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BOOK: Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 10
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“I have,” Mrs. Chack snapped. “I want to know when you are going to get Roy Douglas. I want to see him face to face. He killed my granddaughter.”

“You are crazy,” Miss Leeds declared huskily but firmly. “You have been crazy for fifty years. I have permitted you to live in my house—”

“I will not tolerate—”

They were both talking at once.

“Ladies!” Cramer boomed. They both stopped talking as if he had turned a valve. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “you had better wait outside, Miss Leeds, until I hear what Mrs. Chack has to say—”

“No,” Miss Leeds said immovably. “I intend to hear it.”

“Then please don’t interrupt. You’ll get a chance—”

“She has been afraid of me,” Mrs. Chack asserted, “since I discovered that her mother poisoned squirrels in Washington Square on December ninth, 1905. That’s a prison offense. But now my own granddaughter is dead because I committed a sin myself and have no right to expect the mercy of God and I am willing to be punished. I am old enough to die and I ought to die. When Cora Leeds died on the ninth of December last year I said to myself, in my wretched vanity, it was the Hand of God, because it pleased me. Then when I learned that Roy Douglas had killed Cora Leeds, murdered her, I said I didn’t believe it. In my vanity I would not relinquish the Hand of God—”

“Who was Cora Leeds?” Cramer demanded.

“Her mother.” Mrs. Chack pointed a bony little finger, straight as an arrow, at Miss Leeds. “I refused—”

“How did you learn that Roy Douglas killed her?”

“Ann told me. My granddaughter. She told me how she knew, but I can’t remember. I have been trying to remember since last night. It will come back to me. My mind isn’t too old for a thing like that to come back. Cora Leeds was in bed, she had been in bed since she hurt her leg in September, and he put a pillow over her face and held her down, and when she struggled it was too much for her old heart and she died. I think Ann saw him putting the pillow—no, I’m just guessing. You see, I didn’t want to remember it because then it wouldn’t have been the Hand of God on December ninth, so I
forgot it. That’s the way an old mind works. Since last night I’ve been trying to remember so I could come and tell you as soon as I did, but I decided I’d better not wait.”

“She’s crazy,” Miss Leeds stated in her voice like a man. “She has been crazy for—”

Cramer gestured her into silence without taking his gaze away from Mrs. Chack. “But,” he rumbled, “you said that Roy Douglas killed your granddaughter. Do you remember how you know that?”

“Certainly I do,” she snapped. “He killed her because she knew he had killed Cora Leeds, and he was afraid of her. He was afraid she would tell someone. Isn’t that a good reason?”

“Yeah, it’s all right for a reason. Have you got any proof? Any evidence? Did you see him around there?”

“See him? How could I? I wasn’t there. When I got home she was dead.” Her voice got shrill. “I am eighty-nine years old! I went home and found my granddaughter dead! Could I sit right down and think it out? After I was in bed I knew he had killed her! I want you to get him! I want to see him face to face!”

“You will,” Cramer assured her. “Take it easy, Mrs. Chack. Do you remember why he killed Cora Leeds?”

“Certainly I do. Because he didn’t want to give up his pigeon loft. She was going to have it torn down.”

“I thought she had built it for him,” I put in.

“She had. She spent thousands of dollars on it. But after she hurt her leg and couldn’t go to the Square any more, she hated him and she hated everybody. She sent word to me that I had to move out, had to leave that house where I had lived for over forty years. And she told Leon he had to get out and she wouldn’t pay him any more for killing hawks. She had paid him twenty dollars for every hawk he killed. And she told Roy
Douglas she owned the pigeons, he didn’t, and she was going to tear the loft down and he had to go. And she told her own daughter she had to stop going to the Square, and when she found out her daughter was secretly giving money to Leon for killing hawks she wouldn’t let her have any money for anything. That’s the way she acted after she hurt her leg and couldn’t go to the Square. It was no wonder I thought it was the Hand of God, especially when it happened on December ninth. But God forgive me, it wasn’t. And I knew it wasn’t, I knew it was Roy Douglas, because Ann told me—God forgive me.”

Cramer cleared his throat and asked, “From what you said, Miss Leeds, I understand you don’t agree with Mrs. Chack?”

“I do not,” Miss Leeds declared emphatically. “She’s crazy. She did it herself.”

“Did what herself? Made that up?”

“No, she did it. She killed my mother and she killed her granddaughter. I doubt if she even knows she did it. Nobody in their right mind would have hurt Ann. She was a nice child and everybody liked her.”

“Excuse me,” I put in. “You told me Monday that nobody killed your mother. You said she died of old age. Now you say—”

“And you said,” she retorted crushingly, “that you came there just to see Ann, and here you are. Didn’t I tell you, Army or police, it’s all the same? Here you are together, and what do you do about anything? In sixty years you haven’t moved a finger to stop the hawks entering the city. What was the sense of my telling you that that crazy old woman killed my mother? What would you have done about it? How did I know she was going to kill Ann too? I only came with her because—”

“Madam!” Wolfe said in a tone that stopped her. “If
you yourself are sane, you can answer a question. Did your mother tell Mrs. Chack to leave the house?”

“Yes. It was her house—”

“Did she stop paying Leon Furey for killing hawks and tell him to leave also?”

“Yes. After she got hurt—”

“Did she tell Roy Douglas she was going to tear down his pigeon loft?”

“Yes. She couldn’t bear—”

“Did she quit giving you money and forbid you to go to the Square?”

“Yes. But I didn’t—”

“Then, madam, your diagnosis is faulty. Mrs. Chack’s mind retains all those details with accuracy, which is a creditable performance at her age. I wouldn’t advise you—”

The phone buzzed and Cramer took it. He listened briefly, said to wait, and spoke to Wolfe, “I’m through if you are.” Wolfe nodded, and Cramer told the phone, “Come and escort the ladies out and then bring him in.”

Escorting the ladies out wasn’t so simple. They weren’t through, whether Wolfe and Cramer were or not. Finally Cramer had to leave his desk to get them herded through the door, and by the time he got back to his chair in came a city employee with another visitor.

Chapter 11

L
eon Furey wasn’t liking himself as well as he had been the last time I saw him. As he walked in, looked around at us, and dropped into a chair by invitation, he was not jaunty. It was doubtful if he had been in his pajamas until noon that day, because his clothes looked as if he had not taken them off at all. Sizing him up as he sat there, with lumps under his bloodshot eyes and a two-day growth of beard, I saw nothing inconsistent with the theory that he had tied that scarf around Ann Amory’s throat, except the alibi, and that didn’t show.

“You want to say something?” Cramer asked.

“Yes, I do.” Leon spoke too loud for a man out in the clear and really satisfied with the surroundings. “I want to know why you’ve got men following me. I’ve been absolutely straight on this and I’ve accounted for every minute of my time, and you’ve verified it. What right have you got to treat me like a criminal? Having me followed, checking up on my draft registration, investigating everywhere I’ve been and everything I’ve done for God knows how long. What’s the big idea?”

“Routine in a murder case,” Cramer said shortly.
“We waste a lot of time that way. If you’re claiming injury, get a lawyer. Is it pinching you somewhere?”

“That’s not the question.” Leon’s voice stayed loud. “I’ve proved that I had nothing to do with any murder, you know damn well I have, and you’ve got no right to go on investigating me as if I might have had. And I’ve got a right to make a living the same as anybody. Doing it by killing hawks may or may not meet with your approval, but if Miss Leeds wants to pay me for it what business is it of yours or anybody else’s?”

Cramer grunted. “Oh, that’s it.”

“Yes, that’s it. Wasting the taxpayer’s money telephoning all over the state of New York. All right, so you find out that farmers have been shipping me hawks they shot and I’ve been paying them five dollars per hawk. So what? Is that a crime? If Miss Leeds is willing to cough up twenty dollars for a dead hawk, and that gives me a little profit for my trouble, does that make it a crime? It made her happy, didn’t it? Hawks are destructive. They kill chickens. My plan benefits the state, it benefits the farmers, it benefits Miss Leeds, it benefits me, and it hurts nobody.”

“Then what are you beefing about?”

“I’m beefing because I think you’re going to tell Miss Leeds about it, and that would put me out of business. If it so happens that she has got the impression that the hawks are killed right here in New York City, and that gives her pleasure, what’s that to you? Or to me either? What it amounts to, in its simplest terms, I’m doing her a favor. And I’m not hogging it. I keep it down to an average of three or four a week. I could make it twice or three times that if I—”

“Beat it.” Cramer growled in disgust. “Get the hell out of here. I don’t—Wait a minute. You organized this dead hawk business quite a while ago, didn’t you?”

“Why—no, I wouldn’t say—”

“How long ago?”

Leon hesitated. “I don’t remember exactly.”

“Say a year ago?”

“Why, yes, sure, at least a year ago.”

“What did old Mrs. Leeds pay you? Same as her daughter does? Twenty dollars per hawk?”

“That’s right. She set the figure, I didn’t.”

“And after she hurt her leg and had to stay in bed she refused to pay you any more? And wouldn’t let her daughter pay you? And ordered you to move out?”

“Oh, that.” Leon waved it away contemptuously.

“Was that because she found out that you weren’t killing the hawks, as you said you were, but were collecting them from farmers?”

“It was not. It was because she couldn’t enjoy life any more and didn’t want anyone else to. How could she have found out about the hawks? She was laid up in bed.”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’ve answered you.” Leon leaned forward. “What I want to know is, are you going to ruin my business or not? You’ve got no right—”

“Take him away,” Cramer said wearily. “Stebbins! Take him away!”

Sergeant Stebbins performed.

With the company gone, the three of us looked at one another. I yawned. Wolfe was letting his shoulders sag. He was already forgetting to keep them straight. Cramer got out a cigar, scowled at it, and stuck it back in his pocket.

“Thoughtful of them,” Wolfe said conversationally. “To come and tell you things like that.”

“Yeah.” Cramer was massaging the back of his neck. “That was a big help. There’s a precinct report on
the death of old Mrs. Leeds and all it’s good for is scrap paper. Say they did all have a motive to get rid of her. Then what? Where does that get me on the murder of Ann Amory? With the alibis they’ve got. And Mrs. Chack’s story about what she can’t remember that her granddaughter told her about Roy Douglas. That’s just fine. With Goodwin here claiming that Douglas was with him at the only time it could have happened.” He glared at me. “Look, son, I’ve known you to put over some fast ones; you know I have. By God, if you’re covering up on Douglas I don’t care if you’re a brigadier general—”

“I’m not,” I told him firmly. “I’m not covering up on anyone or anything. You’re not going to pass the buck to me. Here you are, the head of the New York Homicide Squad and the great and only Nero Wolfe, and apparently the best you can do with a murder case is to sit and wonder whether I’m a liar or not. Well, I’m not. Cross that off and go to work. Douglas is out. I did that much for you last night on the telephone. Forget him. You say Leon Furey’s alibi stands up. Then forget him too. In my opinion, if you want it, Miss Leeds and Mrs. Chack are also out. I knew that girl, and I don’t believe either of those women strangled her. So all you’ve got left is the population of the city of New York, between seven and eight million—”

“Including,” Cramer growled, “Lily Rowan.”

“By all means,” I agreed, “include her. I don’t pretend I would open a bottle of milk to celebrate her going to the electric chair, but whoever did that to Ann Amory isn’t getting any discount from me. If it was Lily Rowan, you don’t have to worry about means and opportunity. She admits she was there, and so was the scarf; I suppose you know it was Ann’s. So dig up a motive for her, and you’re set.”

“A motive would help.” Cramer was eyeing me. “Up at the Flamingo Club Monday night. It’s hard to get anything definite from that bunch, but the impression seems to be that she was getting ready to throw the furniture at you when you ran. Taking the Amory girl with you. Was she sore because she was jealous? Was she jealous of Ann Amory? Was she jealous enough to go down there the next day and lose her temper? I’m asking.”

I shook my head. “You’re flattering me, Inspector. I don’t arouse passions like that. It’s my intellect women like. I inspire them to read good books, but I doubt if I could inspire even Lizzie Borden to murder. You can forget the Flamingo Club. It wasn’t even a tiff. You say you know Lily Rowan. She had given me the tip on Ann Amory being in trouble, as I’ve told you, and she was sore because I was following it up without letting her in on it. You’ll have to do better on motive than that. I’m not saying—”

The phone rang. Cramer answered it, listened a minute, grunted instructions, pushed the phone back, and stood up.

“They’re there,” he announced. “Both of them. Let’s go.” He didn’t look happy. “You handle her, Wolfe. I don’t want to see her until I have to.”

Chapter 12

T
he trouble was, I couldn’t enjoy it. It was okay again, and it was my doing. The office was dusted and tidied up. Wolfe was in his made-to-order chair back of his desk. There was a bottle of beer in front of him. Faint sounds could be heard of Fritz busy in the kitchen. I had done it in less than 48 hours. But I couldn’t enjoy it. First, on account of Ann Amory. I had gone to see her with the big idea of getting Wolfe to get her out of trouble, and what had happened—well, I had got her out of trouble, all right. She wasn’t ever going to have any more trouble.

BOOK: Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 10
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