Where There's a Will (22 page)

“And you, Mr. Stauffer? How long did you stay behind the curtain?”

“I stayed a while because I thought April might come back. Then when Goodwin looked in and saw me, I realized that she wouldn't. I left a few seconds after that, by the rear.”

“Miss Karn was there sitting on a chair when you left?”

“I suppose she was. I didn't see her.”

Wolfe's gaze swept the faces. “Here's a question for all of you. When Mr. Goodwin left the living room after a brief conversation with Miss Karn, it was ten minutes past three. Has anyone admitted seeing her there, alive, after that?”

They all shook their heads. Dunn said, “Prescott tells me that Davis said Miss Karn was not in the living room when he entered it a little before five o'clock.”

“Did Turner take Davis to the living room?”

“No. They let me read Turner's statement. Davis entered the living room alone and Turner went upstairs to find Prescott.”

“Does Davis admit that?”

“He hasn't admitted anything. They can't find him. At least they hadn't found him at noon today.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe's eyes half closed. “Do you know where he is?”

“Of course not. How could I?”

“I don't know, I'm asking. I should think Prescott might know. Davis bolted out of the library yesterday at a quarter to six, and Prescott went after him a moment later. What about that?”

“Prescott says he reached the entrance hall just as Davis was opening the front door to leave. He called to him, but Davis went on out without answering. Turner was there and his statement verifies that. Stauffer and I were in the living room with that police lieutenant and Ritchie of the Cosmopolitan Trust. I myself heard Prescott's voice calling Davis's name, and went to the hall and asked him to join us in the living room. A few minutes later we sent Turner upstairs to ask you to come down.” Dunn's voice was better, and a gleam of life, even intelligence, was showing itself in his eyes. He fixed them on Wolfe, calculating, and suddenly demanded, “What about Davis?”

Wolfe shook his head. “Nothing much. Curiosity. The fact that he can't be found—”

“I don't believe it.” Dunn's voice was getting obstreperous. “Your man was telling you something about Davis yesterday—about finding him somewhere drunk. If you expect me to have confidence in you, at least you can give me an idea of what—”

“No, I can't!” Wolfe cut him off. “What good will an idea do you? I'll give you something much better than an idea, as soon as I can, and I'll let you know when it's ready. You ought to eat something.” He looked around. “All of you. Eat something and take off your shoes and lie down a while.”

“My Lord,” May Hawthorne said. “If you're a humbug you're a good one. It's four o'clock and you're going upstairs to your orchids.”

“I am,” Wolfe agreed. “And arrange a few things, including my mind.” He arose, and looked at Sara. “If you'll come with me, Miss Dunn? You said you'd like to.”

W
hen Inspector Cramer arrived, a little before six o'clock, I was in the kitchen squeezing lemons. Various things had happened during the hundred minutes since Wolfe had gone off upstairs with Sara Dunn, approximately in this order:

The visitors had departed, not much less downhearted than when they arrived, after informing us that they had checked out of the Hawthorne mansion on 67th Street and moved to a hotel. Daisy's chumminess with the police accounted for that.

Wolfe had phoned some orders down from the roof. To send Orrie Cather up to him for instructions was the first one. I had done so, and a little later Orrie had come down and left the house. Second, to send Fred Durkin to the address on 11th Street where Eugene Davis was Earl Dawson, with instructions to get him and bring him to the office. I instructed Fred and dispatched him. Third, to get Raymond Plehn on the phone if possible. That one was entirely beyond me. Plehn was the horticultural expert of Ditson and Company, the big wholesale florists. It was still beyond
me after I got him, and listened in, and heard Wolfe ask him to come down to the house as soon as possible.

Saul Panzer and Johnny Keems both phoned in, and in both cases Wolfe told me to connect them upstairs and no record was needed, which meant that my powers of dissimulation were not to be subjected to an undue strain, and it didn't help my temper any that I didn't even know for whose benefit the dissembling would have been necessary.

Another thing that failed to soothe my temper was the fact that I indulged in a private session of “What's Wrong with this Picture?” and it didn't get me anywhere. I got the six snapshots from the safe and took them to a window and studied them with the big glass in the strong light, and as far as solving a murder was concerned I might as well have been studying picture post cards from the Grand Canyon. If it was there, it wasn't there for me; but I was going on with it when Raymond Plehn arrived. I announced him, and Wolfe told me to have Fritz take him up in the elevator, together with the envelope of snapshots, the magnifying glass, and the thing in the vase in the kitchen which Fred had brought back from Rockland County with his bag of clues. That put me in a first-class mood. I knew it was on the level, for he wouldn't have got Plehn down there just to make me itch, but I paced the office floor and concentrated on it and couldn't even get within a mile of a wild guess. I was still stabbing around at it when I heard the elevator descending and Fritz leading Plehn out at the front door. He came to the office to give me the envelope,
which I returned to the drawer in the safe without any further attempt at homework.

Meanwhile there had been two more phone calls. John Charles Dunn first, from his hotel room, to say that April had got back from the district attorney's office safe and sound, with nothing worse than a bad headache, and that Andy Dunn had returned with her but not Prescott. Prescott had remained with them throughout the interview, but then had left them, sending a message to Dunn that he would communicate with him later. The second call was from Fred Durkin. He reported that he had rung the bell marked “Dawson” and got no response, had got admitted by the janitor and gone up to the apartment, and had found the door locked and got no reply to knocks or kicks. He was phoning from a drugstore around the corner. I told him to hold the wire, rang Wolfe on the house line, and relayed instructions to Fred to camp.

Shortly after that, while I was in the kitchen squeezing lemons, Cramer arrived. Fritz put him in the office, and pretty soon I joined him there and offered him a glass of good cold lemonade. He wouldn't even say no, he merely growled. From the dirty look he gave me, you might have thought I had written to the mayor about him.

I put both glasses on my desk, sat down and told him, “This weather is simply frightful,” and stirred with a spoon.

“To hell with you,” he observed. “I want to see Wolfe.”

“Okay, brother.” I sipped lemonade. “He'll be down in a few minutes. Nothing you say to him will hurt my feelings any. I intend to resign. He's being crafty and
mysterious again, and I'm fed up with it. You know? People phoning in by the dozen, and I mustn't listen because I can't keep my face straight. Phooey. What I am, I'm a helot. A damn flunky. How's chances for a job on the force?”

“Shut up.”

“All right, I'll surprise you. I'll shut up.” I did so, and drank lemonade. I had finished the first glass and was starting on the second when Wolfe entered. Apparently he had left Sara up with Theodore Horstmann, for he was alone. He greeted Cramer, got seated behind his desk, rang for beer, and heaved a sigh.

He regarded the inspector with his eyes nearly shut. “Something new?”

“No.” Cramer's voice wasn't pleasant. “Something old.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and glanced at it, and slid it across the desk. “Take a look at that.”

Wolfe picked it up, glanced over it, let it fall to the desk, and leaned back again. A little noise came from him, something between a gurgle and a chuckle. “That thing's dated today,” he declared. “I wouldn't call that old.”

“No.” Cramer agreed, “that part of it's fresh enough. But what made it necessary—your same old tricks. You've got no kick coming. I offered you an open road this morning, and you wouldn't take it. Okay, I'm doing you a favor by coming after you myself. You've done it once too often. Even if I was inclined to play tag with you, I couldn't. Everybody from the President of the United States down to the president of the senior class at Varney College is
trying to horn in. I swear to God. But I'm not apologizing.” He turned a thumb to point it at the paper on the desk. “Skinner suggested that, but I didn't oppose it. I've warned you fifty times you'd fall in some day, and this is it. What the hell did you think, because your clients are people of position and power and influence you could depend on them to pull you out, no matter—”

“I don't depend on my clients. They depend on me.”

“Well, they're out of luck this time. I gave you plenty of chance this morning. A chance to spill what Mrs. Hawthorne told you about young Dunn finding that cornflower. A chance to come clean about April Hawthorne's being there with Naomi Karn disguised with a veil. Just to show you there's no out on that, we know that Goodwin saw her there and three seconds later saw Mrs. Hawthorne in the library with you. It's things like those we're going to discuss downtown, those and a few others. Come on, get your hat. I've got a car outside that don't jolt much.”

Wolfe looked mildly incredulous, and spoke mildly. “Nonsense. Tell me what you want.”

“I told you this morning, and what good did it do me?” Cramer arose. “Come on, they're waiting for us down at Skinner's office.”

“Today is Sunday, Mr. Cramer.”

“Correct. I doubt if you can get bail before tomorrow. We'll find a cot big enough for you.”

“You haven't got one. This is grotesque.”

“Sure it is. Come on. I may get tired of being polite.”

“You mean this. Do you?”

“I do, you know.”

“Then I request a courtesy. I want three or four minutes to dictate a letter. In your presence.”

Cramer scowled at him suspiciously. “Who to?”

“You'll hear it.”

Cramer hesitated a moment, sat down, and growled, “Go ahead.”

Wolfe said, “Your notebook, Archie.” I opened the drawer and got it out. He leaned back and closed his eyes and started off in his usual smooth monotone:

“To W. B. Oliver, Editor of the
Gazette.
Dear Mr. Oliver. Inspector Fergus Cramer has arrested me as a material witness in the Hawthorne-Karn murder case, and I may be unable to get out on bail before morning. I therefore wish to expose him and his superiors to ridicule and derision, and luckily am in a position to do so. You know whether my word may be relied upon. I suggest that you publish these facts in your Monday city edition: That my arrest was motivated by professional pique. That by my own brilliant and ingenious interpretation of evidence, I have discovered the identity of the murderer. That I am not prepared as yet to disclose the murderer's identity to the police, for fear their bungling—hint at worse if you care to—will prematurely spring a trap I have set for the criminal. That when the time comes—you may say soon—the arrest will be made by representatives of the
Gazette
, and the murderer will be delivered by them to the police, together with conclusive evidence of guilt. I shall certainly be out on bail by Monday noon at the latest, and if you will kindly come to my house at 1:30 for lunch, we can discuss details, including the sum your paper will be willing to pay for this coup. With the best wishes and regards, cordially
yours. Sign my name and make sure it reaches Mr. Oliver before ten o'clock tonight.”

Wolfe got to his feet, grunting as usual. “Well, sir. I'm ready.”

Cramer, not stirring, growled, “Oliver won't get that. I take Goodwin too.”

Wolfe shrugged. “That would delay it twenty-four hours. He would publish Tuesday instead of Monday.”

“He wouldn't dare. Neither would you. You know the law. Oliver wouldn't dare touch it. This case—”

“Bah. No matter what the law is, if we deliver the murderer and the evidence we'll be heroes. I'm ready to go.”

“You'll lose your license.”

“I'll collect enough from the
Gazette
to retire on.”

“How much of that is bluff?”

“None of it. I'm giving Mr. Oliver my word.”

Cramer glared at me. I grinned at him sympathetically. He cocked his head at Wolfe, and suddenly acquired an excess of blood above the neck and made an exhibition of himself. He jerked up, slammed the desk with his fist, and yelled at Wolfe. “Sit down! You goddamn rhinoceros! Sit down!”

The phone rang.

I swiveled and got it, spoke to it, and heard Fred Durkin's voice, low, husky and urgent:

“Archie? Come up here as quick as you can! I'm in that place again, and I've got a corpse or he soon will be!”

“I'm sorry,” I said politely, “but I haven't had a chance to speak to Mr. Wolfe about it. I'm sure he can't come now—he's engaged here with a visitor from the police—hold the wire, please.” I addressed Wolfe,
with the receiver close enough so Fred would get it too: “This is that fellow Dawson. He phoned this afternoon. He's got a crate of Cattleya Mossiae from Venezuela, and he wants a hundred bucks for a dozen. He's had an offer—”

“I can't go now.”

“I know you can't—”

“But you can. Tell him you'll be there right away.”

I spoke to the phone: “Mr. Wolfe says he wants them if they're in good condition, Mr. Dawson. I'll come and take a look at them. You can expect me in fifteen minutes.”