The Final Deduction (7 page)

“No.” She had the papers back in the envelope and was clutching it. “Only partly that. I want to know why you thought Dinah was implicated.”

“Naturally.” I put the notebook back in my pocket. “You didn’t see her there? At Iron Mine Road?”

“No, of course not.”

“Not of course not, since she
was
there. Was the man alone in the car behind you?”

“I didn’t see anyone else. It was dark. I wasn’t—I wasn’t caring if there was anyone else.”

“What did the man look like?”

“I don’t know. He had a coat and a hat pulled down, and his face was covered with something, all but his eyes.”

“Who left first, him or you?”

“I did. He told me to. I had to go on up the road to find a place to turn around.”

“Was his car still there when you came back past the spot?”

“Yes. He had it up against the bank so I could get by.”

“Did you see any other car anywhere on that road?”

“No.” She gestured impatiently. “What has this to do with Dinah?”

“Nothing,” Noel Tedder said. “He’s a detective. It’s his nature. He’s putting you through the wringer.”

“I insist,” Andrew Frost said emphatically, “that this is ill-advised.
Very
ill-advised. You’re making a mistake, Althea. Don’t you agree, Jimmy?”

Jimmy was back at the fireplace. “Yes,” he said. “I agree.”

“But Jimmy, you must see,” she protested. “She was
there!
And they killed her! You must see I want to know why Nero Wolfe suspected her!” To me: “Why did he?”

I shook my head. “I only run errands. But you’re welcome
to a hint.” I stood up. “That phone talk you had with Mr. Knapp Monday afternoon, that Dinah listened to and took down. May I see the machine she typed it on?”

The three men spoke at once. Jimmy Vail and Andrew Frost both said, “No!” and Noel Tedder said, “Didn’t I tell you?” Mrs. Vail ignored them and asked, “Why?”

“I’ll probably tell you after I see it. And I may have a suggestion to make. Is it here?”

“It’s in my study.” She arose. “Will you tell me why you suspected Dinah?”

“I’ll either tell you or you’ll have a healthy idea.”

“All right, come with me.” She moved, paying no attention to protests from the men. I followed her out and along the hall to a door frame where she pressed a button. The door of a do-it-yourself elevator slid open, and we entered. That elevator was a much newer and neater job than the one in Wolfe’s house that took him up to his room or the roof. No noise or jiggle. When it stopped and the door opened, she stepped out and led the way down the hall, some narrower than the one below. The room we entered was much smaller than the Harold F. Tedder library. Inside, I stopped for a glance around—that’s habit. Two desks, one large and one small, shelves with books and magazines, filing cabinet, a large wall mirror, a television set on a table, framed photographs. Mrs. Vail had crossed to the small desk. She turned and said, “It’s not here! The typewriter.”

I went to her. At the end of the desk was a typewriter stand on casters. There was nothing on it. She had turned again and was staring at it. There were only two questions worth asking, and I asked them.

“Is it always kept here, or is it sometimes taken to another room?”

“Never. It is kept here.”

“When did you last see it here?”

“I don’t—I’d have to think. I haven’t been in here today, until just now, when I came to get this envelope. I didn’t notice it was gone. Sometime yesterday—I’d have to think. I can’t imagine …”

“Someone may have borrowed it.” I went to the door and turned. “I’ll report to Mr. Wolfe. If he has anything
to say we’ll ring you. The main thing is we’ll stay put until Friday unless you—”

“But you’re going to tell me why you suspected Dinah!”

“Not now. Find the typewriter, and we’ll see.” I left. As I went down the hall her voice followed me, but I kept going. I was in no mood for talk. I should never have mentioned the typewriter, since it had nothing to do with the job Wolfe had been paid for, but I had wanted to get a sample from it to take along. Noel Tedder had been right; I was a detective, and it was my nature. Nuts. Skipping the elevator, I took the stairs, three flights down, and when I reached the ground floor the square-faced female appeared through an arch. She got my coat and held it, and went and opened the door; and there entering the vestibule was Ben Dykes, head of the Westchester County detectives.

I said, “Hello there. Get stopped for speeding?”

He said, “I’ve been in the park feeding pigeons. I didn’t want to butt in.”

“That’s the spirit. I fully appreciate it. May your tribe increase.” I circled around him, on out, and headed for 81st Street, where I had left the car.

At six o’clock, when the sound came of Wolfe’s elevator descending, I was in my chair in the office, my feet up on the desk, my weight on the base of my spine, and my head back.

For twenty minutes I had been playing a guessing game, which was all it amounted to, since we had nothing to do but sit on it, and since I didn’t have enough bones to make a skeleton, let alone meat. But some day all the details of the Jimmy Vail kidnaping, including the murder of Dinah Utley, would be uncovered, whether they got Mr. Knapp or not, and if I could dope it here and now with what little I had, and it turned out that I was right, I could pin a medal on myself. So I worked at it.

Question: Was Dinah Utley in on it?

Answer: Certainly. She typed the note that came by mail and those Mrs. Vail found in the phone books.

Q: Who took the typewriter?

A: Dinah Utley. When she learned that Mrs. Vail had gone to Nero Wolfe, and when I took her prints and asked about her fingers, she got leery and ditched the typewriter.

Q: Was she with the man who got the suitcase from Mrs. Vail?

A: No. She was in her car somewhere along Iron Mine Road, and when Mrs. Vail drove back out she drove on in. She wanted to be sure of getting her cut. The man who had got the suitcase, probably Mr. Knapp, didn’t care for that and killed her.

Q: Was anyone at the Vail house in on it besides Dinah Utley?

A: Yes. Jimmy Vail. He kidnaped himself. He had another man in it too, because he wasn’t Mr. Knapp on the phone; it would have been too risky trying to disguise his voice. But he might have been the man who got the suitcase and therefore the man who killed Dinah Utley. That disagrees with the “probably Mr. Knapp” in the preceding answer, but we’re not in court. Items: Jimmy scooted from this office when he heard Wolfe tell Mrs. Vail that we suspected Dinah Utley, he told her she’d better call a halt when she produced the notes she had got from the phone books, and he tried to take the notes from me. Also his reactions in general. Also his insisting on saving it until Friday.

Q: Why did he have Dinah in on it?

A: Pass. No bone. A dozen possible reasons.

Q: Wouldn’t he have been a sap to have Dinah type the notes on that typewriter?

A: No. The state of mind Mrs. Vail would be in when she got the note by mail, he knew she wouldn’t inspect the typing. When he got back he would destroy the notes. He would say he had promised Mr. Knapp he would and he was afraid not to. She had to use
some
typewriter, and buying or renting or borrowing one might have been riskier. Using that one and destroying the notes, there would be no risk at all. He wanted to take the notes from me.

Q: Could Ralph Purcell or Andrew Frost or Noel Tedder be Mr. Knapp?

A: No. Mrs. Vail knows their voices too well.

Q: Friday, if not sooner, Jimmy will have to open up. Where and how they took him, and kept him, and turned him loose. With the cops and the FBI both at him, won’t he be sure to slip?

A: No. He’ll say they blindfolded him and he doesn’t know where they took him and kept him. Last night, early this morning, they took him somewhere blindfolded and turned him loose.

Q: Then how are they going to uncover it so you can check it with these guesses and get your medal? How would you?

I was working on that one when the sound of the elevator came. Wolfe entered, crossed to his desk, sat, and said, “Report?”

I took my feet down and pulled my spine up. “Yes, sir. It’s Dinah Utley. I told District Attorney Clark Hobart that I had seen her yesterday afternoon when she came here in connection with a job Mrs. Vail had hired you to do. When he asked me what the job was it would have been rude just to tell him to go to hell, so I said that if he would tell me when and where and how Dinah Utley had died, and if I relayed it to you, you would decide what to do. Of course there’s no point in relaying it, since you said we don’t care what happened to her and are not concerned. I have informed Mrs. Vail and told her we’ll stand pat until eleven a.m. Friday.”

I swiveled, pulled the typewriter around, inserted paper and carbons, got the notebook from my pocket, and hit the keys. Perfect harmony. It helps a lot, with two people as much together as he and I were, if they understand each other. He understood that I was too strong-minded to add another word unless he told me to, and I understood that he was too pigheaded to tell me to. Of course I had to keep busy; I couldn’t just sit and be strong-minded. I typed the texts of the two notes and other jottings I had made in my book, then went and opened the safe and got the note Mr. Knapp had sent by mail. It seemed likely that Jimmy Vail would be wanting it, and it was quite possible that developments would make it desirable
for us to have something to show someone. I clipped the note to the edge of my desk pad, propped the pad against the back of a chair, got one of the cameras—the Tollens, which I have better luck with—and took half a dozen shots. All this time, of course, Wolfe was at his book, with no glance at me. I had returned the note to the safe and put the camera away, and was putting the film in a drawer, when the doorbell rang. I went to the hall door for a look, turned, and told Wolfe, “Excuse me for interrupting. Ben Dykes, head of the Westchester County detectives. He was there this afternoon. He’s a little fatter than when you saw him some years ago at the home of James U. Sperling near Chappaqua.”

He finished a sentence before he turned his head. “Confound it,” he muttered. “Must I?”

“No. I can tell him we’re not concerned. Of course in a week or so they might get desperate and take us to White Plains on a warrant.”

“You haven’t reported.”

“I reported all you said you wanted.”

“That’s subdolous. Let him in.”

As I went to the front I was making a mental note not to look up “subdolous.” That trick of his, closing an argument by using a word he knew damn well I had never heard, was probably subdolous. I opened the door, told Dykes he had been expected as I took his coat and hat, which was true, and ushered him to the office. Three steps in, he stopped for a glance around. “Very nice,” he said. “Nice work if you can get it. You don’t remember me, Mr. Wolfe.” Wolfe said he did remember him and told him to be seated, and Dykes went to the red leather chair.

“I didn’t think it was necessary to get a local man to come along,” he said, “since all I’m after is a little information. Goodwin has told you about Dinah Utley. When he was up there he was the last one who had seen her alive as far as we knew, him and you when she was here yesterday afternoon, but since then I’ve spoken with two people who had seen her after that. But you know how it is with a murder, you have to start somewhere, and that’s what I’m doing, trying to get a start, and maybe you
can help. Goodwin said Dinah Utley came here yesterday because Mrs. Vail told her to. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, of course I’m not asking what Mrs. Vail wanted you to do for her, I understand that was confidential, and I’m only asking about Dinah Utley. I’m not even asking what you said to her, I’m only asking what she said to you. That may be important, since she was murdered just eight or nine hours after that. What did she say?”

A corner of Wolfe’s mouth was up a little. “Admirable,” he declared. “Competent and admirable.”

Dykes got his notebook out. “She said that?”

“No. I say it. Your demand couldn’t be better organized or better put. Admirable. You have the right to expect a comparable brevity and lucidity from me.” He turned a hand over. “Mr. Dykes. I can’t tell you what Miss Utley said to me yesterday without divulging what Mrs. Vail has told me in confidence. Of course that wasn’t a privileged communication; I’m not a member of the bar, I’m a detective; and if what Mrs. Vail told me is material to your investigation of a murder I withhold it at my peril. The question, is it material, can be answered now only by me; you can’t answer it because you don’t know what she told me. To my present knowledge, the answer is no.”

“You’re withholding it?”

“Yes.”

“You refuse to tell me what Dinah Utley said to you yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Or anything about what she came here for?”

“Yes.”

Dykes stood up. “As you say, at your peril.” He glanced around. “Nice place you’ve got here. Nice to see you again.” He turned and headed for the door. I followed him out and down the hall. As I held his coat for him he said, “At your peril too, Goodwin, huh?” I thanked him for warning me as I gave him his hat, and asked him to give Captain Saunders my love.

When I returned to the office Wolfe had his book open again. Always he is part mule, but sometimes he is all
mule. He still didn’t know when or where or how Dinah Utley had died, and he knew I did know, and he had no idea how much or little risk he was running to earn the rest of that sixty grand, but by gum he wasn’t going to budge. He wasn’t going to admit that we cared what had happened to her because he had been childish enough to tell me we didn’t.

At the dinner table, in between bites of deviled grilled lamb kidneys with a sauce he and Fritz had invented, he explained why it was that all you needed to know about any human society was what they ate. If you knew what they ate you could deduce everything else—culture, philosophy, morals, politics, everything. I enjoyed it because the kidneys were tender and tasty and that sauce is one of Fritz’ best, but I wondered how you would make out if you tried to deduce everything about Wolfe by knowing what he had eaten in the past ten years. I decided you would deduce that he was dead.