The Doorbell Rang

Chapter 7

At ten minutes past nine in the evening of that long day I went to the kitchen. Wolfe was at the center table with Fritz, arguing about the number of juniper berries to put in a marinade for venison loin chops. Knowing that that could go on and on, I said, “Excuse me. They’re all here, and more. David Althaus, the father, came along. He’s the bald one, to your right at the back. Also a lawyer named Bernard Fromm, to your left at the back. Long-headed and hard-eyed.”

Wolfe frowned. “I don’t want him.”

“Of course not. Shall I tell him so?”

“Confound it.” He turned to Fritz. “Very well, proceed. I say three, but proceed as you will. If you put in five I won’t even have to taste it; the smell will tell me. With four it might be palatable.” He gave me a nod and I headed for the office, and he followed.

He circled around Mrs. Althaus in the red leather chair and stood while I pronounced names. There were two rows of yellow chairs, with Vincent Yarmack, Marian Hinckley, and Timothy Quayle in front, and David Althaus and Bernard Fromm in the rear. That put Quayle nearest me, which had seemed advisable. Wolfe sat, sent his eyes left to right and back again, and spoke. “I should tell you that it may be that with an electronic eavesdropping device agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation hear everything that is said in this room. Mr. Goodwin and I think it unlikely, but it is quite possible. I feel that you—”

“Why would they?” Fromm the lawyer. The courtroom tone, cross-examination.

“That will appear, Mr. Fromm. I feel that you should be aware of that possibility, however remote. Now I beg you to indulge me. I’m going to talk a while. I can expect you to help further my interest only if I can demonstrate that your interest runs with mine. You are the father, the mother, the fiancée, and the associates of a man who was murdered seven weeks ago, and the murderer has not been exposed. I intend to expose him. I intend to establish that Morris Althaus was killed by an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That intention—”

They made two demands simultaneously. Yarmack demanded, “How?” and Fromm demanded, “Why?”

Wolfe nodded. “That intention stands on two legs. Recently I undertook a job which made it necessary for me to make inquiries regarding certain activities of the FBI, and they retaliated immediately by trying to have me deprived of my license as a private investigator. They may succeed; but even if they do, as a private citizen I can pursue an investigation in my private interest, and it will certainly be in my interest to discredit their pretension that they are faultless champions of law and justice. That’s one leg. The other leg is my long-standing grievance against the Homicide Squad of the New York Police Department. They too have pretensions. On numerous occasions they have hampered my legitimate activities. They have threatened more than once to prosecute me for withholding evidence or obstructing justice. It would be gratifying to me to reciprocate, to demonstrate that they know or suspect that the FBI is implicated in a murder and they are obstructing justice. That would also—”

“You’re talking plenty,” Fromm cut in. “Can you back it up?”

“By inference, yes. The police and the District Attorney know that Morris Althaus had been collecting material for an article about the FBI, but they found no such material in his apartment. Mr. Yarmack. I believe you were involved in that project?”

Vincent Yarmack was more my idea of a senior editor than Timothy Quayle — round sloping shoulders, tight little mouth, and eyes so pale you had to guess they were there behind the black-rimmed cheaters.

“I was,” he said in a voice that was close to a squeak.

“And Mr. Althaus had collected material?”

“Certainly.”

“Had he turned it over to you, or was it in his possession?”

“I thought it was in his possession. But I have been told by the police that there was nothing about the FBI in his apartment.”

“Didn’t you draw an inference from that?”

“Well... one inference was obvious, that someone had taken it. It wasn’t likely that Morris had put it somewhere else.”

“Mrs. Althaus told Mr. Goodwin this afternoon that you suspected it was the FBI. Is that correct?”

Yarmack turned his head for a glance at Mrs. Althaus, and back to Wolfe. “I may have given her that impression in a private conversation. This conversation isn’t very private, according to you.”

Wolfe grunted. “I said the eavesdropping is possible but not verified. If you drew that inference, certainly the police would.” His eyes moved. “Wouldn’t they, Mr. Fromm?”

The lawyer nodded. “Presumably. But that doesn’t warrant a conclusion that they are obstructing justice.”

“A conclusion, no. A surmise, yes. If not obstruction, at least nonfeasance. As a member of the bar, you are aware of the tenacity of the police and the District Attorney in an unsolved murder case. If they—”

“I don’t practice criminal law.”

“Pfui. Surely you are aware of what every child knows. If they were not satisfied with the assumption that the FBI is responsible for the disappearance of that material and therefore was probably involved in the murder, they would certainly be exploring other possibilities — for instance, Mr. Yarmack. Are they, Mr. Yarmack? Are they harassing you?”

The editor stared. “Harassing me? What about?”

“The possibility that you killed Morris Althaus and took that material. Don’t erupt. Many murders have prompted less plausible theories. He told you of a discovery he had made and evidence he had obtained which, perhaps unknown to him, was in some way a mortal threat to you, and you removed him and the evidence. An excellent theory. Surely—”

“Tommyrot. Absolute tommyrot.”

“To you, perhaps. But surely, in a muddle with an unsolved murder, they would dog you; but they don’t. I am not accusing you of murder, sir, not at the moment; I am merely showing that the police are either shirking or slighting their duty. Unless you have given them an impregnable alibi for the night of November twentieth. Have you?”

“No. Impregnable, no.”

“Have you, Mr. Quayle?”

“Nuts,” Quayle said. Bad manners again.

Wolfe eyed him. “You are here by sufferance. You wanted to know what I am up to. I am making that clear. Impelled solely by my private interest, I hope to disclose the implication of the FBI in a murder and the failure of the police to do their duty. In that effort I must guard against the danger of being balked by circumstance. Yesterday I received in confidence information strongly indicating the guilt of the FBI, but it is not conclusive. I dare not ignore the possibility that the apparent inaction of the police is merely tactical, that they and the FBI both know the identity of the murderer, and that they are holding off until they have decisive evidence. I must be fully satisfied on that point before I move. You can help to satisfy me, and if instead you choose to flout me I don’t want you here. Mr. Goodwin has ejected you once and he can do so again if necessary. He would be even more effective with an audience; he likes an audience as well as I do. If you prefer to stay, I asked you a question.”

Quayle’s jaw was set. The poor guy was in a fix. Seated next to him, so close he could have reached out and touched her, was the girl for whom and before whom he had pitched into a nosy newshound, begging Lon Cohen’s pardon, and now he was being crowded by a nosy bloodhound. I expected him to turn his head, either to her to show that for her sake he could swallow even his pride, or to me to show that I was really no problem, but he stayed focused on Wolfe.

“I told you I would control myself,” he said. “All right. I have no impregnable alibi for the night of November twentieth. That answers your question, and now I ask one. How do you expect Miss Hinckley to help to satisfy you?”

Wolfe nodded. “That’s reasonable and relevant. Miss Hinckley, manifestly you are willing to help or you wouldn’t be here. I have suggested a theory to account for the guilt of Mr. Yarmack; now one for Mr. Quayle. That’s simple. Millions of men have killed a fellow man because of a woman — to spite her or bereave her to get her. If Mr. Quayle killed your fiancé do you want him exposed?”

She lifted her hands and let them drop. “But that’s ridiculous.”

“Not at all. To the family and friends of most murderers the imputation seems ridiculous, but that doesn’t make it so. I am not imputing guilt to Mr. Quayle; I am merely considering possibilities. Have you any reason to suppose that your betrothal to Mr. Althaus displeased him?”

“You can’t expect me to answer that.”

“I’ll answer it,” Quayle blurted. “Yes. It displeased me.”

“Indeed. By right? Was it a trespass?”

“I don’t know about ‘right.’ I had asked Miss Hinckley to marry me. I had ex — I had hoped she would.”

“Had she agreed to?”

The lawyer cut in. “Take it easy, Wolfe. You mentioned trespass. I think you’re trespassing. I’m here at the request of Mr. Althaus, my client, and I’m not entitled to speak on behalf of Miss Hinckley or Mr. Quayle, but I think you’re overreaching. I know your reputation. I know you’re not a jobber, and I won’t challenge your bona fides unless I have reason, but as an attorney-at-law I have to say you’re spreading it pretty thick. Or perhaps I mean thin. Mr. Althaus, and his wife, and I as his attorney, certainly want to see justice done. But if you have received information strongly indicating the guilt of the FBI, why this inquisition?”

“I thought I made that plain.”

“As an explanation of a position, yes, or as a brief for prudence. Not as an excuse for an inquisition of persons. Next you will be asking me if Morris had caught me committing a felony.”

“Had he?”

“I’m not going to fill a role in a burlesque. I repeat, you’re overreaching.”

“Then I’ll pull in, but I shall not abandon prudence. I’ll ask you this, a routine question in any case of death by violence: If the FBI didn’t kill Morris Althaus, who did? Assume that the FBI is definitely cleared and I am the District Attorney. Who had reason to want that man dead? Who hated him or feared him or had something to gain? Can you suggest a name?”

“No. I have considered that, naturally. No.”

Wolfe’s eyes went right and left. “Can any of you?”

Two of them shook their heads. No one said anything.

“The question is routine,” Wolfe said, “but it is not always futile. I ask you to reflect. Without regard for slander; you will not be quoted. Surely Morris Althaus did not live thirty-six years without giving offense to anyone. He offended his father. He offended Mr. Quayle.” He looked at Yarmack. “Were the articles he wrote for your magazine innocuous?”

“No,” the editor said. “But if they hurt anyone enough for them to murder him I shouldn’t think they would wait until now.”

“One of them had to wait,” Quayle said. “He was in jail.”

Wolfe switched editors. “For what?”

“Fraud. A shady real-estate deal. Morris did a piece we called ‘The Realty Racket,’ and it started an investigation, and one of them got nailed. He was sent up for two years. That was two years ago, a little less, but with time off for good behavior he must be out by now. But he’s no murderer, he wouldn’t have the guts. I saw him a couple of times when he was trying to get us to leave his name out. He’s just a small-time smoothie.”

“His name?”

“I don’t — Yes, I do. Does it matter? Odell. Something Odell. Frank, that’s it. Frank Odell.”

“I don’t understand—” Mrs. Althaus began, but it came out hoarse and she cleared her throat. She was looking at Wolfe. “I don’t understand all this. If it was the FBI, why are you asking all these questions? Why don’t you ask Mr. Yarmack what Morris had found out about the FBI? I have asked him, and he says he doesn’t know.”

“I don’t,” Yarmack said.

Wolfe nodded. “So I assumed. Otherwise you would be harassed not only by the police. Had he told you nothing of his discoveries and conjectures?”

“No. He never did. He waited until he had a first draft. That was how he always worked.”

Wolfe grunted. “Madam,” he told Mrs. Althaus, “as I said, I must be satisfied. I should ask a thousand questions — all night, all week. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is a formidable foe, entrenched in power and privilege. It is not rodomontade but merely a statement of fact to say that no individual or group in America would undertake the job I have assigned myself. If an agent of the FBI killed your son there is not the slightest chance that he will be brought to account unless I do it. Therefore the choice of procedure is exclusively mine. Is that overreaching, Mr. Fromm?”

“No,” the lawyer said. “It would be unrealistic not to agree with you about the FBI. When I learned that nothing about them was found in the apartment I made the obvious assumption, and I told Mr. Althaus that I thought it very unlikely that the murderer would ever be caught. The FBI is untouchable. Goodwin told Mrs. Althaus that a man told you yesterday that he knows that an FBI agent killed her son, and that he supported it with information, and I came here intending to demand the man’s name and the information, but you’re right. The procedure is up to you. I think it’s hopeless, but I wish you luck, and I wish I could help.”

“So do I.” Wolfe pushed his chair back and rose. “It’s possible, if this conversation has been overheard, that one or more of you will be harassed. If so I would like to know. I would like to know of any development that comes to your knowledge, however trivial. Whether the conversation was overheard or not, this house is under surveillance, and the FBI now knows that I am concerning myself with the murder of Morris Althaus. The police do not, as far as I know, and I request you not to tell them; that would only make it more difficult. I apologize for not offering you refreshments; I was preoccupied. Mr. Althaus, you have not spoken. Do you wish to?”

“No,” David Althaus said — his one and only word.

“Then good evening.” Wolfe walked out.

As they left their chairs and moved toward the hall I stood. The gentlemen could help the ladies with their coats; I wasn’t needed. I must have been about as low as you can get, for it didn’t occur to me that it would be a pleasure to hold Miss Hinckley’s coat until I heard the front door open, and then it was too late. I stayed put until I heard it close and then went and bolted it. They were down on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t heard the elevator, so Wolfe must be in the kitchen, and I headed for it. But he wasn’t. Neither was Fritz. Had he actually climbed the stairs? Why? The only other way was down. I chose that, and as I descended I heard his voice. It came from the open door to Fritz’s room, and I stepped to it and entered.

Fritz could have had a room upstairs, but he prefers the basement. His den is as big as the office and front room combined, but over the years it has got pretty cluttered — tables with stacks of magazines, busts of Escoffier and Brillat-Savarin on stands, framed menus on the walls, a king-size bed, five chairs, shelves of books (he has 289 cookbooks), a head of a wild boar he shot in the Vosges, a TV and stereo cabinet, two large cases of ancient cooking vessels, one of which he thinks was used by Julius Caesar’s chef, and so on.

Wolfe was in the biggest chair by a table, with a bottle of beer and a glass. Fritz, seated across from him, got up as I entered, but I moved another chair up.

“It’s too bad,” I said, “that the elevator doesn’t come down. Maybe we can have it done.”

Wolfe drank beer, put the glass down, and licked his lips. “I want to know,” he said, “about those electronic abominations. Could we be heard here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve read about a thing that is supposed to pick up voices half a mile off, but I don’t know about how much area it covers or about obstructions like walls and floors. There could be items I haven’t read about that can take a whole house. If there aren’t there soon will be. People will have to talk with their hands.”

He glared at me. Since I had done nothing to deserve it, I glared back. “You realize,” he said, “that absolute privacy has never been so imperative.”

“I do. God knows I do.”

“Could whispers be heard?”

“No. A billion to one. To nothing.”

“Then we’ll whisper.”

“That would cramp your style. If Fritz turns the television on, fairly loud, and we sit close and don’t yell, that will do it.”

“We could do that in the office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why the devil didn’t you suggest it?”

I nodded. “You’re in a stew. So am I. I’m surprised I thought of it now. Let’s try it here. In the office I’d have to lean across your desk.”

He turned. “If you please, Fritz. It doesn’t matter what.”

Fritz went to the cabinet and turned a knob, and soon a woman was telling a man she was sorry she had ever met him. He asked (not the man, Fritz) if it was loud enough, and I said a little louder and moved my chair nearer Wolfe. He leaned forward and growled, eighteen inches from my ear, “We’ll prepare for a contingency. Do you know if the Ten for Aristology is still in existence?”

My shoulders went up and down. It takes a moron or a genius to ask a question that has no bearing whatever. “No,” I said. “That was seven years ago. It probably is. I can ring Lewis Hewitt.”

“Not from here.”

“I’ll go to a booth. Now?”

“Yes. If he says that group still — No. Whatever he says about the Ten for Aristology, ask him if I may call on him tomorrow morning to consult him on an urgent private matter. If he invites me to lunch, as he will, accept.”

“He lives on Long Island the year around.”

“I know he does.”

“We’ll probably have to lose a tail.”

“We won’t need to. If I am seen going to him so much the better.”

“Then why not call him from here?”

“Because I’m willing, I even wish, to have my visit to him known, but not that I invited myself.”

“What if he can’t make it tomorrow?”

“Then as soon as possible.”

I went. As I mounted to the hall and got my coat and hat and let myself out and headed for Ninth Avenue, I was thinking, two rules down the drain in one day — the morning schedule and not leaving the house on business — and why? The Ten for Aristology was a bunch of ten well-heeled men who were, to quote, “pursuing the ideal of perfection in food and drink.” Seven years back, at the home of one of them, Benjamin Schriver, the shipping tycoon, they had met to pursue their ideal by eating and drinking, and Lewis Hewitt, a member, had arranged with Wolfe for Fritz to cook the dinner. Naturally Wolfe and I had been invited and had gone, and the guy between us at the table had been fed arsenic with the first course, caviar on blinis topped with sour cream, and had died. Quite a party. It had not affected Wolfe’s relations with Lewis Hewitt, who was still grateful for a special favor Wolfe had done him long ago, who had a hundred-foot-long orchid house at his Long Island estate, and who came to dinner at the old brownstone about twice a year.

It took a while to get him because the call had to be switched to the greenhouse or the stables or maybe the john, but it was a pleasure for him to hear my voice; he said so. When I told him Wolfe would like to pay him a call he said he would be delighted and that of course we would lunch with him, and added that he would like to ask Wolfe a question regarding the lunch.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to do,” I told him. “I’m calling from a booth in a drugstore. Excuse my glove, but is there any chance that someone is on an extension?”

“Why — why no. There would be no reason...”

“Okay. I’m calling from a booth because our wire is tapped and Mr. Wolfe doesn’t want it known that he suggested calling on you. So don’t ring our number. It’s conceivable that you might get a call tomorrow afternoon from someone who says he’s a reporter and wants to ask questions. I mention it now because I might forget to tomorrow. The idea is, this appointment, our coming to lunch tomorrow, was made last week. All right?”

“Yes, of course. But good heavens, if you know your phone is tapped — isn’t that illegal?”

“Sure, that’s why it’s fun. We’ll tell you about it tomorrow — I guess we will.”

He said he would save his curiosity for tomorrow and would expect us by noon.

There is a TV set and a radio in the office, and when I got back I was expecting to see Wolfe there in his favorite chair, probably with the radio going, but the office was empty, so I proceeded to the rear and down to the basement and found him where I had left him. The television was still on, and Fritz was sitting watching it, yawning. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut, and his lips were going, pushing out and then in, out and in. So he was working, but on what? I stood and looked at him. That’s the one thing I never break in on, the lip operation, but that time I had to clamp my jaw to keep my mouth shut because I didn’t believe it. There was absolutely nothing he could be hatching. Two full minutes. Three. I decided he was only practicing, it was a dry run, went to a chair, sat, and coughed loud. In a moment he opened his eyes, blinked at me, and straightened up.

I moved my chair closer. “All set,” I said. “We’re expected by noon, so we should roll by ten-thirty.”

“You’re not going,” he growled. “I telephoned Saul. He’ll come at nine.”

“Oh. I see. You want me here in case Wragg sends them to confess.”

“I want you to find Frank Odell.”

“For God’s sake. Is that what your lips squeezed out?”

“No.” He turned his head. “A little louder, Fritz.” Back to me: “I said after lunch that you had made it clear that it would be futile to establish that the FBI committed that murder. I retract that. I will not bow to futility. We must arrange a situation in which none of the three alternatives would be futile. They are: one, establish that the FBI committed the murder; two, establish that they didn’t; and three, establish neither one, let the murder go. We prefer by far the second alternative, and that is why you are to find Frank Odell, but if we are forced to accept the first or the third we must manage circumstances so that we will nevertheless be in a position to fulfill our obligation to our client.”

“You have no obligation except to investigate and use your best efforts.”

“Your pronouns again.”

“All right, ‘we’ and ‘our.’”

“That’s better. Just so, our best efforts. The strongest obligation possible for a man with self-esteem, and we both have our full share of that. One point is vital. No matter which alternative circumstances compel us to accept, Mr. Wragg must believe, or at least suspect, that one of his men killed Morris Althaus. I can contrive no maneuver by us that would contribute to that; I was trying to when you returned. Can you?”

“No. He either believes it or he doesn’t. Ten to one he does.”

“At least we have the odds. Now. I need suggestions regarding the arrangement I intend to make with Mr. Hewitt tomorrow. It will take time, and I’m dry. Fritz?”

No response. I turned. He was sound asleep in the chair, probably snoring, but if so the TV covered it. I suggested moving to the office and trying some WQXR music for a change, and Wolfe agreed, so we woke Fritz and thanked him for his hospitality and told him good night. On the way to the office I stopped off for beer for Wolfe and milk for me, and when I joined him he had the radio going and was in back of his desk. Since it was going to take time I brought a yellow chair and put it near his. He poured beer, and I took a swallow of milk and said, “I forgot to say that I didn’t ask Hewitt about the Ten for Aristology. You wanted to see him anyway and you can ask him tomorrow. And the program?”

He spoke.

It was well after midnight when he went to the elevator and I went to get the sheets and blankets and pillow for my second night on the couch.