Where There's a Will (10 page)

Back home, I went to the kitchen and snared a glass of milk before proceeding to the office. Wolfe had just finished number two of a pair of beer bottles. I stood sipping milk and looking down at him approvingly.
The milk was a little too cold and I took my time sipping.

“Stop smirking!” he yapped.

“Hell, I'm not smirking.” I lowered the back of my lap to the edge of a chair. “I think you're wonderful. The things you put up with to keep Fritz and Theodore and me off of relief! What do you think of the famous Hawthrone girls?”

He grunted.

“The murder part of it,” I declared, “is a cinch. Titus Ames did it because he wants to dress up like a girl himself and go to Varney College and study science, and on account of loyalty to the alma mater he's going to have he killed Noel so the science fund would get the million. Now May's furious because the million has shrunk to a tithe of its former self, and with a daring imagination she sells you a fairy tale about a secret will hid in a hollow tree and that kind of crap—”

“She sold me nothing. Go to bed.”

“Do you give credence to her theory about the second will?”

He put his hands on the rim of the desk, getting ready to push his chair back, and seeing that I beat him to it by arising and striding from the scene. I kept on going, up two flights of stairs, to my own room. There, after finishing the milk, I undraped my form, shaved my legs and removed my eyelashes, and dropped languorously into the arms of the sandman.

When I rolled out at eight in the morning it was tuning up for another hot one. The air coming in at the window made you gasp for more when what you really wanted was less. So I kept the shower moderately cool
and selected a palm beach for the day's apparel. Down in the kitchen Fritz was puffing, having just returned from delivering Wolfe's breakfast tray to his room on the second floor. Glancing over the
Times
as I sat negotiating with my orange juice and eggs and rolls, I found no indication that Skinner, Cramer & Co., had opened the big bag of news regarding the death of Noel Hawthorne; there wasn't any hint of it. Apparently they realized it was going to be a busy intersection and were taking no chances. I poured my second cup of coffee and turned to the sports page, and the phone rang.

I took it there in the kitchen, on Fritz's extension, and got Fred Durkin's voice in my ear, in an urgent kind of a whisper that gave me the idea he had stepped on somebody's foot and got arrested again.

“Archie?”

“Me talking.”

“You'd better come up here right away.”

Then I was sure of it, I asked wearily, “Which precinct?”

“No, listen. Come on up here. 913 West 11th, an old brownstone. I'm here and I'm not supposed to be. Push the button under Dawson and up two flights. I'll let you in.”

“What the hell kind of a—”

“You come on, and step on it.”

The connection clicked off. I said something expressive. Fritz giggled, and I threw a roll at him which he caught with one hand and threw back, but missed me. I had to gulp the coffee, and it was as hot as hell's dishwater. Giving Fritz a message for Wolfe, I stopped in at the office for my shoulder strap and
automatic just in case, trotted a block to the garage to get the roadster, and headed downtown.

But nobody got shot. I parked a hundred feet east of the number on 11th Street, mounted the stoop to the old-fashioned vestibule, punched the button under Earl Dawson, pushed through when the click came, and went up two flights of narrow dark stairs. A door at the end of the hall opened cautiously and gave me a glimpse of Fred's map of Ireland. I walked to it, shoved it open and went in, and closed it again.

Fred whispered, “Jesus, I didn't know what to do.”

I glanced around. It was a big room with nice rugs on a polished floor and comfortable chairs and so forth. No inhabitants were in sight.

“Lovely place you've got,” I observed. “It would look better—”

“Shut up,” Fred hissed. He was making for a door to an inner room and crooking a finger at me. “Come here and look.”

I followed him through the door. This room was smaller, with another nice rug, a couple of chairs, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, and a big fine-looking bed. I focused my gaze on the man who was lying on the bed, and saw that he checked with the description Saul had given of the item Naomi Karn had met at Santoretti's, in spite of a couple of missing details. The blue shirt, gray four-in-hand, and gray tropical worsted coat were there on him, but below them was only white drawers, bare legs, and blue socks and garters. He was breathing like a geyser getting ready to shoot.

Fred, looking down at him proudly, whispered, “He groaned when I pulled his pants off, so I quit.”

I nodded. “He don't look very dignified. Have you named him yet?”

“Yeah, but it's a mix-up. It says Dawson downstairs, and this is where he said to bring him, and he had keys, but that's not his name. His name's Eugene Davis, and he's in a law firm; Dunwoodie, Prescott & Davis, 40 Broadway.”

I
gave Fred an eye. The comic aspect of things retreated into the wings.

“What makes you think so?” I demanded.

“I frisked him. Look there on the dresser.”

I tiptoed across to inspect the little heap of articles. Among other things, a driving license for Eugene Davis. A membership card in the New York County Bar Association for Eugene Davis, of Dunwoodie, Prescott & Davis. A pass to the New York World's Fair 1939, with a picture of him thereon. An accident insurance identification card. Three letters received by Eugene Davis at his business address. Two snapshots of Naomi Karn, one in a bathing suit. …

I told Fred, “Go and stay at the hall door and scream if anyone comes. I'm going to browse around.”

I made it snappy but thorough. Davis lay there sucking it in like a bear caught short on Atmosphere common. I covered it all, that bedroom and a smaller one, bathroom, kitchenette, and the big living room, including closets. I would have floated right out of a window if I had found a last will and testament of Noel
Hawthorne dated subsequent to March 7th, 1938, but I didn't. Nor anything else that seemed pertinent to a will or a murder or any phenomenon I was interested in, unless you want to count eight more pictures of Naomi Karn, of various shapes and sizes, three of them inscribed “To Gene,” with dates in 1935 and 1936. Even the refrigerator was empty. I took a parting look at the member of the bar, collected Fred and escorted him out and down to the street and into the roadster, drove around the corner onto Sixth Avenue, drew up at the curb in the morning shadow of the buildings, and demanded:

“How come?”

Fred protested, “We ought to park where we can see—”

“He'll be there for hours. Tell Papa.”

“Well, I tailed him—”

“Did he and the female subject leave Santoretti's together?”

“Yeah, at eleven o'clock. They walked west to Lexington, with me on foot and Saul stringing along in his bus. He put her in a taxi and Saul followed it. He stood and watched the taxi, going uptown, until it was out of sight, and then he started walking south as if he'd just remembered something he'd left in Florida. He's a giraffe. I damn near ran my legs off. The damn fool walked clear to 8th Street!”

“We'll warn him not to do that again. How you must have suffered. Skip things like that. I can't bear it.”

“Go spit up a rope. He went into a place on 8th Street near Sixth, a bar and restaurant named Wellman's. I happen to know a guy that works there. I
waited outside a while, and then I went in and saw that Sam was there filling and spilling—he's the guy I know. I bought a drink and chinned with him. The subject was there at the bar taking on cargo. He would sip at one maybe ten minutes and then down it would go and he'd get a refill. After that had been going on for an hour and a half Sam began frowning at him and I asked Sam about him. By the way, I had to turn loose of two dollars and sixty cents for refreshments.”

“I'll bet you did. Wait till Wolfe sees the expense account, I won't pass it.”

“Now, look here, Archie—”

“I'll see. Finish your report to your superior.”

“Wait till I laugh. Haw. Sam said the subject was a good customer, too damn good sometimes. His name was Dawson and he lived in the neighborhood. A dozen times in the past two years Sam had had to get him home in a taxi. Well, it went on and on. After a while he staggered over to a table and sat down and asked for more. Finally he flopped. Sam and I made a couple of efforts to straighten him up, but he was out. So I offered to see him home, and Sam thought that was swell of me, and so did I until I started carrying him up that two flights of stairs. He weighs two hundred if he weighs an ounce.”

“Saul says a hundred and seventy.”

“Saul didn't carry him upstairs. It was a quarter after five when I got him here. I took his pants and shoes off, and then sat and thought it over. The main thing was, why should I get you out of bed at that hour? I know how you are before breakfast—”

“So you took a nap and then phoned an SOS as if—”

“I didn't take a nap. I just wanted you to realize—”

“Okay. Save it. I may as well admit that the boss will pay for the drinks. I also admit it's handy your knowing so many Sams in so many bars. I'll be back pretty soon.”

I hopped out, went to the corner and entered a drugstore, found a phone booth, and dialed a number. A familiar voice said hello.

“This is Archie, Fritz. Give the plant rooms a buzz.”

“Mr. Wolfe isn't up there.”

I glanced at my wrist watch and saw 10:05. “What are you talking about? Certainly he's up there.”

“No, really, Archie. Mr. Wolfe has gone out.”

“You're crazy. If he told you to say that—who does he think he's kidding, anyhow? Ring the plant rooms.”

“But, Archie, I tell you he went. He received a telephone call and went. He gave me messages for you—wait—I wrote them down—First, Saul reported and he arranged to have Orrie relieve him. Second, that owing to your absence he would have to ride in a taxicab. Third, that you are to go in the sedan to the residence of Mr. Hawthorne, deceased, on 67th Street.”

“Is this straight, Fritz?”

“Honest for God, Archie. It took my breath.”

“I'll bet it did.”

I hung up and went back out to the car and told Fred:

“A new era has begun. The earth has turned around and started the other way. Mr. Wolfe has left home in a taxicab to work on a case.”

“Huh? Nuts.”

“Nope. As Fritz says, honest for God. He really has. So if you'll—”

“But Jesus, Archie. He'll get killed or something.”

“Don't I know it? You beat it. Go on home and finish your nap. Your friend Davis is set for several hours at least. If we need you I'll give you a ring.”

“But if Mr. Wolfe—”

“I'll tend to him.”

He climbed out and stood there shaking his head and looking worried as I drove off. I wasn't worried, but I was slightly dazed, as I headed the roadster north. Arriving at the garage on Eleventh Avenue, I transferred to the sedan, circled down the ramp to the street, and started north again. I figured that it must be the state of the bank account that was responsible for Wolfe's shattering his inflexible rule never to go calling on business, but though I knew he was concerned about it I hadn't realized that he was in a condition of absolute frenzy. I was feeling pretty sorry for him as I parked the sedan on 67th Street and walked to the entrance of the Hawthorne stone pile.

There were no city employees standing around and no reporters or photographers climbing in at the windows, so I concluded that Skinner and Cramer still hadn't blown the horn for the busy intersection. The butler who opened the door had distinguished ancestry oozing from every pore. I said:

“Good morning, Jeeves. I'm Lord Goodwin. If Mr. Nero Wolfe got here alive, he's expecting me. A big fat man. Is he here?”

“Yes, sir.” He permitted me to slide through. “Your hat, sir? This way if you please, sir.” He moved across the large entrance hall to a doorway and stood
aside for me. “I shall inform Mr. Dunn and Mr. Wolfe that you are here.” I sauntered by him with a nod and he went off.

So that was why Wolfe was zooming around like a wren building a nest. It would have been more pat to our purpose if it had been the secretary of the treasury instead of the secretary of state, but you can't have a silver lining without a cloud. I shrugged it off and glanced around. With all its size and elegant and successful effort to live up to the butler, the room was not what I would live in if my rich uncle died. There were too many chairs that looked as if they had been made to have their pictures taken instead of to sit on. The only thing I saw that I liked was a marble statue over in a corner of a woman reaching for a bath towel—at least she had an arm stretched as if she was reaching for something, and she was ready for a towel. I strolled across to appreciate it, and, as I stood doing so, got a certain feeling in the back of my neck, though I hadn't heard a sound. I whirled on my heel, and saw what had caused it. Mrs. Noel Hawthorne was there at the other end of the room, facing me. That is, she would have been facing me if she had had a face. She had on a long gray dress that reached to her ankles, and the veil was the same gray. She just stood there.

I was certainly allergic to that damn veil. There was something about it that was bad for my nerves. I wanted to say, “Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne,” with my customary suavity, but had the feeling it would come out a yell, so I said nothing. Neither did she. After she had stood there an hour, which I suppose was actually nine seconds, she turned and,
noiselessly on the thick carpet, disappeared the other side of some draperies. I strode across the room as if I was going to do something; I suppose if I had had my sword handy I would have lunged through the drapery with it like Hamlet in the third act. Before I got there a voice from the rear stopped me: