Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 27 (20 page)

That wasn’t what she had fed me verbatim. Not verbatim.

“I try to understand,” Wolfe said dryly. “You knew Mr. Kampf intimately?”

“Yes, I guess so.” She smiled as one understander to another. “For a while I did. Not lately, not for the past two months.”

“You met the dog at his apartment on Perry Street?”

“That’s right. For nearly a year I was there quite often.”

“You and Mr. Kampf quarreled?”

“Oh no, we didn’t quarrel. I just didn’t see him any more. I had other—I was very busy.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Well—you mean intimately?”

“No. At all.”

“About two weeks ago, at the club. He came to the club once or twice and spoke to me there.”

“But no quarrel?”

“No, there was nothing to quarrel about.”

“You have no idea who killed him, or why?”

“I certainly haven’t.”

Wolfe leaned back. “Do you know Mr. Talento intimately?”

“No, not if you mean—of course we’re friends. I used to live there.”

“With Mr. Talento?”

“Not with him.” She was mildly shocked. “I never live with a man. I had the second-floor apartment.”

“At twenty-nine Arbor Street?”

“Yes.”

“For how long? When?”

“For nearly a year. I left there—let’s see—about three months ago. I have a little apartment on East Forty-ninth Street.”

“Then you know the others too? Mr. Meegan and Mr. Chaffee and Mr. Aland?”

“I know Ross Chaffee and Jerry Aland, but no Meegan. Who’s he?”

“A tenant at twenty-nine Arbor Street. Second floor.”

She nodded. “Well, sure, that’s the floor I had.” She smiled. “I hope they fixed that damn table for him. That was one reason I left. I hate furnished apartments, don’t you?”

Wolfe made a face. “In principle, yes. I take it you now have your own furniture. Supplied by Mr. Kampf?”

She laughed—more of a chuckle—and her eyes danced. “I see you didn’t know Phil Kampf.”

“Not supplied by him, then?”

“A great big no.”

“By Mr. Chaffee? Or Mr. Aland?”

“No and no.” She went very earnest. “Look, Mr. Wolfe. A friend of mine was mighty nice about that furniture, and we’ll just leave it. Archie told me what you’re interested in is the murder, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to drag in a lot of stuff just to hurt me and a friend of mine, so we’ll forget the furniture.”

Wolfe didn’t press it. He took a hop. “Your appointment on a street corner with Mr. Talento—what was that about?”

She nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that. I mean what I would say when you asked me, because I’d hate to have you think I’m a sap, and I guess it sounds like it. I phoned him when I heard on the radio about Phil and where he was killed, there on Arbor Street, and I knew Vic still lived there and I simply wanted to ask him about it.”

“You had him on the phone.”

“He didn’t seem to want to talk about it on the phone.”

“But why a street corner?”

This time it was more like a laugh. “Now, Mr. Wolfe, you’re not a sap. You asked about the furniture, didn’t you? Well, a girl with furniture shouldn’t be seen places with a man like Vic Talento.”

“What is he like?”

She fluttered a hand. “Oh, he wants to get close.”

Wolfe kept at her until after one o’clock, and I could report it all, but it wouldn’t get you any further than it did him. He couldn’t trip her or back her into a corner. She hadn’t been to Arbor Street for two months. She hadn’t seen Chaffee or Aland or Talento for weeks, and of course not Meegan, since she had never heard of him before. She couldn’t even try to guess who had killed Kampf. The only thing remotely to be regarded as a return on Wolfe’s investment of a full hour was her statement that as far as she knew there was no one who had both an attachment and a claim to Bootsy. If there were heirs she had no idea who they were. When she left the chair to go the dog got up too, and she patted him, and he went with us to the door. I took her to Tenth Avenue and put her in a taxi, and returned.

I got a glass of milk from the kitchen and took it to the office. Wolfe, who was drinking beer, didn’t scowl at me. He seldom scowls when he is drinking beer.

“Where’s Bootsy?” I inquired.

“No,” he said emphatically.

“Okay.” I surrendered. “Where’s Jet?”

“Down in Fritz’s room. He’ll sleep there. You don’t like him.”

“That’s not true, but you can have it. It means you can’t blame him on me, and that suits me fine.” I sipped milk. “Anyhow, that will no longer be an issue after Homicide comes in the morning with a document and takes him away.”

“They won’t come.”

“I offer twenty to one. Before noon.”

He nodded. “That was roughly my own estimate of the probability, so while you were out I phoned Mr. Cramer. I suggested an arrangement, and I suppose he inferred that if he declined the arrangement the dog might be beyond his jurisdiction before tomorrow, though I didn’t say so. I may have given that impression.”

“Yeah. You should be more careful.”

“So the arrangement has been made. You are to be at twenty-nine Arbor Street, with the dog, at nine o’clock in the morning. You are to be present throughout the fatuous performance the police have in mind, and keep the dog in view. The dog is to leave the premises with you, before noon, and you are to bring him back here. The police are to make no further effort to constrain the dog for twenty-four hours. While in that house you may find an opportunity to flush something or someone more contributive than that volatile demirep. If you will come to my room before you go in the morning I may have a suggestion.”

“I resent that,” I said manfully. “When you call her that, smile.”

It was a fine bright morning. I didn’t take Meegan’s raincoat, because I didn’t need any pretext and I doubted if the program would offer a likely occasion for the exchange.

The law was there in front, waiting for me. The one who knew dogs was a stocky middle-aged guy who wore rimless glasses. Before he touched the dog he asked me the name, and I told him Bootsy.

“A hell of a name,” he observed. “Also that’s a hell of a leash you’ve got.”

“I agree. His was on the corpse, so I suppose it’s in the lab.” I handed him my end of the heavy cord. “If he bites you it’s not on me.”

“He won’t bite me. Would you, Bootsy?” He squatted before the dog and started to get acquainted. Sergeant Purley Stebbins growled, a foot from my ear, “He should have bit you when you kidnapped him.”

I turned. Purley was half an inch taller than me and two inches broader. “You’ve got it twisted,” I told him. “It’s women that bite me. I’ve often wondered what would bite you.”

We continued exchanging pleasantries while the dog man, whose name was Loftus, made friends with Bootsy. It wasn’t long before he announced that he was ready to proceed. He was frowning. “In a way,” he said, “it would be better to keep him on leash after I go in, because Kampf probably did. Or did he? Maybe you ought to brief me a little more. How much do we know?”

“To swear to,” Purley told him, “damn little. But putting it all together from what we’ve collected, this is how it looks, and I’ll have to be shown different. When Kampf and the dog entered it was raining and
the dog was wet. Kampf left the dog in the ground-floor hall. He removed the leash and had it in his hand when he went to the door of one of the apartments. The tenant of the apartment let him in, and they talked. The tenant socked him, probably from behind without warning, and used the leash to finish him. He stuffed the leash in the pocket of the raincoat. It took nerve and muscle both to carry the body out and down the stairs to the lower hall, but he damn well had to get it out of his place and away from his door, and any of those four could have done it in a pinch, and it sure was a pinch. Of course the dog was already outside, out on the sidewalk. While Kampf was in one of the apartments getting killed, Talento had come into the lower hall and seen the dog and chased it out.”

“Then,” Loftus objected, “Talento’s clean.”

“No. Nobody’s clean. If it was Talento, after he killed Kampf he went out to the hall and put the dog out in the vestibule, went back in his apartment and carried the body out and dumped it at the foot of the stairs, and then left the house, chasing the dog on out to the sidewalk. You’re the dog expert. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Not necessarily. It depends on the dog and how close he was to Kampf. There wasn’t any blood.”

“Then that’s how I’m buying it. If you want it filled in you can spend the rest of the day with the reports of the other experts and the statements of the tenants.”

“Some other day. That’ll do for now. You’re going in first?”

“Yeah. Come on, Goodwin.”

Purley started for the door, but I objected. “I’m staying with the dog.”

“For God’s sake. Then keep behind Loftus.”

I changed my mind. It would be interesting to
watch the experiment, and from behind Loftus the view wouldn’t be good. So I went into the vestibule with Purley. The inner door was opened by a Homicide colleague, and we crossed the threshold and moved to the far side of the small lobby, which was fairly clean but not ornate. The colleague closed the door and stayed there. In a minute he pulled it open again, and Loftus and the dog entered. Two steps in, Loftus stopped, and so did the dog. No one spoke. The leash hung limp. Bootsy looked around at Loftus. Loftus bent over and untied the cord from the collar, and held it up to show Bootsy he was free. Bootsy came over to me and stood, his head up, wagging his tail.

“Nuts,” Purley said, disgusted.

“You know what I really expected,” Loftus said. “I never thought he’d show us where Kampf took him when they entered yesterday, but I did think he’d go to the foot of the stairs, where the body was found, and I thought he might go on to where the body came from —Talento’s door, or upstairs. Take him by the collar, Goodwin, and ease him over to the foot of the stairs.”

I obliged. He came without urging, but gave no sign that the spot held any special interest for him. We all stood and watched him. He opened his mouth wide to yawn.

“Fine,” Purley rumbled. “Just fine. You might as well go on with it.”

Loftus came and fastened the leash to the collar, led Bootsy across the lobby to a door, and knocked. In a moment the door opened, and there was Victor Talento in a fancy rainbow dressing gown.

“Hello, Bootsy,” he said, and reached down to pat.

“Goddamit!” Purley barked. “I told you not to speak!”

Talento straightened up. “So you did.” He was apologetic.
“I’m sorry, I forgot. Do you want to try it again?”

“No. That’s all.”

Talento backed in and closed the door.

“You must realize,” Loftus told Purley, “that a Labrador can’t be expected to go for a man’s throat. They’re not that kind of dog. The most you could expect would be an attitude, or possibly a growl.”

“You can have ’em,” Purley growled. “Is it worth going on?”

“By all means. You’d better go first.”

Purley headed for me, and I gave him room and then followed him up the stairs. The upper hall was narrow and not very light, with a door at the rear end and another toward the front. We backed up against the wall opposite the front door to leave enough space for Loftus and Bootsy. They came, Bootsy tagging, and Loftus knocked. Ten seconds passed before footsteps sounded, and then the door was opened by the specimen who had dashed out of Wolfe’s place the day before and taken my coat with him. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he hadn’t combed his hair.

“This is Sergeant Loftus, Mr. Meegan,” Purley said. “Take a look at the dog. Have you ever seen it before? Pat it.”

Meegan snorted. “Pat it yourself. Go to hell.”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“Okay, thanks. Come on, Loftus.”

As we started up the next flight the door slammed behind us, good and loud. Purley asked over his shoulder, “Well?”

“He didn’t like him,” Loftus replied from the rear, “but there are lots of people lots of dogs don’t like.”

The third-floor hall was a duplicate of the one below.
Again Purley and I posted ourselves opposite the door, and Loftus came with Bootsy and knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder, and pretty soon the door opened to a two-inch crack, and a squeaky voice came through.

“You’ve got the dog.”

“Right here,” Loftus told him.

“Are you there, Sergeant?”

“Right here,” Purley answered.

“I told you that dog don’t like me. Once at a party at Phil Kampf’s—I told you. I didn’t mean to hurt it, but it thought I did. What are you trying to do, frame me?”

“Open the door. The dog’s on a leash.”

“I won’t! I told you I wouldn’t!”

Purley moved. His arm, out stiff, went over Loftus’s shoulder, and his palm met the door and kept going. The door hesitated an instant and then swung open. Standing there, holding to its edge, was a skinny individual in red-and-green-striped pajamas. The dog let out a low growl and backed up a little.

“We’re making the rounds, Mr. Aland,” Purley said, “and we couldn’t leave you out. Now you can go back to sleep. As for trying to frame you—”

He stopped because the door shut.

“You didn’t tell me,” Loftus complained, “that Aland had already fixed it for a reaction.”

“No, I thought I’d wait and see. One to go.” He headed for the stairs.

The top-floor hall had had someone’s personal attention. It was no bigger than the others, but it had a nice clean tan-colored runner, and the walls were painted the same shade and sported a few small pictures. Purley went to the rear door instead of the front, and we made room for Loftus and Bootsy by
flattening against the wall. When Loftus knocked footsteps responded at once, approaching the door, and it swung wide open. This was the painter, Ross Chaffee, and he was dressed for it, in an old brown smock. He was by far the handsomest of the tenants, tall, erect, with artistic wavy dark hair and features he must have enjoyed looking at.

I had ample time to enjoy them too as he stood smiling at us, completely at ease, obeying Purley’s prior instructions not to speak. Bootsy was also at ease. When it became quite clear that no blood was going to be shed, Purley asked, “You know the dog, don’t you, Mr. Chaffee?”