Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe (22 page)

Even when I get my full ration of sleep, eight hours, I don't break through my personal morning fog until I have emptied my coffee cup, and when the eight is cut to five by events beyond my control, as it was that night, I have to grope my way to the bathroom. After getting home at five in the morning, and leaving a note for Fritz saying I would be down for breakfast at 10:45, I had set the alarm for ten o'clock. That had seemed sensible, but the trouble with an alarm clock is that what seems sensible when you set it seems absurd
when it goes off. Before prying my eyes open I stayed flat a while, trying to find an alternative, and had to give up when I was conscious enough to realize that Wolfe would come down from the plant rooms at eleven. Forty minutes later I descended the two flights to the ground floor, entered the kitchen, told Fritz good morning, got my orange juice from the refrigerator, and sat at the table where my copy of the
Times
was on the rack. Fritz, who is as well acquainted with my morning fog as I am and never tries to talk through it, uncovered the sausage and lit the fire under the griddle for cakes.

The murder of Wade Eisler with a lasso at the penthouse of Lily Rowan rated the front page even in the
Times.
There was no news in it for me, nothing that I didn't already know, after the five hours I had spent at the scene of the crime with Homicide personnel, three hours at the District Attorney's office, and three hours back at the penthouse with Lily, at her request. Cal Barrow was in custody as a material witness. The District Attorney couldn't say if he would be released in time for the Tuesday-evening rodeo performance. Archie Goodwin had told a
Times
reporter that he had not been at the penthouse in his professional capacity; he and Nero Wolfe had merely been guests. The police didn't know what the motive had been, or weren't telling. Wade Eisler, a bachelor, had been a well-known figure in sporting and theatrical circles. The
Times
didn't say that he had had a chronic and broad-minded taste for young women, but the tabloids certainly would. And so forth.

I was spreading honey on the third griddle cake when the sounds came of the elevator jolting to a stop and then Wolfe's footsteps in the hall crossing to the office. He wouldn't expect to find me there, since Fritz
would have told him of my note when he took his breakfast tray up, so I took my time with the cake and honey and poured more coffee. As I was taking a sip the doorbell rang and I got up and went to the hall for a look. Through the one-way glass in the front door I saw a big broad frame and a big pink face that were all too familiar. The hall on the ground floor of the old brownstone is long and wide, with the walnut clothes rack, the elevator, the stairs, and the door to the dining room on one side, the doors to the front room and the office on the other, and the kitchen in the rear. I stepped to the office door, which was standing open, and said, “Good morning. Cramer.”

Wolfe, in his oversized chair behind his desk, turned his head to scowl at me. “Good morning, I told him on the phone last evening that I have no information for him.”

I had had two cups of coffee and the fog was gone. “Then I'll tell him to try next door.”

“No.” His lips tightened. “Confound him. That will only convince him that I'm hiding something. Let him in.”

I went to the front, opened the door, and inquired, “Good lord, don't you ever sleep?”

I will never get to see Inspector Cramer at the top of his form, the form that has kept him in charge of Homicide for twenty years, because when I see him I am there and that throws him off. It's only partly me; it's chiefly that I make him think of Wolfe, and thinking of Wolfe is too much for him. When he has us together his face gets pinker and his voice gets gruffer, as it did that morning. He sat in the red leather chair near the end of Wolfe's desk, leaning forward, his elbows planted on the chair arms. He spoke. “I came to ask one question, why were you there yesterday? You told me
on the phone last night that you went there to eat grouse, and Goodwin said the same. It's in his signed statement. Nuts. You could have had him bring the grouse here and had Fritz cook it.”

Wolfe grunted. “When you are invited to someone's table to taste a rare bird you accept or decline. You don't ask that the bird be sent to you—unless you're a king.”

“Which you think you are. You're named after one.”

“I am not. Nero Claudius Caesar was an emperor, not a king, and I wasn't named after him. I was named after a mountain.”

“Which you are. I still want to know why you were there with that bunch. You never leave your house on business, so it wasn't for a client. You went with Goodwin because he asked you to. Why did he ask you to? Why did you sit next to Wade Eisler at lunch? Why did Goodwin have a private talk with one of them, Cal Barrow, just before he drove you home? Why did Barrow go to him when he found the body? Why did Goodwin wait twenty minutes before he had Miss Rowan report it?”

Wolfe was leaning back, his eyes half closed, being patient. “You had Mr. Goodwin at your disposal all night. Weren't those points covered?”

Cramer snorted. “They were covered, all right. He knows how to cover. I'm not saying he knew or you knew Eisler's number was up. I don't say you know who did it or why. I do say there was some kind of trouble and Miss Rowan was involved in it, or at least she knew about it, and that's why Goodwin got you to go. You told me last night that you know nothing whatever about any of those people except Miss Rowan, and that your knowledge of her is superficial. I don't believe it.”

“Mr. Cramer.” Wolfe's eyes opened. “I lie only for advantage, never merely for convenience.”

I cut in. “Excuse me.” I was at my desk, at right angles to Wolfe's. Cramer turned to me. “I'd like to help if I can,” I told him, “on account of Miss Rowan. I was backstage at the rodeo twice last week, and it's barely possible I heard or saw something that would open a crack. It would depend on how it stands. I know you're holding Cal Barrow. Has he been charged?”

“No. Material witness. It was his rope and he found the body.”

“I am not concerned,” Wolfe growled, “but I remark that that would rather justify holding the others.”

“We haven't got your brains,” Cramer growled back. To me: “What did you hear and see backstage at the rodeo?”

“I might remember something if I knew more about it. I know Eisler wasn't there when I returned at four o'clock, but I don't know who saw him last or when. Is everybody out except the ones who were there for lunch?”

“Yes. He was there when Miss Rowan left to go to the kitchen for coffee. That was at three-twenty, eight minutes after you left, as close as we can get it. No one remembers seeing him after that, so they say. No one noticed him leave the terrace, so they say. He got up from the lunch table at five minutes to three. He emptied his coffee cup at three-twenty. The stomach contents say that he died within twenty minutes of that. None of the other guests came until a quarter to four. So there's three cowboys: Harvey Greve, Cal Barrow, and Mel Fox. There's three cowgirls: Anna Casado, Nan Karlin, and Laura Jay. There's Roger Dunning and his wife. You and Wolfe weren't there. Miss Rowan was, but if you saw or heard anything that points at her
you wouldn't remember it. Was she at the rodeo with you?”

“I don't remember. Skip it. You've got it down to twenty minutes, from three-twenty to three-forty. Wasn't anyone else missed during that period?”

“Not by anybody who says so. That's the hell of it. Nobody liked Eisler. Not a single one of them would give a bent nickel to see the murderer caught. Some of them might give a good nickel to see him get away with it. This might make you remember something you saw or heard: Sunday night he took a woman to his apartment, and it could have been one of the cowgirls. We haven't got a good description of her, but the fingerprint men are there now. Were you at the Garden Sunday night?”

I shook my head. “Wednesday and Saturday. What about prints in the shack?”

“None that are any good.”

“Last night I mentioned that a steel rod in a rack was crosswise.”

“Yeah. We might have noticed it ourselves in time. It had been wiped. He had been hit in the back of the head with it. You can read about it in the evening paper. Do you want to come down and look at it?”

“You don't have to take that tone.” I was hurt. “I said I'd like to help and I meant it. You need help, you're up a stump, or you wouldn't be here. As for what I heard and saw at the rodeo, I didn't know there was going to be a murder. I'll have to sort it out. I'll see if I can dig up anything and let you know. I thought you might—”

“Why, goddam you!” He was on his feet. “String
me
along? I know damn well you know something! I'll see that you choke on it!” He took a step. “For the record,
Goodwin. Have you knowledge of any facts that would help identify the murderer of Wade Eisler?”

“No.”

To Wolfe: “Have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any involvement of any kind with any of those people?”

“No, sir.”

“Wait a minute,” I put in. “To avoid a possible future misunderstanding.” I got my case from my pocket, took out a slip of paper, and displayed it to Wolfe. “This is a check for five thousand dollars, payable to you, signed by Lily Rowan.”

“What's it for?” he demanded. “She owes me nothing.”

“She wants to. It's a retainer. She asked me to go back to her place after they finished with me at the DA's office last night, and I did so. She didn't like Wade Eisler any better than the next one, but two things were biting her. First, he was killed at her house by someone she had invited there. She calls that an abuse of hospitality and she thought you would. Don't you?”

“Yes.”

“No argument there. Second, the daughter of District Attorney Bowen is a friend of hers. They were at school together. She has known Bowen for years. He has been a guest both at her apartment and her place in the country. And at midnight last night an assistant DA phoned her and told her to be at his office in the Criminal Courts Building at ten o'clock this morning, and she phoned Bowen, and he said he couldn't allow his personal friendships to interfere with the functions of his staff. She then phoned the assistant DA and told him she would call him today and tell him what time it
would be convenient for her to see him at her apartment.”

“There's too many like her,” Cramer muttered.

“But she has a point,” I objected. “She had told you all she knew and answered your questions and signed a statement, and why ten o'clock?” To Wolfe: “Anyway, here's her check. She wants you to get the murderer before the police do, and let her phone the DA and tell him to come for him—or she and I will deliver him to the DA's office, either way. Of course I told her you wouldn't take the job on those terms, but you might possibly consider investigating the abuse of hospitality by one of her guests. I also told her you charge high fees, but she already knew that. I bring this up now because you just told Cramer you're not involved, and if you take this retainer you
will
be involved. I told Miss Rowan you probably wouldn't take it because you're already in the ninety-percent bracket for the year and you hate to work.”

He was glowering at me. He knew that I knew he wouldn't turn it down with Cramer there. “It will be costly gratification of a pique,” he said.

“I told her so. She can afford it.”

“Her reason for hiring me is the most capricious in my experience. But I have not only eaten her bread and salt, I have eaten her grouse. I am in her debt. Mr. Cramer. I change my answer to your last question. I do have an involvement. My other answer holds. I have no information for you.”

Cramer's jaw was clamped. “You know the law,” he said, and wheeled and headed for the door.

When a visitor leaves the office it is my custom to precede him to the hall and the front door to let him out; but when it's Cramer and he's striding out in a huff I would have to hop on it to get ahead of him, which
would be undignified, so I just follow to see that he doesn't take our hats from the shelf and tramp on them. When I emerged from the office Cramer was halfway down the hall, and after one glance I did hop on it. Out on the stoop, reaching a finger to the bell button, was Laura Jay.

I can outhop Cramer any day, but he was too far ahead and was opening the door when I reached it. Not wanting to give him an excuse to take me downtown, I didn't bump him. I braked. He said, “Good morning, Miss Jay. Come in.”

I got Laura's eye and said, “Inspector Cramer is just leaving.”

“I'm in no hurry,” Cramer said, and backed up a step to give her room. “Come in, Miss Jay.”

I saw it coming in her eyes—that is, I saw something was coming. They were at Cramer, not at me, but I saw the sudden sharp gleam of an idea, and then she acted on it. She came in all right, on the jump, through the air straight at Cramer, hands first reaching for his face. By instinct he should have jerked back, but experience is better than instinct. He ducked below her hands and came up against her with his arms around her, clamping her to him, leaving her nothing to paw but air. I got her wrists from the rear, pulled them to me, and crossed her arms behind her back.

“Okay,” I said, “you can unwrap.”

Cramer slipped his arms from under hers and backed away. “All right, Miss Jay,” he said. “What's the idea?”

She tried to twist her head around. “Let me go,” she demanded. “You're breaking my arm.”

“Will you behave yourself?”

“Yes.”

As I let go she started to tremble, but then she
stiffened, pulling her shoulders back. “I guess I lost my head,” she told Cramer. “I didn't expect to see you here. I do that sometimes, I just lose my head.”