Death of a Dude

Chapter 14

They came at ten minutes past one.

Wolfe and I were seated in the two best chairs on the terrace, discussing the character and career of Woodrow Stepanian. With the women gone, and Wade gone, we were as alone as if we had been in the old brownstone on West 35th Street. We hadn’t seen Wade go, so he had probably crossed the creek for a try for a car at the ranch, as Wolfe had supposed. We had been very busy. I had put the clothes I had worn in jail out to air, draped on bushes, because there wouldn’t be time to have them washed or cleaned. I had done a thorough job on Wade’s room, not to get anything on or about him, but to collect and remove everything connected with the book he wasn’t going to write. It filled two cartons, which I took to Lily’s room. I took a look around her room, and mine, and the big room, to see if anything was missing, but that was just a professional gesture, since he had left on foot in a hurry and needed to travel light. I had phoned Mid-Continent Airlines in Helena to reserve two seats on the morning flight to Denver and a connecting flight to New York. Wolfe had done four things: packed most of his belongings, inspected every shelf and cupboard in the storeroom, but not the freezers, to get ingredients for a real Nero Wolfe trout deal, read a chapter in the book about Indians, and made a casserole of eggs boulangère for our early lunch. Before joining him on the terrace I had locked the windows and outside doors of the cabin.

It was Haight’s black Olds sedan that came down the lane and stopped right in the middle of the clearing. Three men climbed out — Haight, Ed Welch, and a six-foot square-jawed guy in a blue suit that looked as if it had been traveled in, which was to be expected if he had just arrived from St. Louis. All the attention Wolfe and I got was side glances. The stranger came and stood at the edge of the terrace, and Haight and Welch went and pushed the button at the cabin door. Getting no response, they knocked, twice, the second time good and loud. Haight pulled the screen door open and tried the knob of the solid one with no luck. He said something to Welch, and Welch went to the other door, to the hall, and tried that. He returned to Haight, and they both left the terrace at the right end and disappeared around the corner of Lily’s room. The stranger turned and approached Wolfe and me, and spoke. “I’m Sergeant Schwartz of the St. Louis police. I believe you’re Nero Wolfe.”

Wolfe nodded. “I am. And Mr. Archie Goodwin. You may as well sit.”

“Thank you very much. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Goodwin.” But he didn’t sit; he stood and looked around at the scenery, and in a couple of minutes the other two appeared, at the left, having circled the house. Haight came and confronted me and demanded, “Where’s Miss Rowan?”

I shook my head. “I’m out on bail. Standing mute.”

“You goddam punk, where’s Wade Worthy?”

I tapped my lips with a fingertip.

Wolfe said, “I’m articulate, Mr. Haight. But I like eyes at a level, so you’ll have to sit down if you want to talk.”

“Where’s Wade Worthy?”

“Sit down or leave. All of you. This will take a while. Carl Yaeger, alias Wade Worthy, is not on the premises.”

“Where is he?”

“Sit down or go.”

Sergeant Schwartz was moving. He went to a chair facing Wolfe, sat, and asked politely, “Where is Carl Yaeger, Mr. Wolfe?”

“I don’t know. I should mention that we were expecting you, Mr. Schwartz. I assume you have met Mr. Saul Panzer, whom I sent to St. Louis. Having spoken with him on the telephone late last evening, I knew you were coming.”

Schwartz nodded. “I knew you knew. You don’t know where Carl Yaeger is?”

“No.”

“When did you see him last?”

“About four—” Wolfe stopped because of the noise made by the chairs Haight and Welch were shoving. When they were in them he said, “About four hours ago. But it—”

“Is he in the cabin?” Haight demanded.

“No. I said—”

“Why are the doors locked with you sitting out here?”

“To keep you from entering. There is no one inside. The keys are in Mr. Goodwin’s pocket. We preferred not to let you invade Miss Rowan’s house in her absence. I have important information for you, Mr. Haight, about Wade Worthy, but I’ll supply it only in proper sequence without interruptions. If you won’t take it that way you won’t get it.”

“The information I want, I want to know where he is.”

“I’ll get to that. But I’ll start at the beginning. Nineteen days ago, in the morning of Thursday, July twenty-fifth, Philip Brodell went—”

“To hell with Philip Brodell! I want—”

“Shut up.”

You would have to hear that particular tone of Wolfe’s to appreciate it. I don’t know how he does it. It wasn’t anything like as loud as Haight’s bark, but it cut through and stopped him.

“You’ll hear this as I choose to tell it,” Wolfe said, “or not at all. That Thursday morning Philip Brodell went for a walk, alone, for a look at Berry Creek — as he told Sam Peacock. Reaching the creek, he continued downstream as far as this cabin — or, alternatively, Wade Worthy had gone upstream from the cabin. Which, isn’t essential; the essential point is that Brodell saw Worthy and recognized him as Carl Yaeger, and Worthy knew it. They may have exchanged words, but that isn’t essential either. Brodell returned from his walk, had lunch, and took a nap. The question, why didn’t he telephone someone in St. Louis immediately to tell of his seeing Carl Yaeger, is one of many questions that will never be answered, since both Brodell and Peacock are dead. At three o’clock, encountering Sam Peacock as he left to go to Blue Grouse Ridge to pick huckleberries, Brodell told him that he had that morning seen a murderer. Precisely what he—”

“You can’t prove any of this,” Haight said. He had switched to Wyatt Earp. “Peacock’s dead. I don’t believe a word of it, and nobody else will.”

Wolfe cocked his head at him. “Mr. Haight, you are the kind of man who has to be heard to be believed. If you had any gumption at all you would realize that I am prepared to show all my cards, and you would withhold comment until you see them. Precisely what Brodell told Peacock that Thursday afternoon is conjectural, as are many other collateral details — for instance, how Worthy contrived to see Brodell leave that afternoon, and trail him to Blue Grouse Ridge, without being seen by Peacock. But the requisites are established. It is established that Brodell told Peacock enough to cause him to suspect, when he found Brodell’s body with two bullet holes in it, that Wade Worthy had fired the shots. For confirmation of that, that it’s established, I refer you to Mr. Jessup, the county attorney. Information about it has been acquired from a young woman whom he is holding in protective custody. I shall give—”

“Holding her where? What’s her name?”

“Ask Mr. Jessup. I’ll give you no particulars about her; ask him. I’ll tell you this: one point that is not established is the use that Sam Peacock was trying to make of his information — or suspicion. The easy and obvious assumption is blackmail, but the young woman denies it. There are other possibilities. If he had only a suspicion, he may have been harebrained enough to try to confirm it himself before divulging it. Or he may have had a strong animus for Mr. Greve and was reluctant to succor him. As for animus, should you ask if I have any for you, I have indeed. A barely competent inquiry into the death of Philip Brodell would have included rigorous and repeated questioning of Sam Peacock, and if it had it is highly probable that Mr. Goodwin would have left long ago and I would never have come.”

He turned a palm up. “But it didn’t. As for Peacock, whatever his objective was, he didn’t reach it. He arranged, or agreed, to meet with Worthy, Saturday evening, and he died. Incidentally, it is likely that Worthy suggested that they meet at or in that car. He had arrived in it, and he knew it was secluded there, and dark.”

Schwartz spoke. “You’re saying that he killed two men.”

Wolfe nodded. “And of course that isn’t good news for you. It isn’t likely that Montana will let Missouri have him.”

“Provided Montana has him or gets him. You say he’s not here. But you saw him four hours ago?”

“Yes. I ate breakfast with him. I had a personal problem. I knew that you were coming, that you would go to the sheriff, and that he would bring you here. For six days I had been sharing Miss Rowan’s hospitality with Mr. Worthy, and Mr. Goodwin had been here with him much longer. To cause her to suffer the indignity of having one of her guests arrested on a charge of murder in her house, taken across her threshold in manacles, was of course unthinkable. For we were responsible; Mr. Goodwin and I had exposed him. It was necessary to use subterfuge, and I did. At the breakfast table, with him there, I announced that a photograph of a man now in Montana — I didn’t name him — had been identified as one Carl Yaeger, who was wanted in St. Louis as a murder suspect, and that a policeman was coming for him. I then suggested to Miss Rowan that she and her other guest, and her maid, go fishing, and they did. It was desirable for her to be absent when you came.”

All three of them were staring at him. It was Haight who demanded, “And where’s Worthy?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Goodwin and I came outside for a talk, and when we went back in a little later he was gone. Presumably he left by the back door and crossed the creek and—”

“Why, you goddam fat— You’ll go in handcuffs! And Goodwin!”

“No, Mr. Haight. I have a suggestion. Mr. Goodwin will unlock the door, and you’ll go in and telephone Mr. Jessup’s office. He let me do it this way because he appreciated the contribution Mr. Goodwin and I have made. At his request, members of the state police were stationed at certain spots at nine o’clock this morning — I don’t know how many, but certainly enough to make sure that Carl Yaeger, alias Wade Worthy, wouldn’t get far. He is undoubtedly in custody now, probably at a police barracks, if they have them in Montana. Or Mr. Jessup may have him at his office. I suggest that you telephone.”