Where There's a Will (17 page)

“Speak,” I said listlessly.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Dunn would like to see Mr. Wolfe in the living room.”

“Bring me a derrick.” I waved him away. “You've done your share. I'll get him there if I can.”

He went. I waited a full minute and then demanded, “Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

No answer. I waited another minute. “Look here. You are not in your own home. You came here of your own volition. It's not Dunn's fault that this thing is turning into a plate of sour hash, unless he killed Hawthorne himself. He invited you here and you came. Either go down and see what he wants, or let's go home and starve.”

He stirred, slowly opened his eyes, and pronounced a word in some foreign tongue which I have never bothered to ask him to translate, because it sounds as if it couldn't be printed anyway. He got out of his chair, and he moved toward the door. I followed.

We found they were having a convention in the living room. The delegates consisted of John Charles Dunn, Glenn Prescott, Osric Stauffer, a wiry little squirt whom I recognized as Detective-Lieutenant Bronson of the police, and a six-footer in a hot and dignified three-piece suit who looked concentrated and uncomfortable. By the introduction, made by Dunn, he was identified as Mr. Ritchie of the Cosmopolitan Trust Company, executor of Noel Hawthorne's estate.

Dunn also explained why we had been ousted from the library. The police had asked for permission to inspect the private papers of Hawthorne, most of which were in a safe built into the library wall, and the trust company had granted it, on condition that they should have a representative present. That was Mr. Ritchie. It was also thought desirable that Hawthorne's personal attorney should be there. That was Mr. Prescott. And to protect, if necessary, the confidential affairs of Daniel Cullen and Company, they wanted a man there too. That was Mr. Stauffer.

Bronson, Stauffer, Prescott and Ritchie marched off upstairs to open the safe. I thought to myself, they'll find another will as sure as water's wet, and then we'll have to solve the damn murder to get any fee at all.

John Charles Dunn was asking Wolfe if he had made any progress, and Wolfe was replying grumpily that he hadn't. I knew better than to try any badgering
in the presence of Dunn, but I thought I might as well try something, so I crossed the room to where the draperies were and pulled them open, thinking to show Wolfe where I had found Stauffer in ambush. But there was more than that there to show him, if he had been beside me, though I nearly missed it. She must have heard me, or seen me through a slit, approaching. All I saw was the back of the gray gown, and the back of her head, as she went through the door in the right rear corner.

I called to Wolfe and Dunn, “Come here a minute!”

“What is it?”

“Come here and I'll show you.” They crossed to me. I held the curtain open. “I admit it's her house, but it's a bad habit to get into anyhow. When I was in here alone this morning, Mrs. Hawthorne suddenly appeared from behind these drapes and then vanished. This is also the ambush I mentioned in that note I gave you while she was in the library. And she was in here just now. When I lifted the curtain she was beating it through that door. Not that it seems to be the answer to anything, but I thought you'd like to know.”

“You saw her leaving just now?”

“Yes, sir. Practicing, do you suppose?”

“I have no idea. As you say, it's her house. Since she would have been quite welcome—what's the matter, Mr. Dunn?”

Dunn was looking queer. His jaw was working and his eyes were bulging, though his stare seemed to be directed nowhere in particular, certainly not at us. He muttered something unintelligible and stared around
as if he expected to see something. Wolfe asked him again what was the matter.

“It was there!” he said, pointing to the chair the counterfeit Daisy had been sitting on when I found her with Naomi Karn. “We were right there!”

“Who were? When?”

“I was! With two men. To settle that Argentina loan. I came up from Washington to meet them, and wanted to keep the meeting secret. Noel was in Europe. I telephoned Daisy, and she said she wouldn't be at home that evening—she would instruct Turner to let us in. It's incredible! She didn't know who I was meeting or what it was about! Good God!”

“A chronic eavesdropper doesn't require any special inducement,” said Wolfe dryly.

“She hid here and listened! She must have! And she told Noel—and he—” Dunn choked it off abruptly. In a moment he went on. “No, I'm wrong. I remember now. Daria—one of the men mentioned these curtains, and I got up and parted them and looked in here. It was empty. There wasn't much light, only what came from the opening in the curtains, but it was empty.”

“Wait a minute,” I told him. “I like this idea, let's hang onto it. She could have entered by that door after you looked behind the curtains. Better yet, she could have simply ducked behind the bar when she heard one of you mention the curtains.”

Wolfe objected, “There's not enough room.”

“Sure there's enough room.” I was all for it. “Don't judge other people by yourself. Hell, I could hide there easily. Look, I'll give you a demonstration.”

I stepped to the open end of the bar.

But the demonstration was never made. Sliding
behind the bar, I stumbled on something and nearly fell. I looked to see what it was, and a mouse ran up my spine. I stooped to see better, but the light was too dim, and I said, “There's a light switch on the wall. Turn it on.”

Dunn did so. Wolfe, hearing my tone, inquired sharply, “What's the matter with you?”

I had to brace my knee against the edge of the bottom shelf so as not to kneel on her in that cramped space. After looking and feeling for a few seconds, I scrambled upright and told them, “It's Naomi Karn. Dead. Strangled with that blue linen wrap she was wearing tied around her throat.”

W
olfe grunted, compressed his lips, and glared at me ferociously, as if I had done it myself. John Charles Dunn showed admirable presence of mind. He didn't faint or scream. His face expressed shock and consternation, naturally, but almost immediately his jaw set and he moved, joined me at the end of the bar and looked in there at it. After a moment he looked at me.

“She's dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're sure.”

“Yes, sir.”

He put his hand on the edge of the bar for support. Then he moved again, not very steadily. I moved faster, got a chair from the other side of the draperies, and slid it behind him. He sat on it, gripped his knees with his fingers, and told the space in front of him, “This is the end of everything.”

Wolfe said grimly, “Or the beginning. Archie, I want two minutes. In two minutes go up and notify Lieutenant Bronson.”

I looked approvingly at his broad back as it passed through the curtains. I had no idea what he was going to do with the two minutes, but normal people aren't supposed to understand what geniuses are up to. I timed it by the second hand of my watch. Dunn sat there making no sound, gripping his knees and gazing at space. When the second hand had completed two revolutions, and was halfway around again for good measure, I told him, “You'd better stay here. You ought to breathe deeper. Take some deep breaths.”

No one was in sight in the main hall, the stairs, or the upper corridor. I opened the door to the library and walked in. From the group around the desk, on which batches of papers were piled, four pairs of eyes turned my way in surprise. I was aware that the proper stunt was to summon the officer of the law, lead him downstairs and show it to him, and let nature take its course, but I was curious to see the expression on a couple of faces, so I announced distinctly:

“We have made a discovery downstairs. In the bar back of the drapes in the living room. Naomi Karn is there on the floor, dead.”

I got nothing very definite, as usual. Stauffer merely gawked at me. Prescott merely jerked his head up and looked startled. Mr. Ritchie appeared to be annoyed. Lieutenant Bronson snapped at me, “Dead? Who's Naomi Karn?”

“A woman,” I replied. “The one that inherited Hawthorne's pile. She has a thing fastened around her throat and her tongue is sticking out. Mr. Dunn is down there. You might as well go ahead and use that phone—”

He told the others brusquely, “You men stay here
and watch these papers,” and me, “Come along,” as he went by headed for the door. I trotted behind, down the stairs and through the entrance hall and living room, circled around him to pull the drapery aside for him to pass through, and told him, “There behind the bar.” Dunn was still on his chair. Bronson slid into the narrow space and stooped over. Pretty soon he straightened up again and spoke:

“I'm going to the library and use the phone. I'd appreciate it, Mr. Dunn, if you'll kindly stay here until I get back.” He eyed me. “You're Goodwin, Nero Wolfe's man.”

“Right.”

“Where's Wolfe?”

“He went somewhere upstairs, I guess. He sent me to notify you.”

“Was he with you when you found it?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Up to now? Oh, three-four minutes.”

“Will you please stay at the front door while I'm upstairs? No one is to leave the house.”

“Sure, glad to.”

I went with him as far as the main hall.

Considering the size of that house and the number of its occupants, and in view of the restrictions and complications that were to begin in about six minutes with the arrival of the first contingent of city employees in a radio car, there is no telling when I would have realized what Nero Wolfe had done with that two minutes he had said he wanted, if it hadn't been for my habit of looking in all directions. But possibly there was some faint suspicion in the back of my mind, or I
wouldn't have opened the entrance door and stepped out for a look around, and noticed that something was missing. I craned my neck for an inspection of the cars parked in that short block, and verified it. Absolutely, the sedan was gone. It wasn't where I had parked it, and it wasn't there at all.

But of course Wolfe hadn't driven off in it himself, since, although theoretically he knew how to drive, he would have collapsed with terror at the mere idea. But since Naomi Karn hadn't left the house, and therefore Orrie Cather was still on the job, Wolfe would have known that a chauffeur was available. I sent my gaze in the other direction, toward the areaway across the street where I had found Orrie. He wasn't there. He wasn't in sight. That cinched it. If Orrie had still been around he would have had an eye on that entrance, and would have seen me, and would have made himself visible.

I stood and let the conviction seep into my soul. “I can't say it any better than that,” I muttered bitterly to myself. “Normal people aren't supposed to understand what geniuses are up to. If only I had sunk my toe in his fundament as he went through those curtains.”

A siren sounded from around the corner, a little green car came curving into 67th, jerked to a stop at the curb, and two men in uniform hopped out and started for me. I had left the door ajar, and swung it open for them to enter.

That was the beginning of as dreary and unprofitable a six-hour stretch as I've ever struggled through. By midnight I was ready to bite holes in the windows. On account of the kind of individuals involved,
by their being on the premises if by nothing else, the whole damn city and county payroll showed up sooner or later, from the commissioner and the district attorney on down. Wherever you stepped it was on a toe. As far as picking up any items for myself was concerned, I had about as much chance as a poodle in a pack of bloodhounds. Throughout the entire session, about every ten minutes someone came up to me and asked me where Nero Wolfe was. That alone got so obnoxious I had to grit my teeth to keep from slugging some high official.

Soon after the first squad men arrived, Lieutenant Bronson had me in the music room. That interview was brief and unimportant; about all he wanted was the details of our finding the body. I gave it to him complete and straight. I wouldn't have minded keeping our knowledge of Daisy's addiction to eavesdropping for the firm's private use, in case it should come in handy, but I had to give a reason for my looking behind the bar, and it was too risky to invent one, since he had already had a talk with Dunn, and Dunn had probably told him just how it was. So I did too. When it was over he chased me upstairs. I was to remain and so forth. The first thing he asked me, and the last, was “Where's Wolfe?”

I went in the library and saw there was no one there but Ritchie of the Cosmopolitan Trust, sitting looking glum and offended, and a dick I didn't know, so I went out again. Prescott came trotting down the hall, saw me, stopped beside me, glanced around, and asked in an undertone, “Where's Wolfe?”

“I don't know. Don't ask me again. I don't know.”

“He must have—”

“I don't know!”

“Don't talk so loud. We've got to keep Gene Davis out of this.” He was urgent, pleading. “No one saw him but Wolfe and you and me. I'm sure if Wolfe were here I could convince him. They mustn't know Gene was here. When they ask you—”

“Not a chance. You'd better compose your faculties. The butler let him in.”

“But I can tell Turner, I can persuade him—”

“No, sir. There are about nine things the cops won't find out from me, but that isn't one of them. Take my advice and never conspire with a butler.”

He grabbed my lapel. “But I tell you, if they learn Davis was here, if they once get started after him—”

“I can't help it, Mr. Prescott. Sorry. No one likes to keep a secret from a cop any more than I do, but that would be just begging for trouble. I'll do this much, I'll make them ask for it, I won't volunteer it—”