Nero Wolfe 16 - Even in the Best Families (9 page)

“I don’t know. I can say only what I was told to say. That’s all about the plants. Perhaps Mr. Hewitt can tell you. Second, that is Fritz. He will work here, and I will pay him well. I will see him today and arrange the details. Of course he is unhappy?”

“He thinks Mr. Wolfe will starve to death.”

“But naturally. If not that, something else. I have always thought it a folly for him to be a detective. Third—I am third. I have a power of attorney. Do you want to see it?”

“No, thanks, I’ll take your word for it.”

“It is in there locked up. Nero said it is legal, and he knows. I can sign checks for you. I can sign anything. I can do anything he could do.”

“Within certain limits. You can’t—” I waved a hand. “Forget it. Fourth?”

“Fourth is the house. I am to offer the house and its contents for sale. On that I have confidential instructions.”

I goggled at him. “Sell the house
and
contents?”

“Yes. I have private instructions regarding price and terms.”

“I don’t believe it.”

His shoulders went up and down. “I told Nero you would think I was lying.”

“I don’t think you’re lying. I just don’t believe it. Also the bed and other articles in my room are my property. Must I move them out today or can I wait until tomorrow?”

Marko made a noise that I think was meant for
sympathy. “My poor young friend,” he said apologetically, “there is no hurry at all. Selling a house is not like selling a lamb chop. You will, I suppose, continue to live there for the present.”

“Did he say I should?”

“No. But why shouldn’t you? That is my own thought, and it brings us to the fifth and last thing: the instructions Nero gave me for you.”

“Oh, he did. That was thoughtful. Such as?”

“You are to act in the light of experience as guided by intelligence.”

He stopped. I nodded. “That’s a cinch, I always do. And specifically?”

“That’s all. Those are your instructions.” Marko upturned his palms. “That’s all about everything.”

“You call that instructions, do you?”

“I don’t. He did.” He leaned to me. “I told him, Archie, that his conduct was inexcusable. He was standing ready to leave, after telling me those five things and no more. Having no reply, he turned and went. Beyond that I know nothing, but nothing.”

“Where he went? Where he is? No word for me at all?”

“Nothing. Only what I have told you.”

“Hell, he’s gone batty, like lots of geniuses,” I declared, and got up to go.

I
drove around for two solid hours, mostly in the park. Now and then, for a change of scene, I left the park for a patrol of the avenues.

I hadn’t been able to start thinking in the house, and it might work better on the move. Moreover, I didn’t want any more just then of Fritz or Theodore, or in fact of anybody but me. So, in the light of experience and guided by intelligence, I drove around. Somewhere along the way I saw clearly what my trouble was: I was completely out of errands for the first time in years. How could I decide what to do when I had nothing to do? I now believed that the reason I never drove farther north than One Hundred and Tenth Street, nor farther south than Fourteenth Street during those two hours, was that I thought Wolfe was probably somewhere within those limits and I didn’t want to leave them.

When I did leave them it wasn’t voluntary. Rolling down Second Avenue in the Seventies, I had stopped for a red light abreast of a police car on my left. Just as the light was changing, the cop on my side stuck his head out and called, “Pull over to the curb.”

Flattered at the attention as any motorist would be, I obeyed. The police car came alongside, and the cop got out and invented another new phrase. “Let me see your license.”

I got out and handed it to him, and he took a look.

“Yeah, I thought I recognized you.” He handed the license back, walked around the front of my car to the other side, got in beside me, and suggested, “Let’s go to the Nineteenth Precinct. Sixty-seventh east of Lexington.”

“That’s one idea,” I admitted. “Or what’s wrong with the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, especially on Easter? I’ll toss you for it.”

He was unmoved. “Come on, Goodwin, come on. I know you’re a card. I’ve heard all about you. Let’s go.”

“Give me one reason, good or bad. If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t know the reason. All I know is the word that came an hour ago, to pick you up and take you in. Maybe you shouldn’t have left the infant on the church steps on Easter Day.”

“Of course not,” I agreed. “We’ll go get it.”

I eased away from the curb into traffic, with the police car trailing behind. Our destination, the Nineteenth Precinct Station, was not new to me. That was where I had once spent most of a night, conversing with Lieutenant Rowcliff, the Con Noonan of the New York Police Department.

After escorting me in to the desk and telling the sergeant about it, my captor had a point to make. His name was not John F. O’Brien, it was John R. O’Brien. He explained to the sergeant that he had to insist on it because last year one of his heroic acts had been credited to John F., and once was enough,
and he damn well wanted credit for spotting a wanted man on the street. That attended to, he bade me a pleasant good-by and left. Meanwhile the sergeant was making a phone call. When he hung up he looked at me with a more active interest.

“Westchester wants you,” he announced. “Leaving the scene of a crime and leaving jurisdiction. Want to drag it out?”

“It might be fun, but I doubt it. What happens if I don’t?”

“There’s a Westchester man downtown. He’s on his way up here to take you.”

I shook my head. “I’ll fight like a cornered rat. I know fourteen lawyers all told. Ten to one he has no papers. This is one of those brotherly acts which I do not like. You’re on a spot, Sergeant.”

“Don’t scare me to death. If he has no papers I’ll send you downtown and let them handle it.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “that would let you out. But we can make it simpler for both of us if you care to. Get the Westchester DA on the phone and let me talk to him. I’ll even pay for the call.”

At first he didn’t like the idea and then he did. I think what changed his mind was the chance of picking up a piece of hot gossip on the murder of the month. He had to be persuaded, but when I told him the DA would be at the Rackham place and gave him the number, that settled it. He put the call in. However, he covered. When he got the number he made it clear that he merely wanted to offer the DA an opportunity to speak to Archie Goodwin if he wished to. He did. I circled the railing to get to the desk and took the phone.

“Mr. Archer?”

“Yes! This is—”

“Just a minute!” I said emphatically. “Whatever you were going to say this is, I double it. It’s an outrage. It—”

“You were told to stay here, and you sneaked away! You left—”

“I was not told to stay there. You asked me if I was staying at Leeds’ place, and I said my bag was there, and you said you would want me today, and I said of course. If I had stayed at Leeds’ place I might have been permitted seven hours’ sleep. I decided to do something else with the seven hours, and they’re not up yet. But you see fit to ring the bell on me. I’ll do one of two things. I’ll have a bite of lunch and then drive up there, unaccompanied, or I’ll make it as hard as I possibly can for this man you sent to get me outside the city limits—whichever you prefer. Here he comes now.”

“Here who comes?”

“Your man. Coming in the door. If you decide you want to see me today, tell him not to trail along behind me. It makes me self-conscious.”

A silence. Then, “You were told not to leave the county.”

“I was not. By no one.”

“Neither you nor Wolfe was at home at eleven o’clock—or if you were you wouldn’t see my man.”

“I was in the Easter parade.”

Another silence, longer. “What time will you be here? At Birchvale.”

“I can make it by two o’clock.”

“My man is there?”

“Yes.”

“Let me talk to him.”

That was satisfactory. I liked that all right, except for one thing. After the Westchester dick was
finished on the phone and it was settled that I would roll my own, and the sergeant had generously said that the Police Department would contribute the phone call, I asked the dick if he understood that I didn’t care to be tailed, and he replied that I needn’t worry because he was going back to Thirty-fifth Street to see Nero Wolfe. I didn’t care much for that, but said nothing because I hadn’t yet decided exactly what to say. So when I found a place on Lexington Avenue for a sandwich and a malted, I went first to a phone booth, called the house, and told Fritz to leave the chain bolt on, tell callers that Wolfe was out of the city and no more, and admit no one.

Being on the move did help. Having decided, while touring the park and avenues, what my immediate trouble was, I now, on my way to Birchvale, got the whole thing into focus. Considering the entire picture, including the detail of putting the house up for sale and the lack of even one little hint for me, let alone a blueprint, it was by no means a bet that Wolfe had merely dived into a foxhole. Look how free Marko had been with his poor-young-friending. It was not inconceivable that Wolfe had decided to chuck it for good. A hundred times and more, when things or people—frequently me—didn’t suit him, he had told me about the house he owned in Egypt and how pleasant it would be to live there. I had always brushed it off. I now realized that a man who is eccentric enough to threaten to go and live in Egypt is eccentric enough to do it, especially when it gets to a point where he opens a package of sausage and has to run for his life.

Therefore I would be a dimwit to assume that this was merely time out to gather ammunition and make plans. Nor could I assume that it wasn’t. I
couldn’t assume anything. Was he gone for good, or was he putting on a charade that would make all his other performances look like piker stuff in comparison? Presumably I was to answer that question, along with others, by the light of experience guided by intelligence, and I did not appreciate the compliment. If I was finally and permanently on my own, very well; I would make out. But apparently I was still drawing pay, so what? The result of my getting the whole picture into focus was that as I turned in at the entrance to Birchvale I was sorer than ever.

I was stopped at the entrance by one of Noonan’s colleagues, there on guard, and was allowed to proceed up the curving drive only after I had shown him four documents. Parking in a space at the side of the house that was bordered by evergreens, I walked around to the front door and was admitted by a maid who looked pale and puffy. She didn’t say anything, just held the door open, but a man was there too, one of the county boys whom I knew by sight but not by name. He said, “This way,” and led me to the right, to the same small room I had seen before.

Ben Dykes, sitting there at the table with a stack of papers, grunted at me, “So you finally got here.”

“I told Archer two o’clock. It’s one-fifty-eight.”

“Uh-huh. Sit down.”

I sat. The door was standing open, but no sound of any kind came to my ears except the rustling of the papers Dykes was going through.

“Is the case solved?” I inquired courteously. “It’s so damn quiet. In New York they make more noise. If you—”

I stopped because I was being answered. A typewriter started clicking somewhere. It was faint, from
a distance, but unmistakably a typewriter, with a professional at it.

“I suppose Archer knows I’m here,” I stated.

“Don’t work up a lather,” Dykes advised me without looking up.

I shrugged, stretched my legs and crossed my ankles, and tried to see what his papers were. I was too far away to get any words, but from various aspects I finally concluded that they were typewritten signed statements of the family, guests, and servants. Not being otherwise engaged at the moment, I would have been glad to help Dykes with them, but I doubted if it was worth the breath to make an offer. After the strain of trying to identify the papers, my eyes went shut, and for the first time I was aware how sleepy I was. I thought I had better open my eyes, and then decided it would show more strength of will if I kept awake with them shut….

Someone was using my head for a cocktail shaker. Resenting it, I jerked away and made a gesture of protest with my fist closed, following up by opening my eyes and jumping to my feet. Backing away from me was a skinny guy with a long neck. He looked both startled and angry.

“Sorry,” I told him. “I guess I dozed off a second.”

“You dozed off forty minutes,” Dykes declared. He was still at the table with the papers, and standing beside him was District Attorney Archer.

“That leaves me,” I said, “still behind seven hours and more.”

“We want a statement,” Archer said impatiently.

“The sooner the better,” I agreed, and pulled my chair up. Archer sat at the end of the table at my left, Dykes across from me, and the skinny guy, with a notebook and pen, at the other end.

“First,” Archer said, “repeat what you told us last night about Mrs. Rackham’s visit to Wolfe’s office with Leeds.”

“But,” I objected, “that’ll take half an hour, and you’re busy. That’s routine. I assure you it won’t vary.”

“Go ahead. I want to hear it, and I have questions.”

I yawned thoroughly, rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms, and started. At first it was fuzzy, but it flowed easy after a minute or two, and it would have been a pleasure to have them compare it with a record from the previous recital if there had been one.

Archer had some questions, and Dykes one or two. At the end Archer asked me, “Will you swear to that, Goodwin?”

“Sure, glad to. If you’ll pay the notary fee.”

“Go and type it, Cheney.”

The skinny guy got up, with his notebook, and left. After the door was closed Archer spoke.

“You might as well know it, Goodwin; you’ve been contradicted. Mr. Rackham says you’re lying about his wife’s conversation with Wolfe.”

“Yeah? How does he know? He wasn’t there.”