Fer-De-Lance (11 page)

Larry could remember nothing of the golf bag. Absolutely nothing. He knew the caddy’s story, that the bag had been placed in front leaning against the seat, but he could not remember seeing it there while driving or at any other time. He said that he had driven the six miles slowly and carefully, and that later, after getting home, he had found blood all along his lower lip where he had bit it. He was a better liar than his sister. If it had not been for her give-away I might have been fooled by his tale as he told it. I went after him from every angle I could think of, but he didn’t leak once.

I passed that up and asked him about the Kimballs. His story was the same as his sister’s. There had been no contact to speak of between the families; the only connection had been himself and Manuel, and the basis of that was Manuel’s convenience as owner and pilot of an airplane; Larry had intended to get one for himself as soon as he secured a license.

Then I asked the question that had started the fireworks with Mrs. Barstow before lunch. I asked both Larry and his sister, but not only was there no fireworks, there was nothing at all. They declared that they knew of no one who had a serious grievance against their father, or hatred or enmity for him, and that it was unthinkable that there ever should have been such a person. In his remarkable career--he had achieved the presidency of Holland University at forty-eight, ten years before-he had many times faced opposition, but he had always known the trick of melting it instead of crushing it. His private life had been confined to his own home.

His son, I gathered, had had deep respect for him and a certain affection; his daughter had loved him. They agreed that no one could have hated him; and as his daughter told me that, knowing what I had heard from her mother’s lips oniy three hours previously, her eyes challenged me and appealed to me at once.

Next Dr. Bradford. I turned to Miss Barstow oti that instead of her brother. The v~ av the thing seemed to shaping up excellently some hesitation at1 covering, but there certainly was no sign of it. She told me, simply, that Bradford had been a schoolmate at college with her father, that they had always been close friends, and that Bradford, who was a widower, had been almost like one of the family, especially during the summer since he was then also a neighbor. He had been the family physician, and it was on him they had chiefly relied to remove Mrs. Barstow’s difficulty, though he had called in specialists to assist.

"Do you like him?" I asked

"Like him?"

"Yes. Do you like Dr. Bradford?"

"Certainly. He is one of the best and finest men I know.

I turned to her brother. "Do you like him, Mr. Barstow?"

Larry frowned. He was tired; he had been pretty patient; I had been after him for two hours. "I like him well enough. He’s what my sister says all right, but he likes to preach. Not that he ever bothers me now, but when I was a kid I used to hide from him."

"You arrived here from the university Saturday noon. Was Dr. Bradford here between that hour and Sunday at two?"

"I don’t know… Oh yes, sure. He was here Saturday for dinner."

"Do you think there is any chance that he killed your father?"

Larry stared. "Oh, for God’s sake. Is that supposed to shock me into something?"

"Do you, Miss Barstow?"

"Nonsense."

"All right, nonsense. Anyhow, who suggested first that Bradford should certify it as a heart stroke? Which one of you? Him?"

Larry glared at me. His sister said quietly, "You said you wanted me here to see the agreement was observed. Well, Mr. Goodwin. I’ve been patient enough."

"Okay. I’ll lay off of that." I turned to her brother. "You’re sore again, Mr. Barstow. Forget it. People like you aren’t used to impertinence, but you’d be surprised how easy it is to let it slide and no harm done. There’s only a couple of things left. Where were you between seven o’clock and midnight on Monday evening, June fifth?"

He still glared. "I don’t know. How do I know?"

"You can remember. This isn’t another impertinence; I seriously request you to tell me. Monday, June fifth. Your father’s funeral was on Tuesday. I’m asking about the evening before the funeral."

Miss Barstow said, "I can tell you."

"I’d rather he would, as a favor." the servants, and the He did.

"There’s no reason I shouldn’t. Or should either. I was here, at home."

"All evening?"

"Yes."

"Who else was here?"

"My mother and sister, the Robertsons."

"The Robertsons?"

"I said so."

His sister spoke. "The Robertsons are old friends. Mr. and Mrs. Blair Robertson and two daughters."

"What time did they come?"

"Right after dinner. We hadn’t finished. Around seven-thirty."

"Was Dr. Bradford here?"

"No."

"Wasn’t that peculiar?"

"Peculiar? Why? But yes, of course it was. He had to address a meeting in New York, some professional meeting."

"I see. Thank you, Miss Barstow." I turned back to her brother. "I have one more question. A request rather. Does Manuel Kimball have a telephone at his hangar?"

"Yes."

"Will you telephone him that I am coming to see him and that you would like him to give me an interview?"

"No. Why should I?"

Miss Barstow told me, "You have no right to ask it. If you wish to see Mr. Kimball that is your business."

"Correct." I closed my notebook and got up. "Positively correct. But I have no official standing in this affair. If I call on Manuel Kimball on my own he’ll just kick me out on my own. He’s a friend of the family, anyway he thinks so. I need an introduction."

"Sure you need it." Larry had got up too and was brushing grass from the seat of his trousers. "But you won’t get it. Where’s your hat, in the house?"

I nodded. "We can get it when you go in to telephone. Look here, it’s like this. I’ve got to ask you to phone Manuel Kimball, and the Robertsons, and the Green Meadow Club. That’s all I have on my mind at present, but there may be more later. I’ve got to go around and see people and find out things, and the easier you make it for me the easier it will be for you. Nero Wolfe knew enough, and told the police enough, to make them dig up your father’s body. That was a good deal, but he didn’t tell them everything. Do you want to force me to go to the District Attorney and spill enough more beans so that he will give me a ticket that will let me in wherever I want to go? He’s sore at us now because he knows we’re holding out on him. I’d just as soon go and make a friend of him, I don’t mind, I like to make friends. You folks certainly don’t. If this strikes you as some more blackmail, Mr. Barstow, I’ll just get my hat and call it a day as far as you’re concerned."

It was a crime, but I had to do it. The trouble with those two, especially the brother, was that they were so used to being safe and independent and dignified all their lives that they kept forgetting how scared they were and had to be reminded. But they were plenty scared when it came to the point, and if I had cared to make them a present of all my ideas that afternoon I would have had to admit that it looked to me as if they had reason to be scared.

They gave in, of course. We went into the house together, and Sarah Barstow telephoned the Robertsons and her brother phoned the club and Manuel Kimball. I had decided that there wasn’t a chance in a million that I would get anything out of any of the servants, particularly if they had been trained by that tall skinny butler, so as soon as the telephoning was over I got my panama from the hall and beat it.

Larry Barstow went with me out to the side terrace, I suppose to make sure that I didn’t sneak hack in and listen at keyholes. Just as we came to the steps a car rolled along the drive and stopped in front of us. A man got out, anol I had the pleasure of a good grin as I saw it was H. H. Corbett, the dick from Anderson’s office who had tried to crash the gate at Wolfe’s house the morning I was acting as doorman. I passed him a cheerful salute and was going on, but he called to me: "Hey, you!"

I stopped and turned. Larry Barstow stood on the terrace watching us. I said, "Did you address me, sir?"

Corhett was moving into my neighborhood. He paid no attention to niy fast one. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I stood and grinned at him a second and then turned to Larry Barstow on the terrace. "Since this is your home, Mr. Barstow, maybe it would he better if you would tell him what the hell I’m doing here."

It was plain from the look on Larry’s face that although he might never send me a Christmas card, I would get one long before Corbett would. He said to the dick, "Mr. Goodwin has been here at my sister’s invitation, to consult with us. He will probably be here again. Would you like to investigate that?"

Corbett grunted and glared at me. "Maybe you’d like a trip to White Plains."

"Not at all." I shook my head. "I don’t like the town, it’s so slow you can’t get a bet down." I started to move off. "So long, Corbett. I don’t wish you any bad luck, because even with good luck you won’t have much of a tombstone."

Without bothering to think up an answer to the threats and warnings he tossed at my back, I went over to the roadster where it was parked, got in and turned around, and rolled off.

I went to the Robertson's first because I knew it wouldn’t take long and I might as well get it done. Mrs. Robertson and both ot the daughters were at home, and expecting me after Sarah Barstow’s phone call. They said they had been at the Barstow’s the evening of June fifth, the day before the funeral, arriving well before eight o’clock and leaving after midnight. They were certain that Larry and Sarah and Mrs. Barstow had been present the entire evening. I made sure there was no possibility of a mistake about the date, and then tried a few casual questions about the Barstow family but soon gave it up. The Robertsons weren’t discussing their old friends that afternoon with a stranger; they wouldn't even let on that Mrs. Barstow was otherwise than completely all right, not aware of how much I knew.

I got to the Kimball place a little after five o’clock. It wasn’t as dressed up as the Barstow estate, but was much larger; I drove over half a mile after I entered their private road. It was mostly on low ground, with some of the old stone fences still running through the meadows and a couple of brooks wandering around. Some woods were at the left. The house was on a knoll in a park of evergreens, with a well-kept lawn not very large and no sign of flowers that I could see as I drove up. Not as big as the Barstows, the house was brand-new, wood with panels and a high steep slate roof, one of the styles that I lumped all together and called Queen William.

Back of the house, over the knoll, was an immense flat meadow. I was sent in that direction, along a narrow graveled drive, by a fat man in a butler’s uniform who came out of the house as I drove up. In the large meadow were no stone fences; it was level and clean and recently mowed and was certainly perfect for a private landing field. On the edge about halfway down its length was a low concrete building with a flat roof, and the graveled drive took me there. There was a wide and long concrete runway in front, and two cars were parked on it.

I found Manuel Kimball inside, washing his hands at a sink. The place was mostly full of airplane, a big one with black wings and a red body, sitting on its tail. In it tinkering with something was a man in overalls. Everything was neat and clean, with tools and oil cans and a lot of junk arranged on steel shelves that ran along one side. Beside the sink there was even a rack with three or four clean towels on it.

"My name’s Goodwin," I said.

Kimball nodded. "Yes, I was expecting you. I’m through here for the day; we might as well go to the house and be comfortable." He spoke to the man in overalls. "Let that wait till tomorrow if you want to, Skinner, I won’t be going up till afternoon." When he had finished wiping his hands he led me out and took his car, and I got in the roadster and drove back to the house.

He was decent and polite, no doubt about that, even if he did look like a foreigner and had made me nervous at lunch. He took me into a large room in front and steered me to a big comfortable leather chair and told the fat butler to bring us some highballs. When he saw me looking around he said that the house had been furnished by his father and himself after their personal tastes, since there had been no women to consider and they both disliked decorators.

I nodded. "Miss Barstow told me your mother died a long time ago."

I said it casually, without thinking, hut I always have my eye on whoever I’m talking to, and I was surprised at what went over his face. It was a spasm, you couldn’t call it anything else. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but for that moment something was certainly hurting him inside. I didn’t know whether it was just because I had mentioned his mother or he really had a pain; anyhow, I didn’t try it again.

He said, "I understand that you are investigating the death of Miss Barstow’s father."

"Yes. At her request, in a way. Larry Barstow’s father too, and Mrs. Barstow’s husband, at the same time."

He smiled and his black eyes swerved to me. "If that is your first question, Mr. Goodwin, it is neatly put. Bravo. The answer is no, I have no right to distinguish the dead man in that fashion. No right, that is, but my own inclination. I admire Miss Barstow--very much."

"Good. So do I. It wasn’t a question, just a remark. What I really want to ask you about is what took place on the first tee that Sunday afternoon. I suppose you’ve told the story before."

"Yes. Twice to a detective whose name is Corbett, I believe, and once to Mr. Anderson."

"Then you ought to have it by heart. Would you mind telling it again?"

I sat back with my highball and listened without interrupting. I didn’t use my notebook because I already had Larry’s tale to check with and I could record any differences later. Manuel Kimball was precise and thorough. When he got through there was little left to ask, but there were one or two points I wasn’t satisfied on, particularly one on which he differed from Larry. Manuel said that after Barstow thought a wasp had stung him he had dropped his driver on the ground and his caddy had picked it up; Larry had said that his father had hung onto the driver with one hand when he was opening his shirt to see what had happened to him. Manuel said he felt sure he was right but didn’t insist on it if Larry remembered otherwise. It didn’t seem of great importance, since the driver had in any event got back into the bag, and in all other respects Manuel’s story tallied with Larry’s.

Encouraged by his sending for more highballs, I spread the conversation out a little. He didn’t seem to object. I learned that his father was a grain broker and went every day to his office in New York, on Pearl Street, and that he, Manuel, was considering the establishment of an airplane factory. He was, he said, a thoroughly skilled pilot, and he had spent a year at the Fackler works in Buffalo. His father had engaged to furnish the necessary capital, though he doubted the soundness of the venture and was entirely skeptical about airplanes. Manuel thought Larry Barstow showed promise of a real talent in structural design and hoped to be able to persuade him to take a share in the enterprise. He said: "Naturally Larry is not himself just at present, and I’m not trying to rush him. No wonder, first his father’s sudden death, and then the autopsy with its astonishing results. By the way, Mr. Goodwin, of course everybody around here is wondering how Nero Wolfe--that’s it, isn’t it?--how he was able to predict those results in such remarkable detail. Anderson, the District Attorney, hints at his own sources of information--he did so to me the other day, sitting in the chair you’re in now--but the truth of the matter is pretty generally known. At Green Meadow day before yesterday there were only two topics: who killed Barstow, and how Nero Wolfe found out. What are you going to do, disclose the answers to both riddles at the same dramatic moment?"

"Maybe. I hope so, Mr. Kimball. Anyway we won’t answer that last one first… No, thanks, none for me. With another of your elegant highballs I might answer almost anything. They won’t come any better than that even after repeal."

"Then by all means have one. Naturally, like everybody else, I’m curious. Nero Wolfe must be an extraordinary man."

"Well, I’ll tell you." I threw my head back to get the end of the highball, and with the slick ice-lumps sliding across my upper lip let the last rare drops tickle in, then suddenly came down with the glass and my chin at the same time. It was just one of my little tricks. All I saw was Manuel Kimball looking curious, and he had just said he was curious, so it couldn’t be said that I had made any subtle discovery. I said, "If Nero Wolfe isn’t extraordinary Napoleon never got higher than top-sergeant. I’m sorry I can’t tell you his secrets, but I’ve got to earn what he pays me somehow even if it’s only by keeping my mouth shut. Which reminds me." I glanced at my wrist. "It must be about your dinner time. You’re been very hospitable, Mr. Kimball. I appreciate it, and so will Nero Wolfe."

"You’re quite welcome. Don’t hurry on my account. My father won’t be home and I dislike eating alone. I’ll run over to the club for dinner later."

"Oh," I said. "Your father won’t be home? That throws me out a little. I had figured on finding a bite to eat in Pleasantville or White Plains and coming back for a little talk with him. In fact, I was just about to ask you for a favor: to tell him I was coming."

"Sorry."

"He won’t be back tonight?"

"No. He went to Chicago on business last week. Your disappointment isn’t the first one. Anderson and that detective have been wiring him every day, I don’t exactly see why. After all, he barely knew Barstow. I imagine their telegrams won’t start him back till he’s through with his business. My father is like that. He finishes things.

"When do you expect him?"

"I hardly know. Around the fifteenth, he thought when he left."

"Well. That’s too bad. It’s just routine, of course, but any detective would want to complete the foursome, and since you can’t do me the favor with your father that I wanted to ask, maybe you will do me another one. More routine. Tell me where you were between seven o’clock and midnight Monday evening, June fifth. That was the evening before the Barstow funeral. Did you go to the funeral? This was the evening before.

Manuel Kimball’s black eyes were straight at me, concentrated, like a man trying to remember. "I went to the funeral," he said. "Yes, that was Tuesday. A week ago today. Oh yes. I think it was; yes, I’m sure. Skinner would know. I was in the clouds."

"In the clouds?"

He nodded. "I’ve been trying flying and landing at night. A couple of times in May, and again that Monday. Skinner would know; he helped me off and I had him wait till I got back to make sure the lights would be in order. It’s quite a trick, very different from the daytime."

"What time did you go up?"

"Around six o’clock. Of course it wasn’t dark until nearly nine, but I wanted to be ahead of the twilight."

"You got well ahead of it all right. When did you get back?"

"Ten or a little after. Skinner would know that too; we fooled around with the timer till midnight."

"Did you go up alone?"

"Completely." Manuel Kimball smiled at me with his lips, but it appeared to me that his eyes weren’t co-operating. "You must admit, Mr. Goodwin, that I’m being pretty tolerant. What the devil has my flying Monday night or any other night got to do with you? If I wasn’t so curious I might have reason to be a little irritated. Don’t you think?"

"Sure." I grinned. "I’d be irritated if I was you. But anyway I’m much obliged. Routine, Mr. Kimball, just the damn routine." I got up and shook a leg to get the cuff of my trousers down. "And I am much obliged and I appreciate it. I should think it would be more fun flying at night than in the daytime."

He was on his feet too, polite. "It is. But do not feel obliged. It is going to distinguish me around here to have talked to Nero Wolfe’s man."

He called the fat butler to bring my hat.

Half an hour later, headed south around the curves of the Bronx River Parkway, I was still rolling him over on my mind’s tongue. Since there was no connection at all between him and Barstow or the driver or anything else, it could have been for no other reason than because he made me nervous. And yet Wolfe said that I had no feeling for phenomena! The next time he threw that at me I would remind him of my mysterious misgivings about Manuel Kimball, I decided. Granted, of course, that it turned out that Manuel had murdered Barstow, which I had to confess didn’t seem very likely at that moment.

When I got home, around half-past eight, Wolfe had finished dinner. I had phoned from the drugstore on the Urand Concourse, and Fritz had a dish of flounder with his best cheese sauce hot in the oven, with a platter of lettuce and tomatoes and plenty of good cold milk. Considering mv thin lunch at the Barstows’ and the hour I was getting my knees under the table, it wasn’t any too much. I cleaned it up. Fritz said it seemed good to have me busy and out working again.

I said. "You’re darned right it. does. This dump would be about ready for the sheriff if it wasn’t for me.

Fritz giggled. He’s the only man I’ve ever known who could giggle without giving you doubts about his fundamentals.

Wolfe was in his chair in the office, playing with flies. He hated flies and very few ever got in there, but two had somehow made it and were fooling around on his desk. Much as he hated them, he couldn’t kill them; he said that while a live fly irritated him to the point of hatred, a killed one outraged his respect for the dignity of death, which was worse. My opinion was it just made him sick. Anyway, he was in his chair with the swatter in his hand, seeing how close to the fly he could lower it without the fly taking off. When I went in he handed me the swatter and I let them have it and raked them into the wastebasket.

"Thank you," Wolfe said. "Those confounded insects were trying to make me forget that one of the Dendrobiums chlorostele is showing two buds."

"No! Really?"

He nodded. "That one in half sunlight. The others have been moved over."

"One for Horstmann."

"Yes. Who killed Barstow?"

I grinned. "Give me a chance. The name just escapes me--I’ll remember it in a minute."

"You should have written it down… No, just your light. That’s better. Did you get enough to eat? Proceed."

That report was an in-between; I wasn’t proud of it or ashamed of it either. Wolfe scarcely interrupted once throughout; he sat as he always did when I had a long story; leaning back, his chin on his chest, his elbows on the arms of the chair with his fingers interlaced on his belly, his eyes half closed but always on my face. Halfway through he stopped me to have Fritz bring some beer, then with two bottles and a glass within reach at the edge of the table he resumed his position. I went on to the end. It was midnight.

He sighed. I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. When I got back he was pinching the top of his ear and looking sleepy.

"Perhaps you had an impression," he said.

I sat down again. "Vague. Pretty watery. Mrs. Barstow is just some kind of a nut. She might have killed her husband or she might not, but of course she didn’t kill Carlo Maffei. For Miss Barstow you can use your own impression. Out. Her brother is out too, I mean on Maffei, his alibi for the fifth is so tight you could use it for a vacuum. Dr. Bradford must be a very interesting person, I would like to meet him some time. As for Manuel Kimball, I suppose there’s no chance he killed Barstow, but I’ll bet he runs river angels with his airplane."