Where There's a Will (23 page)

I hung up and marched out. One of the things I didn't like about it was that if Cramer decided to get suspicious it would be a cinch for him to step to the phone and have the call traced, but by the look on his face I judged that his mind was occupied with other affairs.

At the curb in front, Cramer's car was nosing the roadster's tail. I nodded a cheerful greeting to the two dicks on the driver's seat, hopped in the roadster, and rolled. It wasn't likely that they had any instructions that would cause them to follow me, but I made sure by circling into 34th Street and halting for a couple of minutes, and then headed downtown. At that time of a July Sunday afternoon the streets were nearly deserted, and I had only a little more than a mile to go. I parked where I had the day before, a little distance east of the address, trotted to the vestibule and pushed the button under Dawson, opened the door when I heard the click, and mounted the two flights.

At the door at the end of the hall, which was halfway open, I was confronted by two evidences of
violence. A panel of the door and part of its frame was in splinters. That was one. The other was Fred Durkin's face. The left side of his jaw was swollen, and there was a bruise on his right temple with the skin raw.

“Oh,” I said. “You're the corpse, huh?”

“Huh yourself,” he retorted with Irish wit. “Look at this.” I followed him inside, and saw more evidences of violence. A table and a chair had been overturned and a couple of rugs were messed up, and lying there on the floor was Glenn Prescott. His eyes were open, staring up at us. His face was in much worse shape than Fred's, and there was blood here and there, mostly on his collar and tie and the front of his shirt.

“He came to,” Fred said, “but he won't talk. I wiped some blood off his face, but it dribbles out of his nose.”

Prescott let out a moan. “I'll—talk,” he mumbled thickly. “I'll talk if—I can. I'm afraid I'm hurt—internally.” His hand groped around his belly. “He hit me there.”

I knelt beside him and felt his pulse. Then I started feeling and poking all around. He winced and said ouch and moaned, but I couldn't find any indication of agony. Fred brought me a wet towel and I cleaned his face off some.

I stood up. “I don't think you're hurt much, but of course I'm not sure. He didn't hit you with anything but his fists, did he?”

“I don't know. He knocked me down—and I got up—and he knocked me down again—”

“Who was it, Davis?”

“I'm not going—” He moaned.

“Sure it was Davis,” Fred put in. “He must have come while I was around the corner phoning you. I came back and watched the entrance, and pretty soon this guy walked up and pushed the button and went in. After a while I heard noises. The janitor came out from below and said he heard them too. He let me in, but he said he wasn't looking for trouble and didn't come up with me. Just as I got to the top of the second flight I got it. I caught a glimpse of him, but not quick enough. My head musta hit on the corner. When I come to I was wedged in there at the turn of the stairs, and he was gone. I came up and busted in the door and here was this guy on the floor.”

I looked around, saw the phone, went to it, and dialed a number. In a minute Wolfe's voice answered.

“Archie,” I told him. “Is Cramer still there?”

“Yes.”

“Do I report?”

“Yes.”

“I'm talking from Dawson's apartment. Prescott is here on the floor bruised up a little. Davis played tunes on him and knocked Fred downstairs and went out for a walk. Fred's here.”

“Is Prescott badly hurt?”

“I don't think so.”

“Bring him here.”

“What about Cramer? His car's out front with two dicks.”

“That's all right. We are co-operating with the police.”

“Oh. Goody.”

I hung up and turned to Prescott. “Inspector Cramer is in Nero Wolfe's office and wants to see you.
We're going to put you on your feet and help you downstairs.”

He moaned. “But I may be injured—it may be dangerous—”

“I don't think so. We'll see if you can stand up. Here, Fred.”

We got him erect without anything breaking. From the way he groaned you might have thought he wasn't worth bothering with, but after we stood him up I tried his pulse and it was as good as mine. So we walked him and let him groan. When we got him down to the ground floor we sat him on a step and I went out and moved the roadster to the curb in front. Then we took him out and hoisted him in, and I climbed in behind the wheel and told Fred to hop in the rumble seat.

Fred, standing on the sidewalk, shook his head. “You don't need me. I got an errand.”

“They'll want to ask you. Get in.”

“They can ask me later. I got a certain matter.”

I looked at him. There was an edge to his voice, and a glint in his eye, that showed me there was no use arguing.

“All right,” I said, “there's one chance in a million you might find him there. If you do, don't be a sap. Remember that any citizen who sees a crime committed, like for instance assault and battery, can legally make an arrest. You may not have seen it much, but you sure felt it.”

“Go float on a rock,” he said, and tramped off. I saw that Prescott was propped in his corner, and started the car.

On the way up to 35th Street, Prescott put his
hand on my arm and said he had decided he had better go to a hospital. I didn't bother to persuade him out of it, but just kept going. In front of Wolfe's house, the two city employees in Cramer's car were obviously expecting us. They helped me ease my cargo out to the sidewalk, paying no more attention to his protests than I did as we took him up the stoop and on inside. In the hall we were met not only by Wolfe and Cramer, but also by Doc Vollmer, whose office was up the street. Wolfe took command and gave the instructions. The doctor and one of the dicks walked upstairs while I ascended with Prescott in the elevator. I left him there with them in the south bedroom, the spare on the same floor as mine, and went back down to the office.

Wolfe and Cramer were sitting there. I made my report, though there wasn't a lot to add to what I had told Wolfe on the phone. Wolfe held himself in, but I could tell by the look of his eyes that it was only the presence of company that restrained him from making pointed remarks about Fred Durkin. I gathered that the person who was really wanted to make it a good party was Mr. Eugene Davis. Cramer got his office on the phone, and from the orders he barked to some underling it was evident that Wolfe had told him all about the Davis-Dawson angle and that every cop on the force was already searching for the junior partner of the dear old firm.

Just as Cramer hung up, the doorbell started buzzing and didn't stop. I beat it for the hall, bumped into Fritz, and told him I would tend to it. I swung the door wide, and after one glance stepped aside with a welcoming grin. The extra dick was standing on the
second step, looking alert but uncertain, staring up. Confronting me was Eugene-Earl-Davis-Dawson, haggard, untidy, without a hat, and at his elbow, with a gun stuck against his ribs, was Fred Durkin.

“Well, well,” I observed approvingly.

Fred, intent on his errand, disregarded me. “March, you big ape,” he commanded, prodding with the gun, and Davis marched. I shut the door and followed them into the office. Fred kept him going right up to Wolfe's desk, and then dropped the gun in his pocket and faced his captive.

“Take a run,” he said grimly. “Or make a pass at me or something. All I ask—”

“That will do, Fred,” said Wolfe curtly. “Where did you find him?”

“At Wellman's. A joint on 8th Street. The place where—”

“Very well. Satisfactory. Is he armed?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Sit down, Mr. Davis. It looks as if—”

The door opened and Doc Vollmer entered. He saw the tableau, halted, and then approached. “Excuse me, but I have to run. Patients waiting. That man upstairs will be all right. He's got some bruises, but that's all except that his nerves are in extremely bad condition. I advise a sedative.”

“Thank you, doctor. We'll attend to the sedative. Run along.” Wolfe looked at Davis. “It's Mr. Prescott. We brought him here. It's amazing that you didn't kill him, really amazing.” He looked at the inspector. “I believe we can go ahead now, Mr. Cramer, only it would be best to have Mr. Dunn here. All of them, I suppose. If you will please phone his hotel?”

I
n the south bedroom, a hot south wind fluttered the curtains at the windows. The dick put on his coat, wiped his face and neck with his handkerchief, and smoothed his hair back with his hands. Glenn Prescott sat on a chair and groaned.

“I'm perfectly willing to talk to Wolfe,” he said in a hurt tone. “But why can't he come up here? I can't even bend over to put my shoes on.”

Having got him off of the bed and his clothes more or less arranged on him, I was tired of fooling with him. I got a shoe horn from the dresser, went over and kneeled down by him, got him shod and the strings tied, stood up and told him:

“One, two, three, go. For God's sake, do you want us to carry you?”

The dick said irritably, “There's an elevator ain't they? What more do you want?”

Prescott gritted his teeth, pushed himself upright with his hands, groaned, and took a step.

Downstairs, just inside the door of the office, he stopped short, evidently surprised at the size of the
party. The room was full, extra chairs having been brought from the front. Sara Dunn had come down from the roof and was in the corner of the bookshelves with Andy and Celia. Wolfe was at his desk and Cramer and District Attorney Skinner were at the far end of it, with Eugene Davis between them. April, May and June, between us and the desk, had their backs to us as we entered. Stauffer was on a chair next to April's, still protecting her. John Charles Dunn got up and approached, starting at Prescott's face.

“Glenn! What happened to you? Good heavens, what—”

Prescott vaguely shook his head. I doubt if he heard Dunn or even saw him. His eyes, one of them puffed half shut, were aimed straight past him, in the direction of Eugene Davis. He stood there, with me behind him. The dick had posted himself at the door.

Skinner barked, “Well?”

Wolfe said, “There's a chair for Mr. Prescott there by yours, Archie.”

I nudged Prescott's elbow and he moved across to it and lowered himself. Johnny Keems got out of my chair and moved to one in the rear alongside Saul Panzer. He knew damn well I didn't like anyone sitting in my chair.

May Hawthorne said sarcastically, “This is impressive, Mr. Wolfe.”

Wolfe's eyes moved to her. “You don't like me, do you, Miss Hawthorne? I understand that. You're a realist and I'm a romantic. But all this isn't for effect. I shall need some of you and I may need all of you. It's a job. I'm out after a murderer and he's here.” He looked at the district attorney. “It may be slippery
going, Mr. Skinner. I expect you to stick to our bargain.”

“As stated,” said Skinner sharply. “I'm not gagged and I won't be.”

“Yes, sir, as stated.” Wolfe's eyes circled around the faces and settled on the one least presentable of all. “Mr. Prescott, I know you can't talk without discomfort, so I'll try to do most of it myself. Being a lawyer, you understand of course that you are under no compulsion to answer questions, but I warn you I'm going to be pretty stubborn and disagreeable. First I'll ask you to verify a few facts I've collected. In March, 1938, your private secretary was a young woman named—what's that name, Saul?”

Saul spoke up from the rear: “Lucille Adams.”

“And when did she die?”

“Two months ago, in May, of tuberculosis, at her home at 2419—”

“Thanks. Is that correct, Mr. Prescott?”

“Why—yes,” Prescott mumbled.

“It was Miss Adams to whom you dictated Noel Hawthorne's will, following instructions he gave you?”

“I don't remember.” The mumble cleared up a little. “I suppose it was.”

“She was your private secretary at that time, and took all your confidential dictation?”

“Yes.”

A voice said gruffly, “If this is a joke it's a bad one.” It was Eugene Davis. “Is this an official investigation? The district attorney is here. Are you on his staff, Mr. Wolfe?”

“No, sir. I'm a private detective—Are you represented
by counsel, Mr. Prescott? Or do you want to be?”

“Certainly not.”

“Do you want Mr. Davis, as your counsel, interfering in our conversation?”

“No.”

“Then to go on. Regarding the routine in your office. The notebooks used by the confidential secretaries are numbered. As soon as one is filled and the contents transcribed, the notebooks are turned in and destroyed. Is that correct?”

Prescott carefully shifted in his chair, but he didn't groan. “Yes,” he said. “I'm answering the question, yes. Now I'd like to ask one. I'd like to know who has been investigating the affairs of my office, and why.”

“I have.” Wolfe's tone got a little crisper. “My agents have. Mr. Panzer and Mr. Keems, there behind you. I assure you they have done nothing actionable, and if you start pumping up indignation it will only rush blood to your head and make you more uncomfortable than you already are. You'd better keep your brain as cool as possible.”

“Get on with it,” the district attorney snapped. “We're not here for a lecture.”

Wolfe didn't even glance at him. He continued at Prescott: “Now, sir, if Mr. Skinner will stop interrupting me, I can make it pretty brief. I have been given, one after the other, three problems to solve: the will of Noel Hawthorne, the murder of Noel Hawthorne, and the murder of Naomi Karn. Whether my belief that I have solved them is sound, or whether it is merely my conceit bubbling over, rests on the validity of a series of hypotheses I have made—based, of course, on
information received. If any one of them is wrong, I am wrong. I'm going to ask you—all of you—to listen closely to them.