Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 (16 page)

“Mrs.—Mrs. Whitten?” she stammered.

I nodded. “You used to know her husband. Here, sit down.”

She ignored that. “What does she want?”

“I don’t know, but Mr. Wolfe does. She came to see him last night and they talked. He said to tell you it’s important and urgent, and he has to see you this morning.”

“But I—I’m here at work.”

“Yeah, I know. I work too and know how it is. I told him you might not be able to make it until after the store closes, but he said that wouldn’t do.”

“What did Mrs. Whitten talk to him about?”

I shook my head. “You’ll have to ask him.”

She got her teeth on her lower lip, kept them there a while, said, “Wait here, please,” and left me. She passed behind a counter and disappeared through a partition opening. I sat down. When my watch
showed me that I had waited twenty-two minutes I began to wonder if I was being imposed on, but no, she returned.

She came to me and said, “I’ll leave right away. What’s the address?”

I told her we might as well go together, and when she objected that she must go out by the employees’ entrance I hurdled that by arranging for us to meet outside. My instructions were to bring her, and I’m great for instructions. My guesses on the role Wolfe was casting her for were nothing but guesses, and they contradicted one another, but if by any chance he had her down for top billing I didn’t want to be responsible for her not showing up. So I was really pleased to see her when she reached the meeting place on the sidewalk not more than a minute after I did.

On the way down in the taxi she sat with a tight two-handed grip on her bag, and had no comments or questions. That suited me, since I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was heading into and therefore would have been able to make no contribution except grunts.

Since I had been instructed not to tell her that Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe were our house guests, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them both there in the office when I entered with Julie Alving, but Wolfe was alone, in his chair behind his desk, with a newspaper. He put the paper down, got to his feet, and bowed, which was quite a tribute, either to Julie or the part she was supposed to take. I’ve seen him react to a woman’s entrance in that office with nothing but a ferocious scowl. So I participated by giving Miss Alving the red leather chair.

She sat, still clutching her bag, and gazed at him. Wolfe told me to get my notebook and I did so. A man
getting a notebook and pen ready sometimes makes quite an effect.

Wolfe returned her gaze. “I suppose Mr. Goodwin told you that I wanted to speak with you about Mrs. Whitten.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s what he said—no, he said on behalf of Mrs. Whitten.”

Wolfe waved it away with a finger. “He may have used that phrase. He likes it. In any case, I’ll come straight to the point. I think I can arrange it so that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute, if you’ll help me.”

“Prosecute?” She was only so-so at faking surprise. “Prosecute who?”

“You, Miss Alving. Have you no notion of what charge Mrs. Whitten can lay against you?”

“Certainly not. There isn’t any.”

“When did you last see her?”

“I never have seen her—that is, I’ve never met her.”

“When did you last see her?”

“I don’t know—a long while—months ago. I only saw her two or three times—never to speak to.”

“That was months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Do you owe her anything?”

“No.”

“Does she owe you anything?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had anything to do with her—anything at all?”

“No.”

“Have you any reason to expect or fear anything from her, good or bad?”

“No.”

“Then will you please tell me why, when Mr. Good
win told you I wanted to speak with you on behalf of Mrs. Whitten, you left your work immediately and came here with him?”

Julie looked at him, and then at me as if it was up to me to answer that one. Seeing that I was no nearer ready with something adequate than she was, she went back to Wolfe.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she demanded. “After what has happened, wouldn’t I want to know what she wanted?”

Wolfe nodded approvingly. “That was much the best you could do, and you did it. But it’s not good enough. If you maintain this attitude, Miss Alving, I’m afraid I’m out of it, and you’ll have others to deal with. I would advise you to reconsider. I think you’re wrong to assume that they will believe you, and not Mrs. Whitten, when she tells them that you attacked her with a knife and your target was her heart.”

“I didn’t!” Julie cried. That was only so-so too.

“Nonsense. Of course you did. I can understand your reluctance, since nothing has been published about it, and for all you know Mrs. Whitten may be at the point of death. But she isn’t. Your blade didn’t get beyond the rib, and twelve stitches were all that was necessary to make her capable of riding here to my office. Except for a little loss of blood she’s as good as ever. She hasn’t even reported it to the police, not wishing to give the public another mouthful to chew on—a mortal assault on her by the former friend of her murdered husband. So the limit of a charge against you would be assault with intent to kill.”

Wolfe waved that aside as if it were a mere peccadillo. “And if you’ll be frank with me and answer some questions, I undertake to arrange that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute. If you had achieved your purpose,
if she were dead, that would be different and I wouldn’t be so foolish as to expect frankness from you. I wouldn’t ask you to confess a murder, Miss Alving.”

She was doing her best and I admired her for it. But the trouble was that she had to decide on her line right there facing us, and having to make up your mind with Nero Wolfe’s eyes, open an eighth of an inch, on you, is no situation for an amateur.

However, she wasn’t made of jelly. “When did this —when and where was Mrs. Whitten attacked?”

“I’ll refresh your memory,” Wolfe said patiently, “if you want it that way. A quarter to ten last evening, in front of her house, as she got out of her car.”

“It wasn’t in the papers. I should think a thing like that would be in the papers.”

“Only if the papers heard of it, and they didn’t. Naturally you searched for it. I’ve told you why Mrs. Whitten didn’t report it.”

Julie was still making up her mind. “It seems to me you’re expecting a good deal—I mean, even if I did it, and I didn’t. If I had, the way it looks to me, I wouldn’t know whether you were trying to get me to confess to a murder or not. I wouldn’t know whether she were dead, or had just lost some blood as you said. Would I?”

She had him there. He sat and gazed at her a long moment, grunted, and turned to me.

“Archie. Bring that witness down here. Only the one. If the other one is importunate, remind her that I said our talk about Miss Alving must be tête-à-tête.”

Phoebe wasn’t importunate. When I entered the South Room on the third floor she was talking on the phone, that extension having been plugged in for an outside line, and her mother was sitting in a chair by the window with a newspaper on her lap. She arose at once, with no need for assistance, when I said Wolfe was ready for their private talk, and Phoebe, having finished on the phone, had no comment on that, but she wanted to know what I had for her. I told her she would be hearing from me shortly, or more probably from Wolfe, and escorted Mrs. Whitten to the elevator, which I never used except when I was convoying casualties, and out at the lower hall and into the office.

I kept right at her elbow because I didn’t want to miss the expression on Julie Alving’s face when she saw her. It was first just plain surprise and then a mixture in which the only ingredient I could positively label was just plain hate. As for Mrs. Whitten, I had only her profile from a corner of my eye, but she stopped dead and went as stiff as a steel beam.

Wolfe spoke. “This is my witness, Miss Alving. I believe you ladies haven’t met. Mrs. Whitten, Miss Alving.”

Mrs. Whitten moved, and for a second I thought she was turning to march out, but she was merely reaching for a hold on my sleeve. I took her arm and herded her left oblique. Being wounded, she rated the red leather chair, but it seemed inadvisable to ask Julie to move, so I took the witness to a yellow one with arms, not as roomy but just as comfortable. When she was in it I resumed my post at my desk with notebook and pen.

“I’m sorry,” Wolfe said, “if it makes a queasy atmosphere,
you two here together, but Miss Alving left me no alternative.” He focused on Mrs. Whitten. “I was having a little trouble with Miss Alving. I wanted her to talk about certain aspects of the assault she made on you last evening, but she wouldn’t have it—and I don’t blame her—because she didn’t know how badly you were hurt. There was only one way to handle it—let her see for herself.”

I had to hand it to him. He not only wasn’t taking too big a risk, he was taking none at all, since they weren’t on speaking terms.

“How did you find out it was her?” Mrs. Whitten demanded. Her voice was harsh and high-pitched.

“Oh, that was simple. I’ll tell you presently. But first we should understand one another. I appreciate your reason for not wanting it bruited, and sympathize with it, but here in private there should be candor. You positively recognized her?”

“Certainly I did.”

“Beyond possibility of doubt?”

“Certainly. I saw her face when I got turned and that was when she tore loose and ran. And she spoke to me.”

“What did she say?”

“I’m not sure of the words, but it was something like “I’ll kill you too.’ That’s what I thought it was, but later I thought it must be wrong because I thought Pompa had killed my husband and I didn’t realize she could have done it. But now that my daughter remembers about the open door, and I remember it too, I see that must have been it—what she said.”

“That’s a lie!” Julie blurted, not at Mrs. Whitten, since she wasn’t speaking to her, but at Wolfe. She was fully as pale as Mrs. Whitten had been the evening before, but not like a corpse, anything but. She
was blurting on. “I didn’t say that! I said ‘You killed him and I’ll kill you!’ And I wish I had—oh, I wish I had!”

“You came close to it,” Wolfe growled. He let his eyes come halfway open, now that he had them. “I should explain to both of you that I’ve merely been trying to get started. Please forget each other, as far as possible, and listen to me. If we’re going to work this out together you need to know how I got where I am now.”

The doorbell rang. Under the circumstances it was up to Fritz, but on the other hand we didn’t want any trivial interruptions just then, so I scooted for the hall, closing the office doors as I went. One glance through the glass panel showed that my point was well taken. Inspector Cramer was there. He was alone, so I didn’t bother with the chain bolt but put my foot where it would keep the door to a six-inch crack. I spoke through the crack to his big broad shoulders and his round, red, but by no means flabby face.

“Good morning. What have I done now?”

“We sent a man,” he snapped, “to see Mrs. Whitten about something, and he was told she’s here. What’s Wolfe up to? I want to see her.”

“I never know what he’s up to, but I’ll go ask him. He’ll want to know how it stands. Is there a warrant for her?”

“Hell no. A warrant for what?”

“I merely asked. Kindly withdraw your toe.”

I banged the door shut, went to the office, and told Wolfe, “The man about the chair. The one with a gash in it. He learned more or less accidentally that it’s here, and that made him curious, and he wants to talk.
He has no signed paper and no idea of getting one. Shall I tell him you’re busy?”

I was sure he would say yes, but he didn’t. Instead, he decoded it. “Is it Mr. Cramer?”

“Yes, sir.” He knew darned well it was, since I had started years ago calling Cramer that.

“He wants to speak with Mrs. Whitten?”

“One of his men did, probably about some trifle, and found out she was here. What he really wants is to see if you’re getting up a charade.”

“He’s barely in time. If he engages to let me proceed without interruption until I’ve finished, admit him.”

“I don’t like it. He’s got Pompa.”

“He won’t have him long. We’re waiting for you. I want a record of this.”

I didn’t like it at all, but when Wolfe has broken into a gallop what I like has about the weight of an undersized feather from a chicken’s neck.

I returned to the front and opened to a crack again and told the inspector, “Mrs. Whitten is in the office with him, chatting. So is Miss Julie Alving, toy buyer at Meadow’s, who was formerly on good terms with the late Whitten. You may have heard of her.”

“Yeah, I have. What the hell is he trying to pull?”

“You name it. I’m just the stenographer. You have a choice. Being an inspector, you can go somewhere for lunch and then take in a ball game, or you can give me your sacred word of honor that you’ll absolutely keep your mouth shut until and unless Wolfe hands you the torch. If you choose the latter you’re welcome, and you can have a chair to sit on. After all, you have no ticket even for standing room, since neither of those females is under a charge.”

“I’m a police officer. I’m not going to tie myself—”

“Don’t haggle. You know damn well where you stand. I’m needed in there to take notes. Well?”

“I’m coming in.”

“Under the terms as I stated?”

“Yes.”

“Strictly clam?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Otherwise you’d better bring a bulldozer if you ever want in again.” I swung the door open.

Wolfe greeted him curtly and left it to me to introduce him to the ladies. It wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t met Mrs. Whitten, since his men had settled on Pompa as a cinch after a few hours’ investigation and therefore there had been no occasion for their superior officer to annoy the widow. He acknowledged the introductions with stingy nods, gave Wolfe a swift keen glance that would have liked to go on through his hide to the interior, and indicated that he intended to keep his vow by taking a chair well out of it, to the rear and right of Mrs. Whitten.