The Final Deduction (3 page)

“Did you show it to Mrs. Vail at once?”

“Certainly. I took it to her room.”

“Were you present Sunday night when she phoned to the country to ask about her husband?”

“No. I was in the house, but I was in bed.”

“What time yesterday did the call come from Mr. Knapp?”

“Eight minutes after four. I knew that might be important somehow, and I made a note of it.”

“You listened to that conversation?”

“Yes. Mrs. Vail had told me to take it down, and I did.”

“Then you know shorthand?”

“Of course.”

“Are you a college graduate?”

“Yes.”

“Do you type with two fingers, or four?”

She smiled. “All of them. By touch.” She turned a hand over. “Really, Mr. Wolfe. Isn’t this rather silly? Is it going to get Mr. Vail back alive?”

“No. But it may conceivably serve a purpose. Naturally you want to be with Mrs. Vail, and she wants you; I
won’t keep you much longer. There’s no point now in asking you about that man’s voice and diction; even if I got a hint that suggested another wording for the notice it’s too late. But you will please let Mr. Goodwin take samples of your fingerprints. Archie?”

That roused her a little. “
My
fingerprints? Why?”

“Not to get Mr. Vail back alive. But they may be useful later on. It’s barely possible that Mr. Knapp or an accomplice inadvertently left a print on that note. To your knowledge, has anyone handled it besides Mrs. Vail and you?”

“No.”

“And Mr. Goodwin and me. We shall get Mrs. Vail’s. Mr. Goodwin is an expert on prints, and even if Mr. Vail returns safely, as I hope he will, we’ll want to know if there are any unidentifiable prints on that note. Do you object to having your prints taken?

“Of course not. Why should I?”

“Then Archie?”

I had opened a desk drawer and was getting out the equipment—ink with dauber and surfaced paper. I prefer a dauber to a pad. Knowing now, as I did, what the conjecture was that Wolfe had been testing when he inspected my typewriter keyboard with the note from Mr. Knapp in his hand, and therefore also knowing why I was to take Dinah Utley’s prints, it wasn’t necessary to write her name on the paper, but I did anyway. She got up and came to my desk and I did her right hand first. She had good hands, firm, smooth, well kept, with long slender fingers. No rings. With her left hand, when I had done the thumb, index, and middle, and started to daub the ring finger, I asked casually, “What’s this? Scald it?”

“No. Shut a drawer on it.”

“The pinkie too. I’ll go easy.”

“It’s not very tender now. I did it several days ago.”

But I went easy, there being no point in making her suffer, since we had no use for the prints. As she cleaned her fingers with solvent and tissues she asked Wolfe, “You don’t really think a kidnaper would be fool enough to leave his fingerprint on that note, do you?”

“No,” Wolfe said, “not fool enough. But possibly distraught enough. One thing more, Miss Utley. I would like
you to know that I’m aware that the primary concern is the safety of Mr. Vail. I have done all I can. Archie, show her a copy of the notice.

I got it from my desk and handed it to her. Wolfe waited until she had finished reading it to say, “That will appear, prominently, in today’s
Gazette
and the morning papers. If the kidnaper sees it, it may have an effect; it certainly will if he has some knowledge of me. For I will have publicly committed myself, and if he kills Mr. Vail he will be doomed inevitably. A month, a year, ten years; no matter. It’s regrettable that you or I can’t reach him, to make that clear to him.”

“Yes, it is.” Still perfectly cool. She handed me the notice. “Of course he may not have as high an opinion of your abilities as you have.” She turned to go, after three steps stopped and turned her head to say, “He might even think the police are more dangerous than you are,” and went. There ahead of her, and preceding her to the hall and the front door, I let her out; and, expecting no thanks or good day, got none.

Returning to the office, I stopped in front of Wolfe’s desk, stood looking down at him, and said, “So she typed it.”

He nodded. “Of course I didn’t—”

“Excuse me. I’ll do the spiel. When you first looked at it you noticed, as I did, that whoever typed it had an uneven touch. Later, while I was phoning, you looked at it again, got an idea, and came and compared it with the keyboard, and you saw that all the letters that were faint were on the left—not just left of center, but at the left end. W, E, A, S, and D. So you conjectured that the typist had been someone who used all his fingers, not just two or four, and that for some—”

“And probably typed by touch, because—”

“Excuse me, I’m doing the spiel. The touch was merely a probable. And for some reason the ring and little fingers of his left hand had not hit the keys as hard as the other fingers, not nearly as hard. Okay. I caught up with you after lunch, while you were reading, just before she came. You saw me comparing the note with the keyboard.”

“No. I was reading.”

“Let me not believe that. You miss nothing, though you often pretend to. You saw me all right. Then she came, and you went on ahead of me again, and I admit I ought to be docked. My eyes are as good as yours, and I had been closer to her than you were, but you noticed that the tips of those two fingers on her left hand were discolored and slightly swollen, and I didn’t. Of course when you told her we wanted her prints I saw it, and you will ignore what I said about being docked because I found out how and when the fingers got hurt. Any corrections?”

“No. It is still a conjecture, not a conclusion.”

“Damn close to it. One will get you fifty. That it is just a coincidence that she, a touch typist, living in that house, hurt just those two fingers, just at that time, just enough to make her go easy with them but not enough to stop using them—nuts. One will get you a hundred. So you had her read that notice and rubbed it in, thinking she’ll get in touch with Mr. Knapp. Why did you let her walk out?”

Wolfe nodded. “The alternative was obvious. Go at her. Would she have yielded?”

“No. She’s tough.”

“And if Mr. Vail is already dead, as he well may be, it would be folly to let her know what we suspect. If he is alive, no better. She would have flouted me. Detain her forcibly, as a hostage, on a mere suspicion, however well grounded, and notify Mr. Knapp that we would exchange her for Mr. Vail? That would have been a coup, but how to reach Mr. Knapp? It’s too late to get another notice in the paper. Have you a suggestion?”

“Yes. I go to see Mrs. Vail to ask her something, no matter what, and I manage somehow to get something written on the typewriter Dinah Utley uses. Of course she could have used another machine for the note, but if what I got matched the note, that would settle that.”

He shook his head. “No. You have ingenuity and can even be delicate, but Miss Utley would almost certainly get a hint. Besides, to ask a question she asked, would it help to get Mr. Vail back alive? No.” He glanced at the
clock. In ten minutes he would leave for his four-to-six afternoon session in the plant rooms. Time enough for a few pages. He reached and got his book and opened to his place.

It’s possible that I have given a wrong impression of Jimmy Vail, and if so I should correct it.

Age, thirty-four; height, five feet ten; weight, 150. Dark eyes, sometimes lazy and dull, sometimes bright and very quick. Smooth dark hair, nearly black, and a neat white face with a wide mouth. I had seen him about as often as I had seen his wife, since they were nearly always together at a restaurant or theater. In 1956 he had made a big splash at the Glory Hole in the Village with a thirty-minute turn of personal chatter, pointed comments on everyone and everything. Althea Tedder, widow of Harold F. Tedder, had seen him there, and in 1957 she had married him, or he had married her, depending on who is talking.

I suppose any woman who marries a man a dozen years younger is sure to get the short end of the stick when her name comes up among friends, let alone enemies, no matter what the facts are. The talk may have been just talk. Women of any age liked Jimmy Vail and liked to be with him, there was no question about that, and undoubtedly he could have two-timed his middle-aged wife any day in the week if he felt like it, but I had never with my own eyes seen him in the act. I’m merely saying that as far as I know, disregarding talk, he was a model husband. I had expected her to ask Wolfe to put a tail on him because I assumed that her friends had seen to it that she knew about the talk.

She also had made a public splash, twenty-five years back—Althea Purcell as the milkmaid in
Meadow Lark
—and she had quit to marry a man somewhat older and a lot richer. They had produced two children, a son and daughter; I had seen them a couple of times at the Flamingo. Tedder had died in 1954, so Althea had waited a decent interval to get a replacement.

Actually, neither Jimmy nor Althea had done anything notorious, or even conspicuous, during the four years of their marriage. They were mentioned frequently in print only because they were expected to do something any minute. She had left Broadway in the middle of a smash hit to marry a middle-aged rich man with a prominent name, and he had left the mike in the middle of
his
smash hit to marry a middle-aged rich woman. With the Tedder house and the Tedder dough taken over by a pair like that, anything might happen and probably would. That was the idea.

Now something
had
happened, something sensational, two days ago, and not a word about it in print. There was nothing in Nero Wolfe’s notice to Mr. Knapp to connect it with the Vails. If Helen Blount, Mrs. Vail’s friend, saw it, she might make a guess, but not for publication. I saw it not long after Wolfe went up to the plant rooms. Not waiting until five-thirty when a late edition of the
Gazette
is delivered to the old brownstone, I took a walk to the newsstand at 34th and Eighth Avenue. It was on page five, with plenty of margin. No one named Knapp could possibly miss it, but of course that wasn’t his name.

I had a date for that evening, dinner with a friend, and a show, and it was just as well. Most of the chores of a working detective, even Nero Wolfe’s right hand, not to mention his legs, are routine and pretty damn dull, and the idea of tailing a woman taking half a million bucks to a kidnaper was very tempting. Not only would it have been an interesting way to spend an evening, but there were a dozen possibilities. But since it was Wolfe’s case and I was working for him, I couldn’t do it without his knowledge and consent, and it would have been a waste of breath to mention it. He would have said pfui and picked up his book. So at six o’clock I went up to my room and changed and went to my date. But off and on that evening I wondered where our client was and how she was making out, and when I got home around one o’clock I had a job keeping myself from dialing her number before I turned in.

The phone rang. Of all the things that I don’t want to be wakened by, the one I resent most is the phone. I turned over, forced my eyes open enough to see that it
was light and the clock said 7:52, reached for the receiver and got it to my ear, and managed to get it out: “Nero Wolfe’s residence, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Mr. Goodwin?”

“I thought I said so.”

“This is Althea Vail. I want to speak to Mr. Wolfe.”

“Impossible, Mrs. Vail. Not before breakfast. If it’s urgent, tell me. Have you—”

“My husband is back! Safe and sound!”

“Good. Wonderful. Is he there with you?”

“No, he’s at our country place. He just phoned, ten minutes ago. He’s going to bathe and change and eat and then come to town. He’s all right, perfectly all right. Why I’m phoning, he promised them he would say nothing, absolutely nothing, for forty-eight hours, and I’m not to say anything either. I didn’t tell him I had gone to Nero Wolfe; I’ll wait till he gets here. Of course I don’t want Mr. Wolfe to say anything. Or you. That’s why I’m phoning. You’ll tell him?”

“Yes. With pleasure. You’re sure it was your husband on the phone?”

“Certainly I’m sure!”

“Fine. Whether the notice helped or not. Will you give us a ring when your husband arrives?”

She said she would, and we hung up. The radio clicked on, and a voice came: “… has five convenient offices in New York, one at the—” I reached and turned it off. When I get to bed after midnight I set it for eight o’clock, the news bulletins on WQXR, but I didn’t need any more news at the moment. I had a satisfactory stretch and yawn, said aloud, “What the hell, no matter what Jimmy Vail says we can say Mr. Knapp
must
have seen it,” yawned again, and faced the fact that it takes will power to get on your feet.

With nothing pending I took my time, and it was after eight-thirty when I descended the two flights to the ground floor, entered the kitchen, told Fritz good morning, picked up my glass of orange juice, took a healthy sip, and felt my stomach saying thanks. I had considered stopping at Wolfe’s room on the way down but had vetoed it. He would have been in the middle of breakfast, since Fritz takes his tray up at eight-fifteen.

“No allspice in the sausage,” Fritz said. “It would be an insult. The best Mr. Howie has ever sent us.”

“Then double my order.” I swallowed juice. “You gave me good news, so I’ll give you some. The woman that came yesterday gave us a job, and it’s already done. All over. Enough to pay your salary and mine for months.”

“
Fort bien.
” He spooned batter on the griddle. “You did it last night?”

“No. He did it sitting down.”

“Yes? But he would do nothing without you to
piquer.
”

“How do you spell that?”

He spelled it. I said, “I’ll look it up,” put my empty glass down, went to the table against the wall where my copy of the
Times
was on the rack, and sat. I kept an eye on my watch, and at 8:57, when I had downed the last bite of my first griddle cake and my second sausage, I reached for the house phone and buzzed Wolfe’s room.