and she thought he should have an agent and sent him to me, and I met her through Dick, and we were married about a year later. I knew she and Dick had been— together. Everybody did. She had been with Manny Upton too. Everybody knew that too. I’m not speaking ill of the dead. She wouldn’t think I was speaking ill of her if she were sitting here. She married me because
she had been made fiction editor of
Distaff
, an important job, and she wanted—well, I’ll use her words. She said she wanted to go tame. She was good with words. She could have made it as as writer.”