The Doorbell Rang (4 page)

My eyes have been trained so long to notice things that they took in the room automatically-the double bed, dresser with a mirror, two chairs, table with a desk pad that needed changing, open door to a bathroom-while my mind adjusted to the shock. Then, as I put my coat and hat on the bed, I got another shock: one of the chairs, the one without arms, was near the table, and on the table was a carton of milk and a glass. By God, he had bought it and brought it for his guest. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I didn’t, but there it was.

He went to the other chair, the one with arms, sat, and asked, “Are you loose?”

“Sure. I always obey instructions.”

“Sit down.”

I went to the other chair. He leveled his gray eyes at me. “Is Wolfe’s phone tapped?”

My eyes were meeting his. “Look,” I said, “you know damn well how it is. If I had listed a hundred names of people who might be here, yours wouldn’t have been on it. Is this carton of milk for me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re off your hinges. You are not the Inspector Cramer I know so well, and I don’t know what I’m up against. Why do you want to know if our phone is tapped?”

“Because I don’t like to make things more complicated than they are already. I like things simple. I’d like to know if I could just have called you and asked you to come here.”

“Oh. Sure you could, but if you had I would have suggested that it might be better if we went for a ride.”

He nodded. “All right. I want to know, Goodwin. I know Wolfe has tangled with the FBI, and I want the picture. All of it. If it takes all day.”

I shook my head. “That’s out of bounds and you know it.”

He exploded. “Goddammit, this is out of bounds! My being here! My getting you here! I thought you had some sense! Don’t you realize what I’m doing?”

“No. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re doing.”

“Then I’ll tell you. I know you pretty well, Goodwin. I know you and Wolfe cut corners, I ought to, but I also know what your limits are. So here, just you and me, I’ll tell you. About two hours ago the Commissioner called me. He had had a call from Jim Perazzo-do you know who Jim Perazzo is?”

“Yeah, I happen to. Licensing Services, State Department, State of New York. Two-seventy Broadway.”

“You would. I won’t string it out. The FBI wants Perazzo to take Wolfe’s license, and yours. Perazzo wants the Commissioner to give him whatever we’ve got on you. The Commissioner knows that for years I have had-uh-contacts with you, and he wants a full report, in writing. You know what reports are, it depends on who’s writing them. Before I write this one I want to know what Wolfe has done or is doing to get the FBI on his neck. I want the whole picture.”

When you are shown something that needs a good look it helps to have your hands doing something, like lighting a cigarette, but I don’t smoke, or blowing your nose. I picked up the carton of milk, pried the flap open, and poured, carefully. One thing was obvious. He could have either phoned me to come to his office, or have come to Wolfe’s house, but he hadn’t because he suspected that our line was tapped and the house was watched. Therefore he didn’t want the FBI to know that he was making contact, and he had gone to a lot of trouble to make it. He was telling me about the FBI and Perazzo and the Commissioner, which was ridiculous for a police inspector talking to a private detective. Therefore he didn’t want us to lose our licenses, and therefore something was biting him, and it was desirable to find out what it was. In such a situation, before spilling it, especially to a cop, I should ring Wolfe and put it up to him, but that was out. My standing instructions were that in any emergency I was to use my intelligence guided by experience.

I did so. I sipped some milk, put the glass down, and said, “If you can break a rule so can I. It’s like this.”

I gave him the whole crop-the talk with Mrs Bruner, the hundred-grand retainer, the evening with Lon Cohen, my talk with Mrs Bruner and Sarah Dacos, my day on Evers Electronics and Ernst Muller and Julia Fenster, my sleeping on the couch in the office. I didn’t report it all verbatim, but I covered all the points and answered questions along the way. By the time I finished the milk glass was empty and he had a cigar between his teeth. He doesn’t smoke cigars, he merely mangles them.

He removed the cigar and said, “So the hundred grand is his, no matter what happens.”

I nodded. “And a check for me, personally. Didn’t I mention that?”

“You did. I’m not surprised at Wolfe. With his ego, there’s no one and nothing he wouldn’t take on if you paid him. But I’m surprised at you. You know damn well the FBI can’t be bucked. Not even by the White House. And you’re hopping around pecking at people’s scabs. You’re asking for it and you’ll get it. You’re off your hinges.”

I poured milk. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “From any angle, you’re dead right. An hour ago I would have said amen. But you know, I feel different about it now. Did I mention something Mr Wolfe said last night'He said some sting may have stirred someone to action. All right, they were stung into needling Perazzo, and he was stung into calling the Commissioner, and he was stung into calling you, and you were stung into getting me here without company and treating me to a quart of milk, which is completely incredible. If one incredible thing can happen, so can another one. Will you answer a question?”

“Ask it.”

“You don’t exactly love Nero Wolfe, and you certainly don’t love me. Why do you want to make a report to the Commissioner that will make it tough to take our licenses?”

“I haven’t said I do.”

“Nuts.” I tapped the milk carton. “This says it. Getting me here the way you did says it. Why?”

He left the chair and moved. He tiptoed to the door, smooth and silent considering his age and bulk, jerked the door open, and stuck his head out. Evidently he wasn’t as sure he was loose as I was that I was. He shut the door and went to the bathroom, and I heard water spurting from a faucet, and in a minute he came with a glass of water. He drank it, in no hurry, put the glass on the table, sat, and narrowed his eyes at me.

“I’ve been a cop for thirty-six years,” he said, “and this is the first time I’ve ever passed the buck to an outsider.”

I had my eyes smile a little. “I’m flattered. Or Mr Wolfe is.”

“Balls. He wouldn’t know flattery if it had labels pasted all over it, and neither would you. Goodwin, I’m going to tell you something that’s for you and Wolfe, and that’s all. No Lou Cohen or Saul Panzer or Lily Rowan. Is that understood?”

“I don’t know why you drag in Miss Rowan, she’s merely a personal friend. And there’s no point in telling me something if we can’t use it.”

“You’ll use it all right. But it did not come from me. Never, to anybody.”

“Okay. Mr Wolfe isn’t here to cinch it by giving you his word of honor, so I’ll do it for him. For us. Our word of honor.”

“That’ll have to do. You won’t have to take notes, with your tape-recorder memory. Does the name Morris Althaus mean anything to you?” He spelled it.

I nodded. “I read the papers. One that you haven’t cracked. Shot. In the chest. Late November. No gun.”

“Friday night, November twentieth. The body was found the next morning by a cleaning woman. Died between eight p.m. Friday and three a.m. Saturday. One shot, in at his chest and through the middle of his pump and on out at the back, denting a rib. The bullet went on and hit the wall forty-nine inches above the floor, but it was spent and only nicked it. He was on his back, legs stretched out, left arm straight at his side and right arm crossing his chest. Dressed but no jacket, in his shirtsleeves. No disorder, no sign of a struggle. As you said, no gun. Am I going too fast?”

“No.”

“Stop me if you have questions. It was the living room of his apartment on the third floor at Sixty-three Arbor Street-two rooms, kitchenette, and bath. He had been living there three years, alone, single, thirty-six years old. He was a free-lance writer, and in the last four years he had done seven articles for Tick-Tock magazine. He was going to be married in March to a girl named Marian Hinckley, twenty-four, on the staff of Tick-Tock. Of course I could go on. I could have brought the file. But there’s nothing in it about his movements or connections or associates that would help. It hasn’t helped us.”

“You left out a little detail, the caliber of the bullet.”

“I didn’t leave it out. There was no bullet. It wasn’t there.”

My eyes widened. “Well. A damned neat murderer.”

“Yeah. Neat and coolheaded. Judging from the wound, it was a thirty-eight or bigger. Now two facts. One: for three weeks Althaus had been collecting material for an article on the FBI for Tick-Tock magazine, and not a sign of it, nothing, was there in the apartment. Two: about eleven o’clock that Friday night three FBI men left the house at Sixty-three Arbor Street and went around the corner to a car and drove off.”

I sat and looked at him. There are various reasons for keeping your mouth shut, but the best one is that you have nothing to say.

“So they killed him,” Cramer said. “Did they go there to kill him'Certainly not. There are several ways to figure it. The one I like best is that they rang his number and he wasn’t answering the phone, so they thought he was out. They went and rang his bell and he wasn’t answering that either, so they opened the door and went in for a bag job. He pulled a gun, and one of them shot before he did. They train them good in that basement in Washington. They looked for what they wanted and got it and left, taking the bullet because it was from one of their guns.”

I was listening. I never listened better. I asked, “Did he have a gun?”

“Yes. S and W thirty-eight. He had a permit. It wasn’t there. They took it, you’d have to ask them why. There was a box of cartridges, nearly full, in a drawer.”

I sat and looked some more, then said, “So you have cracked it. Congratulations.”

“You’d clown in the hot seat, Goodwin. Do I have to describe it?”

“No. But, after all- Who saw them?”

He shook his head. “I’ll give you everything but that. He couldn’t help you anyway. He saw them leave the house and go to the car and drive off, and he got the license number. That’s how we know and all we know. We’re hogtied. Even if we could name them, where would that get us'I’ve seen plenty of murderers I could name, but so what, if I couldn’t prove it. But this one, that goddam outfit, I’d give a year’s pay to hook them and make it stick. This isn’t their town, it’s mine. Ours. The New York Police Department. They’ve had us gritting our teeth for years. Now, by God, they think they can break and enter people’s houses and commit homicide in my territory, and laugh at me!”

“Did they'Laugh?”

“Yes. I went to Sixty-ninth Street myself and saw Wragg. I told him that of course they had known that Althaus was collecting material for a piece, and maybe they had had a stake-out on him the night he was killed, and if so I would appreciate some cooperation. He said he would like to help if he could, but they had too many important things to do to bother about a hack muckraker. I didn’t tell him they had been seen. He would have laughed.”

His jaw was working. “Of course it has been discussed in the Commissioner’s office. Several times. I’m hogtied. We wouldn’t like anything better than hanging it on that bunch of grabbers, but what have we got for a jury, and what could we get'So we lay off. So I say this: I’ll not only write a report on Wolfe and you for the Commissioner, I’ll see him and talk to him. I don’t think you’ll lose your licenses. But I won’t tell him about seeing you.”

He rose and went to the bed and came back with his hat and coat. “You might as well finish the milk. And I hope that Mrs Bruner gets her money’s worth.” He put out a hand. “Happy New Year.”

“The same to you.” I got up and shook. “Could he identify them if it came to that?”

“For God’s sake, Goodwin. Three against one?”

“I know. But if it were needed just for a frill, could he?”

“Possibly. He thinks he could. I’ve given you all I’ve got. Don’t come and don’t phone. Give me a few minutes to get out.” He started for the door, turned and said, “Give Wolfe my regards,” and went.

I finished the milk standing up.

It was twenty minutes past noon when I stepped out of the lobby of the Westside Hotel. I felt like walking. For one thing, I was still loose, and it was nice to walk without wondering if I had company. For another thing, I didn’t want to think hard on top, and when I walk the hard thinking, if any, is down where it doesn’t use words. And for a third thing, I wanted to do some sightseeing. It was a nice sunny winter day, not much wind, and I crossed town to Sixth Avenue and turned south.

To show the kind of thinking that comes on top with no effort when I’m walking, as I crossed Washington Square I was thinking that it was a coincidence that Arbor Street was in the Village and Sarah Dacos lived in the Village. That couldn’t be called a hard thought, since a quarter of a million people lived in the Village, more or less, and I have known fancier coincidences, but it’s a fair sample of what my mind does when I’m walking.

I had been in Arbor Street before, no matter why for this report. It’s narrow and only three blocks long, with an assortment of old brick houses on either side. Number 63, which was near the middle, had nothing distinctive about it. I stood across the street and looked it over. The windows on the third floor, where Morris Althaus had lived and died, had tan drapes that were drawn. I went to the corner around which the G-men had parked their car. As I said, sightseeing, loose. Actually, of course, I was professionally observing the scene of a crime which might be going to have my attention. It helps somehow. Helps me, not Wolfe; he wouldn’t go to the window to see the scene of a crime. I would have liked to go up to the third floor for a look at the living room, but I wanted to get home in time for lunch, so I backtracked to Christopher Street and flagged a taxi.

The reason I wanted to be there for lunch was the rule that business must never be mentioned during meals. It was twenty past one when Fritz let me in and I put my coat and hat on the rack, so Wolfe was at the table. Going to the dining room and taking my place across from him, I made a remark about the weather. He grunted and swallowed a bite of braised sweetbread.

Fritz came with the dish, and I took some. I was not being merely petty; I was showing him that sometimes rules can be damn silly; one you make so you can enjoy your food can just about spoil a meal. It didn’t spoil mine, but there wasn’t much conversation.

But there was another reason for saving it. As we pushed our chairs back I told him I wanted to show him something in the basement, and I led the way to the hall, then to the right, and down the steps. The basement has Fritz’s room and bath, a storeroom, and a large room with a pool table. In the last is not only the usual raised bench, but also a big comfortable chair on a platform, for Wolfe when he feels like watching Saul Panzer and me use our cues, which happens about once a year. I led him to that room, flipped the wall switch for light, and spoke.

“Your new office. I hope you like it. There may be only one chance in a million that they can bug a room without getting inside, but that’s one too many. Be seated.” I lifted my rump onto the rim of the pool table, facing the big chair.

He glared. “Are you badgering me or is it possible?”

“It’s conceivable. I wouldn’t risk leaking it that Inspector Cramer told me to give you his regards. Also that he bought me a carton of milk, shook my hand, and wished me a happy New Year.”

“This is flummery.”

“No, sir. It was Cramer.”

“In that hotel room?”

“Yes.”

He stepped onto the platform and sat. “Report,” he growled.

I obeyed. I didn’t rush it because I wanted to be sure to get every word in. If we had been in the office he would have leaned back and closed his eyes, but that chair wasn’t built for it and he had to stay straight. For the last ten minutes his lips were pressed tight, either because of what he was hearing or of where he was sitting, probably both. I finished with my sightseeing trip and said that a man across the street, maybe walking a dog, or one in a front room of either of two houses, could have seen them leave Number 63 and go around the corner to the car, and even the license number. There was a light at the corner.

He took in a bushel of air through his nose and let it out through his mouth. “I wouldn’t have thought,” he said, “that Mr Cramer could be such an ass.”

I nodded. “I know it sounds like it. But he didn’t know, until I told him, why the FBI was on us. He only knew we had stung them somehow, and he had a murder he couldn’t tag them for, and he decided to hand it to you. You’ve got to admit that you should feel flattered that he thought there was the remotest chance you could pull it, and look at all the trouble he took. And after I told him about Mrs Bruner he didn’t stop to figure it. Probably he has by now. He must realize that it doesn’t fit. Suppose you passed a miracle and tied that murder to them so they couldn’t shake it off. That wouldn’t fill your client’s order. The only way that could help her and earn you a fee would be if you said to them, look, I’ll lay off on the murder if you’ll lay off of Mrs Bruner. Cramer wouldn’t like that, that’s not his idea at all. Neither would you, really. Making a deal with a murderer isn’t your style. Have I got it straight?”

He grunted. “I don’t like your pronouns.”

“All right, make it ‘we’ and ‘us.’ It’s not my style either.”

He shook his head. “It’s a pickle.” A corner of his mouth curled up.

I stared and demanded, “What the hell are you smiling at?”

“The pickle. The alternative. You have made it clear that it would be futile to establish that the FBI killed that man. Very well, then we’ll establish that they didn’t.”

“Good for us. And then?”

“We’ll see.” He turned a hand over. “Archie. We had nothing. The items Mr Cohen gave us were mere trivia, offering not even a forlorn hope. Now, thanks to Mr Cramer, we have a nut with meat in it, an unsolved murder in which the FBI is deeply involved, whether they committed it or not. An open challenge to ingenuity, to our talents if we have any. We need first to learn, assuredly, who killed that man. You saw Mr Cramer’s face and heard his tone. Is he really satisfied that it was the FBI?”

“Yes.”

“Justly?”

“He thinks so. Of course it appeals to him. He refers to them as that goddam outfit and that bunch of grabbers. After he learned about the three G-men being at the scene at the right time he probably let up on other possibilities, but he’s a good cop, and if there had been any other lead that was at all hot he would have kept on it, and apparently he didn’t. Also, if Althaus was there dead when they entered, why didn’t they report it'Anonymously, of course, after they left. They might have preferred not to, but it’s a fair question. Also the bullet. Not many murderers would have realized that it had gone on through to the wall and fallen to the floor, and found it and taken it. With an old pro like Cramer that would be a big point. So I guess you could say justly.”

He was frowning at me. “Who is the Wragg Mr Cramer mentioned?”

“Richard Wragg. Top G-man in New York. Special agent in charge.”

“Does he know, or believe, that Althaus was killed by one of his men?”

“I’d have to ask him. He could know one of them did, but he couldn’t know he didn’t, because he wasn’t there. He’s not a damn fool, and he would be if he believed everything they tell him. Does it matter?”

“It might. It could be of great consequence.”

“Then my guess is that he either knows a G-man killed him or he thinks it probable. Otherwise, when Cramer went and asked him for cooperation he would probably have opened up. The FBI likes to oblige local cops when it doesn’t cost them anything-prestige, for instance-and Wragg would know that Cramer wouldn’t care about their calling at Althaus’s place uninvited. Cops do that too, as you know. So Wragg may even have the bullet in a drawer of his desk.”

“What is your opinion'Do you agree with Mr Cramer?”

“That’s a strange question, from you. I don’t rate an opinion, and you don’t either. Maybe the landlord shot Althaus because he was behind on the rent. Or and or and or.”

He nodded. “That’s what we must explore. You will start now, as you think best. Perhaps with his family. My recollection is that his father, David Althaus, makes clothes for women.”

“Right. Seventh Avenue.” I slid off of the pool table and was on my feet. “Since we prefer it that he wasn’t killed by a G-man, I suppose we’re not interested in what he had collected on the FBI.”

“We’re interested in everything.” He made a face. “And if you find anyone you think I should see, bring him.” He made a face again and added, “Or her.”

“With pleasure. My first stop will be the Gazette, to go though the file, and Lon may have some facts that haven’t been printed. As for bringing people, the house may be covered front and back. How do I get them in and out?”

“The door. We are investigating a murder with which the FBI is not concerned. So Mr Wragg told Mr Cramer. And for once Mr Cramer won’t complain.”

“Then I don’t bother about tails?”

“No.”

“That’s a relief.” I went.