A Right To Die (13 page)

“I haven’t done much. I won’t give you the particulars; I’ll only tell you that I have verifiable information which makes it highly unlikely that Susan Brooke was alive when your son arrived at the apartment. It is sufficiently persuasive to convince the police that it would be inadvisable to hold your son on a murder charge. But it doesn’t give the murderer’s name or even hint at it.”

Whipple was staring, concentrating. Without his glasses he looked older. “But I don’t- If she was dead when he got there& “

“Yes. The information makes that conclusion hard to challenge. I can have him released, probably under bail as a material witness. Then the police will be galled. They will suspect you and your wife, and everyone associated with the Rights of Citizens Committee. They will suspect your son, not of actually doing the deed but of being implicated. He can be conclusively cleared only by producing the murderer, and that will be much more difficult with the police everywhere, harassing everyone, including me. Especially me. I don’t want to give them the information I have. I want them to keep your son in custody, satisfied that they have the culprit. You can of course make that impossible. You can tell me that if I withhold the information you’ll tell them I have it. If you do, I’ll have to give it to them at once and quit. Have I made it clear?”

“Yes.” Whipple lowered his head. I had seen many people, sitting in that chair, lower or turn their heads when they found how hard it was to use their brains while they were meeting Wolfe’s eyes. Seeing the glasses on the floor, he bent over to pick them up, got his handkerchief out again, and rubbed, slow motion.

“I won’t urge you,” Wolfe said.

He looked up. “Oh, you don’t have to. I was thinking about my wife. If she knew he could be home tomorrow -but she doesn’ have to know.” He jerked his shoulders up. “I won’t tell her.” He put the glasses on. “The information-will it keep'Can you still use it, if& “

“I can use it at any time. I have it in writing, a signed statement, by the woman your friends saw here this afternoon.”

“Will they be involved?”

“No.”

“Do I know her?”

“I doubt it. I won’t name her.”

“I-I’m going to ask a question.”

“You have already asked three. I may answer it.”

“Do you know-I mean do you think you know-who killed her?”

“No. I have no inkling. I have no plan. I have only a commitment, and I intend to meet it, though at the moment I have no idea when or how. How many times has the answer to some bothersome question come while you were brushing your teeth?”

“More than once.”

“I’ll be brushing mine in a couple of hours. Not with an electric thing; with that machine the fear of electrocution would squelch all mental processes. As an anthropologist, are you concerned with the menace of automation?”

“As an anthropologist, no.”

“As a man you are.”

“Why& yes.”

“Your son is twenty-one years old. Are you aware that by averting this calamity for him we will be compelling him inevitably to suffer a worse one?”

Very neat. Confronted by a father worried sick about a son locked up for the big one, he had dealt with that in less than a quarter of an hour and steered him to automation; a fresh audience, better than me, since he had had me at dinner. Neat.

I should have known better. As I sat at my breakfast table in the kitchen Wednesday-morning, disposing of corn muffins and shirred eggs with sherry and chives, my eyes were on the Times propped on the rack, but they were sharing attention with my ears. If the house phone buzzed it would be Wolfe, in his room, to tell me to come up for instructions. I should have known better. His line about getting answers to questions while brushing his teeth had been merely a way to sneak up on automation. I don’t say he had never got an idea while brushing his teeth, but if so it was when we were on something urgent. There was nothing urgent about this. What the hell, Dunbar Whipple was safe and sound, getting three meals a day-though it would have been different if Wolfe had been eating the meals. That would have been urgent.

That Wednesday was about as unsatisfactory a day as I have ever spent, speaking professionally. Wolfe’s taking time out from a job was nothing new, far from it, but always before I had had the satisfaction of poking him; as I said, that was one of my main functions. Now I couldn’t. I was on record that nobody could do anything, and that day nobody did, for sure. The only action performed or word spoken that had anything to do with the case came around five o’clock when Wolfe was up in the plant rooms fiddling with the orchids. The phone rang, and I said aloud, “Automation again.” I lifted the receiver.

“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“This is Peter Vaughn. I’m calling now because I knew Wolfe wouldn’t be there. I can’t take him.”

“Neither can I. Today. Are you up and dressed?”

“Sure. I slept _seventeen hours_. I wanted to know, have you seen her?”

“Yes, and so has Mr. Wolfe. She spent an hour here Yesterday afternoon. Relax. She admits it as you told it. Naturally you want to know if we have passed it on. We haven’t. For the present we’re saving it. I wouldn’t advise you to drop in on her for tea. She’d probably put vinegar in it, or something worse. By the way, I meant to ask you yesterday, have you ever heard her do imitations'People’s voices?”

“Yes, often. She’s good at it. She was on the stage, you know.”

“Oh, she was?”

“Yes, Dolly Drake. Not a star, nothing like that. I believe she quit when she married Kenneth, but of course I didn’t know them then. Why'Why do you ask?”

“Just checking a little point. Routine. I suppose she could do Susan’s voice, for instance.”

“Certainly, I’ve heard her. I’ve heard her do Susan making a speech on civil rights. Naturally I didn’t like it, but she’s good. Listen, something I wasn’t going to mention, but I guess I will. I may have something important to tell you a little later. Can I get you there this evening?”

“Yes, but I’m here now. Shoot”

“Well, I- No, I won’t. I wouldn’t want to- No. Maybe I just imagined it, but I’m going to find out. I may ring you this evening.”

“How are you going to find out?”

“Oh, ask a few questions. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. It’s probably nothing. I want to say I’m damned grateful to you and Wolfe, not telling the police. I was pretty sure you hadn’t; they would have been at me. I’m damned grateful.”

He hung up, and I was grateful to him. He had given me something to nibble at. Was there any chance he was going to produce an item we could work on, and if so, what would it be'It would have to be about Dolly Brooke, since she and Kenneth were his only connection, but it wouldn’t be about the item he had just supplied, that Dolly could imitate Susan’s voice, since he had asked why I asked. Yet it might. He might have asked why I asked to see if I knew something he knew or suspected. I should have hung on. I rang him. First Heron Manhattan; he hadn’t been in today. Then his home; he had just gone out and they didn’t know where.

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms I reported. He listened with his eyes open, showing that he was hearing nothing that called for concentration. It was obvious that he had decided, for some reason too subtle for me to appreciate, possibly because he didn’t want to see her again if he could avoid it, that Dolly Brooke wasn’t it. When I suggested that it wouldn’t hurt to try to find Vaughn and pry it out of him, he said pfui, Mr. Vaughn was manifestly an ass, since he hadn’t even had enough gumption to slough his illusion about Miss Brooke. That was a fitting end to the day. I had enough gumption to go up to my room, ring Lucy Valdon, and invite her to dine at Rusterman’s. She suggested that we eat at her house instead. Sometimes that suggestion is welcome, and it was then. It was nice and quiet there and we could laugh louder and longer. I certainly needed someone to laugh with. If Vaughn phoned, Wolfe could tell him where to get me. I stripped and got under the shower.

My morning fog begins to let little streaks of light through as I sip orange juice, and with my second cup of coffee it’s all clear, so when I go to the office around nine-thirty I’m set for the day. But there are exceptions, and that Thursday morning was one. First, it was ten-thirty instead of nine-thirty. Second, I had got home at three o’clock and had had two hours’ less sleep than my regulation eight. Third, there was nothing to be set for. If there had been any word from Peter Vaughn it hadn’t been worth mentioning, since there had been no note on my desk when I got home. Evidently it was going to be more of the same. I had a notion to go up and get Wolfe’s toothbrush and put it on his desk, on top of the mail, but that would only make it worse. I would go for a walk and not be there when he came down. That appealed to me. My watch said 10:52. I went to the kitchen and told Fritz, and to the rack in the hall for my coat, and as I was reaching for it some object dimmed the light from the glass in the door, and I turned. The object was Inspector Cramer. Good. Anything and anybody was welcome, even him, even if he had somehow learned about Dolly Brooke and intended to take us for obstructing justice. I opened the door as he started his hand for the button, and said, “Greetings. I was standing here waiting for you.”

No comment. He was not only out of sorts, he was out of words. He took his coat off and put it on the bench, dropped his hat on it, marched to the office, looked at his watch, and stood facing the door to the hall. Going to my desk, I had a splendid view of his broad burly shoulders and his king-size fanny, motionless for a good three mmutes until Wolfe entered, stopped two steps in, and glared. Cramer wheeled and went to the red leather chair. Wolfe switched the glare to me, and as he went to his desk I said, “There wasn’t time to buzz you, he just came.” He put a raceme of Vanda suavis in the vase, sat, and started looking through the mail, no hurry.

“Take your time,” Cramer said, icy. “Take my time. We’ve got all day. You’re going to tell me every word anyone has said in this room, including you and Goodwin, about the murder of Susan Brooke. Start with Peter Vaughn. How often has he been here, and when, and what was said?”

So it was Dolly Brooke. Her statement, all three copies, was in the safe. A safe is safer than a locked drawer.

Wolfe pushed the mail aside and swiveled. “This is extraordinary,” he said, not a protest, merely an observation. “You have your murderer in custody. I have been, and am, acting in his interest as instructed by his legal attorney. Surely you don’t expect to get evidence that will help convict him from me. Even if I had any I should not and would not disclose it to you. Extraordinary. Could I be wrong about the legal position'Shall I get Mr. Oster here?”

It sounded impressive, but Cramer wasn’t impressed. “I know the legal position,” he said, still icy. “You’re not acting for Peter Vaughn, and Oster isn’t his attorney. I want to know when and where you and Goodwin have seen Vaughn and what was said.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Nonsense. You’re rattled, and that’s extraordinary too. We have seen Mr. Vaughn only in our capacity as agents for Mr. Whipple and his lawyer, and you are here in your capacity as Mr. Whipple’s legal nemesis.

“No.”

Wolfe’s brows went up. “No?”

“I’m here in my capacity as the head of Homicide South, but not about the murder of Susan Brooke. About the murder of Peter Vaughn.”

If he was after an effect he got it. My head jerked left, to Wolfe, and his jerked right, to me. From his look at me it might have been deduced that he thought I had killed Vaughn, and from my look at him it might have been deduced that I thought he had, so Cramer must have been confused.

Wolfe’s head turned back. “I presume this isn’t flummery; that would be fatuous. The particulars?”

“About three hours ago a passer-by looked in the window of a parked car on Second Avenue near Thirty-second Street and told a patrolman what he had seen, and the patrolman went to look. The body of a man was on the floor in front, doubled up, the head and shoulders shoved down to the floor. He had been shot on the right side, four inches below the armpit, one shot that went between his ribs and got his heart. If death had been quick, as it almost certainly had, the shot had been fired between nine o’clock and midnight. The body has been identified. Peter Vaughn. The car is the property of his father’s firm, Heron Manhattan, Inc. No weapon found. Yes, I know the legal position.”

I thought, Now he’ll never have to answer for lying to the police. I thought that, because at the moment there was no other thought worth thinking.

Wolfe’s eyes had closed. They opened. “And Dunbar Whipple was in custody from nine o’clock to midnight?”

“You know damn well he was.”

“When will he be released?”

“Nuts.”

Wolfe nodded. “It’s embarrassing, certainly. You know the annals of homicide. It’s conceivable that another hand killed Peter Vaughn; it’s even conceivable that there was no connection between his death and Susan Brooke’s; but you don’t believe it, and neither do I. You don’t dare hold him. Confound it. This will make-“

Cramer smacked the chair arm. “Damn it, don’t sit there and smirk at me! Talk! When did you last see Vaughn?”

“You don’t mean ’smirk.’ I am not doing what you think smirk means. I’m reacting not to your discomfiture but to my own vexation. Now you need a murderer, but so do I. Coming here with a startling piece of news and barking at me is futile, and you know it.” He leaned back, shut his eyes, and tightened his lips.

Cramer sat and regarded him and breathed.

Wolfe straightened up and cocked his head. “Mr. Cramer. I have no information for you. Don’t explode; let me explain. We-I am including Mr. Goodwin-have seen and spoken with Mr. Vaughn twice. Last Friday evening he was here for less than an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Brooke. None of them gave us any information that you did not already have. Day before yesterday, Tuesday morning, he came alone and spoke with Mr. Goodwin, again for less than an hour. I wasn’t present, but Mr. Goodwin has reported to me. Mr. Vaughn had disclosed certain facts you don’t know about, but it is my considered opinion that they have no bearing on his death. There are-“

“That’s for me to say.”

“It is not. There are two points. First, in our talks with Mr. Vaughn, Mr. Goodwin and I were the agents of Mr. Oster, and therefore the communications were privileged. Second, even if they weren’t privileged we would reserve them, because we have reason to believe that they have no connection with his death. If the event should prove us wrong we would of course be called to account. However-“

“I’m calling you to account here and now.”

“Pfui. You know you can’t. However, we’ll give you one bit of information, privileged or not, which probably is connected with his death. He called on the telephone shortly after five o’clock yesterday and spoke with Mr. Goodwin. Archie, the possibly relevant portion of the conversation, beginning with his saying that he might have something to tell you later.”

I told it, to Cramer. “He said, ‘Listen, something I wasn’t going to mention, but I guess I will. I may have something important to tell you a little later. Can I get you there this evening?’ I said, ‘Yes, but I’m here now. Shoot.’ He said, ‘Well, I- No, I won’t. I wouldn’t want to- No. Maybe I just imagined it, but I’m going to find out. I may ring you this evening.’ I said, ‘How are you going to find out?’ He said, ‘Oh, ask a few questions. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. It’s probably nothing.’”

“Who was he-“

“No,” Wolfe snapped. “Mr. Goodwin is my agent. Archie, did he give you any hint of whom he was going to question or about what?”

“No.”

“Have you any notion about it?”

It was obvious he wanted another no, so I supplied it. He turned to Cramer. “Nor have I; but I suspect that his contemplated action led to his death, and so we report the conversation. If you can learn whom he expected to question before I do, you’ll get the murderer.”

“Damn you,” Cramer said, icy again. “Damn you. You already know.”

“I do not. I haven’t even a conjecture. I have some information you don’t have, but I am convinced that it has no bearing on the identity of the murderer. I have no conjecture on that either. That was our last word from Mr. Vaughn; he didn’t call again. Before, I had an advantage: you thought Dunbar Whipple was the culprit, and I didn’t. Now I have no advantage whatever. We’re up the same stump.”

“You don’t say your word of honor.”

“I use that phrase only when I must, to satisfy you. This time I wouldn’t crook a finger to satisfy you. I wish you would leave. I need to discuss the situation with Mr. Goodwin.”

“Go right ahead. I won’t interrupt.”

“Indeed you won’t. What effect do you think automation will have on Homo sapiens?”

“Go to hell,” Cramer said and got up and walked out. I went to the door but didn’t stick my head into the hall until the front door slammed, and then only to see that he was outside. I returned to my desk, sat, and said, “All right, discuss.”

He said, “Ggrrrrhh.”

“Then I’ll discuss. You told him that what Vaughn told me Tuesday had no bearing on his death. You got me to say that I had no notion about whom Vaughn was going to question or what about, when you know darned well I had. Yesterday you weren’t interested in what Vaughn told me on the phone, that Mrs. Brooke could imitate Susan’s voice. If it turns out that she killed Susan and Vaughn how will you react to my discomfiture?”