Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 (22 page)

“I do,” Wolfe said emphatically. “Has Mr. Pitcairn been helpful in any other real estate deals?”

“Not that I know of. He must have lost his head that time. But it’s more a question of a guy’s general approach, and I’ve seen him performing with house guests here. What I can say for sure is that his son didn’t catch it from him. I don’t know why—when a man starts turning gray why don’t he realize the whistle has blowed and concentrate on something else? Take you, you show some gray. I’ll bet you don’t dash around crowing and flapping your arms.”

I tittered without meaning to. Wolfe gave me a withering glance and then returned to Gus.

“No, Mr. Treble, I don’t. But while your general observations are interesting and sound, they won’t
help me any. I can use only specific items. I need scandal, all I can get. More about Mr. Pitcairn, I hope?”

But apparently Gus had shot his main wad. He had a further collection of details pertaining to Joseph G., and he was now more than willing to turn the bag up and shake it, but it didn’t seem to me to advance Pitcairn’s promotion to the grade of murder suspect. For one thing, there wasn’t even a morsel about him and Dini Lauer, though, as Gus pointed out, he was an outside man and therefore knew little of what went on in the house.

Finally Wolfe waved Pitcairn aside and asked, “What about his wife? I haven’t heard her mentioned more than twice all day. What’s she like?”

“She’s all right,” Gus said shortly. “Forget her.”

“Why, is she above reproach?”

“She’s a nice woman. She’s all right.”

“Was her accident really an accident?”

“Certainly it was. She was alone, going down the stone steps into the rose garden, and she took a tumble, that was all.”

“How much is she hurt?”

“I guess it was pretty bad, but it’s getting better now, so she can sit in a chair and walk a little. Andy’s been going up to her room every day for orders—only she don’t give orders. She discusses things.”

Wolfe nodded. “I can see you like her, but even so there’s a question. What valid evidence have you that she is incapable of carrying an object weighing a hundred and ten pounds down a flight of stairs and into the greenhouse?”

“Oh, skip it,” Gus said scornfully. “Hell, she broke her back!”

“Very well,” Wolfe conceded. “But you should consider
that whoever drugged Miss Lauer and carried her through the house was under a pressure that demanded superhuman effort. I advise you never to try your hand at detective work. At least you can tell me where Mrs. Pitcairn’s room—no.” He wiggled a finger. “Is there paper in that desk? And a pencil?”

“Sure.”

“Please sketch me a plan of the house—ground plans of both floors. I heard it described this afternoon, but I want to be sure I have it right. Just roughly, but identify all the rooms.”

Gus obliged. He got a pad and pencil from a drawer and set to work. The pencil moved fast. In no time he had two sheets torn from the pad and crossed over to hand them to Wolfe, and told him, “I didn’t show the back stairs leading up to the room where Mr. and Mrs. Imbrie sleep, but the little passage upstairs goes there too.”

Wolfe glanced at the sheets, folded them, and stuck them in his pocket. “Thank you, sir,” he said graciously. “You have been—”

What stopped him was the sound of heavy steps on the porch. I got up to go and open the door, not waiting for a knock, but there was no knock. Instead, there was the noise of a key inserted and turned, the door swung open and a pair entered.

It was Lieutenant Noonan and one of the rank and file.

“Who the hell,” he demanded, “do you think you are?”

Gus was on his feet. I whirled and stood. Wolfe spoke from his chair.

“Of course, Mr. Noonan, if that was a rhetorical—”

“Can it. I know damn well who you are. You’re a Broadway slickie that thinks you can come up to Westchester and tell us the rules. Get going! Come on. Move out.”

“I have Mr. Pitcairn’s permission—”

“You have like hell. He just phoned me. And you’re taking nothing from this cottage. You may have them buffaloed down in New York, and even the DA and the county boys, but I’m different. Do you want to go without help?”

Wolfe put his hands on the arms of his chair, got his bulk lifted, said, “Come, Archie,” got his hat and coat and cane, and made for the door. There he turned, said grimly, “I hope to see you again, Mr. Treble,” and was saved the awkwardness of reaching for the knob by my being there to open for him. Outside I got the flashlight from my hip pocket, switched it on, and led the way.

As we navigated the path for the fourth time there were seven or eight things I would have liked to say, but I swallowed them. Noonan and his bud were at our heels and, since Wolfe had evidently decided that we were outmatched, there was nothing for me to do but take it. When, after we were beyond the grove of evergreens, I swung the light up for a glance at the tennis court, there was a deep growl from Wolfe behind, so from there on I kept the light on the path.

We crunched across the gravel to where we had left the car. As I opened the rear door for Wolfe to get in, Noonan, right at my elbow, spoke.

“I’m being generous. I could phone the DA and get an okay to take you in as material witnesses, but you see I’m not. Our car’s in front. Stop at the entrance until we’re behind. We’re going to follow until you’re out of the county, and we won’t need you back here again tonight or any other time. Got it?”

No reply. I banged the door, opened the front one, slid in beside the wheel, and pushed the starter.

“Got it?” he barked.

“Yes,” Wolfe said.

They strode off and we rolled forward. When we reached the entrance to the Pitcairn grounds and stopped, the accomplice Noonan had stationed there flashed a light at us but said nothing.

I told Wolfe over my shoulder, “I’ll turn right and go north. It’s only ten miles to Brewster, and that’s in Putnam County. He only said to leave the county, he didn’t say which way.”

“Turn left and go to New York.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue.”

So when their lights showed behind I rolled on into the highway and turned left. When we had covered a couple of miles Wolfe spoke again.

“Don’t try to be witty. No side roads, no sudden changes of pace, and no speeding. It would be foolhardy. That man is an irresponsible maniac and capable of anything.”

I had no comment because I had to agree. We were flat on our faces. So I took the best route to Hawthorne Circle and there, with the enemy right behind, swung into the Sawmill River Parkway. The dashboard clock said a quarter to seven. My biggest trouble was that I couldn’t see Wolfe’s face. If he was holding on and working, fine. If he was merely nervous
and tense against the terrific extra hazards of driving after dark, maybe okay. But if he had settled for getting back home and that was all, I should be talking fast and I wanted to. I couldn’t tell. I had never realized how much I depended on the sight of his big creased face.

We made the first traffic light in eleven minutes from Hawthorne Circle, which was par. It was green and we sailed through. Four minutes farther on, at the second light, we were stopped by red, and Noonan’s car practically bumped our behind. Off again, we climbed the hills over Yonkers, wound down into the valley and the stretch approaching the toll gates, parted with a dime, and in another mile were passing the sign that announces New York City.

I kept to the right and slowed down a little. If he once got inside his house I knew of no tool that could pry him loose again, but we were now only twenty-five minutes away and from where I sat it looked hopeless.

However, I slowed to thirty and spoke. “We’ve left Westchester, and Noonan is gone. They turned off back there. That’s as far as my orders go. Next?”

“Where are we?”

“Riverdale.”

“How soon will we get home?”

But there I fooled you. That’s what I was sure he would say, but he didn’t. What he said was, “How can we get off of this race course?”

“Easy. That’s what the steering wheel’s for.”

“Then leave it and find a telephone.”

I never heard anything like it. At the next opening I left the highway, followed the side drive a couple of blocks and turned right, and rolled up a hill and then down. I was a stranger in the Riverdale section, but
anybody can find a drugstore anywhere, and soon I pulled up at the curb in front of one.

I asked if he was going in to phone and he said no, I was. I turned in the seat to get a look at him.

“I don’t know, Archie,” he said, “whether you have ever seen me when my mind was completely dominated by a single purpose.”

“Sure I have. I’ve rarely seen you any other way. The purpose has always been to keep comfortable.”

“It isn’t now. It is—never mind. A purpose is something to achieve, not talk about. Get Saul if possible. Fred or Orrie would do, but I’d rather have Saul. Tell him to come at once and meet us—where can we meet?”

“Around here?”

“Yes. Between here and White Plains.”

“He’s to have a car?”

“Yes.”

“The Covered Porch near Scarsdale would do.”

“Tell him that. Phone Fritz that we are still delayed and ask him how things are. That’s all.”

I got out, but even at a risk I wanted to have it understood, so I poked my head in and asked, “What about dinner? Fritz will want to know.”

“Tell him we won’t be there. I’ve already faced that. My purpose is enough to keep me from going home, but I wouldn’t trust it to get me out again if I once got in.”

Evidently he knew himself nearly as well as I knew him. I entered the drugstore and found the booth.

I got Fritz first. He thought I was kidding him, and then, when I made it plain that I was serious, he suspected me of concealing a calamity. He simply couldn’t believe that Wolfe was a free man and sound
of mind and body, and yet wasn’t coming home to dinner. It looked for a while as if I would have to go and bring Wolfe to the phone, but I finally convinced him, and then went after Saul.

As Wolfe had said, Fred or Orrie would do, but Saul Panzer was worth ten of them or nearly anyone else, and I had a feeling that we were going to need the best we could get for whatever act Wolfe was preparing to put on to achieve his dominant purpose. So when I learned that Saul wasn’t home but was expected sometime, I gave his wife the number and told her I would wait for a call. It was so long before it came that when I went back out to the car I expected Wolfe to make some pointed remarks, but all he did was grunt. The purpose sure was dominant. I told him that from Saul’s home in Brooklyn it would take him a good hour and a quarter to drive to the rendezvous, whereas we could make it easy in thirty minutes. Did he have any use for the extra time? No, he said, we would go and wait, so I got the car moving and headed for the parkway.

When, a little before nine o’clock, Saul Panzer joined us at the Covered Porch, we were at a table in a rear corner, as far as we could get from the band. Wolfe had cleaned up two dozen large oysters, tried a plate of clam chowder and swallowed five spoonfuls of it, disposed of a slice of rare roast beef with no vegetables, and was starting to work on a pile of zwieback and a dish of grape jelly. He hadn’t made a single crack about the grub.

By the time Wolfe had finished the zwieback and jelly and had coffee Saul had made a good start on a veal cutlet. Wolfe said he would wait until Saul was through, but Saul said no, go ahead, he liked to hear things while he ate. Wolfe proceeded. First he described
the past, enough of it to give Saul the picture, and then gave us a detailed outline of the future as he saw it. It took quite a while, for he had to brief us on all foreseeable contingencies. One of them was the possibility that the key tagged “Dup Grnhs” which was in my pocket wouldn’t fit. Another prop was the sketch made by Gus Treble of the ground plans of the mansion. Still another prop was a sheet of plain white paper, donated on request by the management of the Covered Porch, on which Wolfe wrote a couple of paragraphs with my fountain pen. That too was for Saul, and he put it in his pocket.

It sounded to me as if the whole conception was absolutely full of fleas, but I let it pass. If Wolfe was man enough to stay away from dinner at his own table, damned if I was going to heckle just because it looked as if we stood a very fine chance of joining Andy in jail before midnight. The only item I pressed him on was the gun play.

“On that,” I told him, “I want it A, B, C. When you’re in the cell next to mine, on a five-year ticket, I won’t have you keep booming at me that I bollixed it up with the gun. Do I shoot at all and if so when?”

“I don’t know,” he said patiently. “There are too many eventualities. Use your judgment.”

“What if someone makes a dash for a phone?”

“Head him off. Stop him. Hit him.”

“What if someone starts to scream?”

“Make her stop.”

I gave up. I like to have him depend on me, but I only have two hands and I can’t be two places at once.

The arrangement was that Saul was to follow us in his car because it would be useful for a preliminary approach. It was after ten when we rolled out of the parking lot of the Covered Porch and turned north.
When I pulled off the road at a wide place, in the enemy country, the dashboard clock said twelve minutes to eleven, and it had started to snow a little. Saul’s car had stopped behind us.

I turned off the lights, got out and went back, and told him, “Half a mile on, maybe a little more, at the left. You can’t miss the big stone pillars.”

He swung his car back into the road and was off. I returned to our car and climbed in, and turned to face the rear because I thought a little cheerful conversation was called for, but Wolfe wouldn’t cooperate, and I well knew why. He was holding his breath until he learned whether Saul would bring good news or bad. Would we be able to drive right in and make ourselves at home? Or …?

The news wasn’t long in coming, and it was bad. Saul’s car came back, turned around, and parked close behind us, and Saul came to us with snowflakes whirling around him and announced, “He’s still there.”