A Right to Die

Chapter 13

Maybe I seldom crow, and I’m all for self-esteem, but I have some flaws, and one of them showed when I walked into the office of the ROCC and crossed over to Maud Jordan at the switchboard and asked, “What time did Peter Vaughn get here yesterday morning?” That had been my suggestion to Wolfe just before Paul Whipple rang the doorbell, and using it verbatim appealed to one of my flaws, I’m not sure which one.

It wasn’t answered. She looked down her long thin nose at me and asked, “Whom do you wish to see?”

I didn’t press her, since Whipple had made it unnecessary. I told her Mr. Henchy, and it was urgent. She used the phone and told me to go on in, and as I went down the hall Harold R. Oster appeared in the doorway of the corner room. I would have preferred to have Henchy alone because lawyers always complicate things, but didn’t make an issue of it. He didn’t offer a hand, and neither did Henchy when Oster nodded me in and closed the door. Neither of them nodded me to a chair.

I said, standing, to Henchy at his desk, “Paul Whipple has told Nero Wolfe — not on the phone, in person — what he told you he would, about Peter Vaughn, and Mr. Wolfe wants to see you. Now. Everybody who spoke with Vaughn yesterday.”

“Sit down,” Oster said.

“I’d just have to get up again to go with you. You realize it’s urgent. There’s no telling how soon the cops will get here, and then you won’t be available. If no one here knows where you’ve gone you won’t be available to them for a while. If you think I’m pushing, I am.”

Henchy started, “You certainly—” but Oster cut in, “I’ll handle it, Tom. Keep your shirt on, Goodwin. If and when the police learn that Vaughn came here yesterday, we’ll answer any questions they may care to ask. He merely wanted to inquire about Dunbar Whipple and Susan Brooke, how intimate they had been. He insisted on it and he was a damned nuisance. Nothing he said or did here could possibly have any connection with his murder. Tell Wolfe I’ll see him later, at six o’clock, when he’s available.”

“He’s available now.” I focused on Henchy. “All right, I’ll mention something that Mr. Wolfe would have preferred to mention himself, but it doesn’t matter. Vaughn called me on the phone at ten minutes past five yesterday afternoon and said something that makes it extremely probable that he was murdered because of something that happened when he was here. Not only do Mr. Wolfe and I assume that, the cops do too.”

“They don’t know he was here,” Oster said.

“They’ll find out, and it may not take them long. They know what Vaughn told me on the phone. What they assume is that his murder resulted from his contacts yesterday, and when they learn he was here — well. Talk about questions. The whole damn ROCC staff material witnesses. The bail—”

“Good God,” Henchy blurted.

“I don’t believe it,” Oster said. “What did Vaughn tell you on the phone?”

“Mr. Wolfe may tell you. I won’t.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Okay. It will be interesting to see who comes first, Homicide or the DA’s bureau.” I went to a chair and sat. “It will also be interesting to see how they handle it. Would you rather I wait outside?”

“Yes,” Oster said. “We’ll consider it.”

“You’d better consider fast.” I stood up. “I don’t know how long Mr. Wolfe will hold on.”

“I’m going.” Henchy got to his feet. His pudgy cheeks were sagging. “I’m going to see him. You too, Harold.”

“I want to consider it.”

“No. I’m the responsible head of this organization. You come with me.” Henchy moved.

“And the others,” I said. “Everyone who spoke with Vaughn, even one word. Including Miss Jordan. Do you want to leave them here to deal with the cops if they come? With you not here?”

“No,” Oster said. “Of course. If we go, Tom, they must go too. Wait in the anteroom, Goodwin.”

“I advise you to step on it.”

“We will. If we’re going, the sooner the better.”

I went. When I got to the anteroom Maud Jordan was busy on the phone, telling people to go to Henchy’s room, and in a few minutes a girl came from inside, with very smooth dark skin and a little turned-up nose, to take over the switchboard, and Miss Jordan went inside. I decided to give them twenty minutes for their huddle and then go in after them, and began exercising my neck by turning my head about ten times a minute to look at the entrance door, hoping it wouldn’t open. It did once, and my belly muscles tightened, but it was only a man with a package. Just one minute of the twenty was left when I heard footsteps in the hall, and they came, Henchy in the lead, then Oster, Cass Faison, Adam Ewing, Beth Tiger, and Maud Jordan. No strangers.

Rising, I asked Henchy, “Miss Kallman?”

“She isn’t here. She wasn’t here yesterday.” He turned to the girl at the switchboard. “Miss Bowen, you don’t know where we’re going.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said.

“Also,” I suggested, “you don’t know my name, and if you’re asked to describe me you’re not much good at describing people.”

“Do I describe him wrong?” she asked Henchy.

“Yes,” Oster said. “Within reason.”

I made another suggestion, that they go ahead and I would take another elevator and also another taxi. You may think I was overdoing it, but I knew darned well what would happen the minute Cramer learned that Vaughn had gone there, if it was still office hours. I was pleased to find that there was room in my skull for still another suggestion, even though I had to veto it — the suggestion that one of them, namely Miss Tiger, might ride with me. It was nice to know that even in a crisis I didn’t totally exclude consideration of such matters as companionship. I admit it was a factor that she had not yet given the slightest indication that she was aware that I was human.

But I rode alone, and as my cab pulled up in front of the old brownstone I was afraid there would be more delay. It was five minutes past four, and it was at least even money that Wolfe had gone up to the plant rooms. Three of them were standing at the foot of the stoop steps, and the other three were climbing out of their taxi. I paid the hackie and went and led the way up, and as I reached the top the door was opened by Saul Panzer. “Mr. Henchy to the office,” he told me, “and the others to the front room.”

Lawyers can be pests and often are. Eight people in the end of that hall disposing of coats are a crowd, and when I got Henchy separated and started him down the hall to the office, there somehow was Oster, moving like a man who intends to stay in charge. I thought, What the hell, it will be simpler to use the connecting door, and let him come; and sure enough, he went straight to the red leather chair, stood in front of it, and told Wolfe, “Whipple’s not here to interfere this time. You’ll listen to me.”

Relieved that Wolfe was there and my errand was done, I sat down and got my notebook and pen. Let him do the reacting.

He didn’t crane to look up at Oster but focused on Henchy, who was in one of the yellow chairs Saul had moved up. “This is going to be unpleasant for all of us,” he said. “Has Mr. Goodwin made the situation clear?”

Henchy nodded. “Clear enough so we’re here. We came.”

“You’ll listen to me,” Oster said, in charge. “We want to know what Vaughn said to Goodwin on the phone yesterday. What you say he said.”

Wolfe slanted his head back. “Mr. Oster. I don’t ask you to sit because I don’t want you to. You will join the others in the front room. I am no longer acting in cooperation with you; henceforth my only commitment is to Mr. Paul Whipple. With me your status is now, to use a cant term, that of a murder suspect.” He pointed. “That door.”

Oster made a noise, part snort and part snarl. He sat. “That crap,” he said. “The Great White Whosis. I’m a member of the bar, and what are you?”

Wolfe regarded him. “I really can’t blame you. If I were a Negro I would have been locked up long ago — or I would be dead. You actually believe that your skin color and mine are factors in my treatment of you. Pfui. I’m not a troglodyte. Archie, the relevant portion of your telephone conversation with Mr. Vaughn yesterday afternoon.”

I recited it for them as I had for Cramer, but slower and emphasizing “important,” and adding at the end that he hadn’t rung again. Henchy was frowning at me, concentrating. Oster was looking skeptical, but he was getting it. Wolfe spoke.

“Those were the last words, for us, from Mr. Vaughn. ‘It’s probably nothing.’ But unfortunately for him it wasn’t. It’s a conclusion, more than an assumption, that he was going to see again someone he had seen earlier, or at least explore some suspicion resulting from an earlier contact. It’s possible that that contact had not been at your office, but I know of none other he might have made relevant to the fate of Susan Brooke, and I doubt if the police do. It’s also a conclusion, not lightly to be abandoned, that he was killed by the person who killed Miss Brooke. Do you reject that, Mr. Oster?”

“Reject it, no. If he said what Goodwin says he did.”

“For me that is not moot. If it is for you, it will be a soliloquy. Are you willing to tell me what Mr. Vaughn said to you yesterday, and what you said to him?”

“He said nothing, and neither did I.”

“He didn’t see you?”

“He saw me, yes, but I exchanged no words with him. I was with Mr. Henchy in his room when Vaughn came, and I stayed and heard what they said, but I said nothing to Vaughn and he said nothing to me.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“Had he ever seen you?”

“Not to my knowledge. I have been on television a few times.”

“Did you see him again yesterday? After five o’clock?”

“No. Next question, where was I last evening? If you have a right to ask any questions at all, which I don’t concede, you have a right to ask that. I’ll answer it by saying that I can’t produce witnesses for the entire evening and night. I wouldn’t, for you, but anyway I couldn’t.”

“Few people could. Now, sir, I’m sure you would like this to be as brief as possible, and you can help. While I talk with Mr. Henchy you can explain to the others—”

“I’m staying right here.”

“No. You’re leaving, if not the house, the room. You—”

“I’m staying in this chair.”

Wolfe’s head turned. “Archie, you’ll need Saul to help remove him; he’s of a size. Since it must be done by force, put him out of the house.”

“You wouldn’t,” Oster said.

I was up. “I have the build for it,” I said, “but you’ll be surprised to feel Saul Panzer in action. He’s the Little White Whosis.” I moved.

“Now wait a minute,” Henchy said. “Harold, I don’t like this. I don’t think it’s necessary.” To Wolfe: “What were you going to say?”

“That Mr. Oster can describe the situation to the others, including what Mr. Vaughn said to Mr. Goodwin on the telephone. He can also learn if any of them have alibis — from eight o’clock last evening to two o’clock this morning — that can be verified.” He turned to Oster. “Not difficult for a member of the bar.”

I thought, He meant it, that their skin colors weren’t factors. He was being as crusty with him as he would have been with a paleface. Oster thought he had something to say, first to Wolfe and then to Henchy, but apparently decided it would be more dignified to go without an exit line. A straight course to the connecting door to the front room would have taken him close to where I stood, and he made a point of circling wide. Also more dignified. When he was out and the door shut, I went back to my desk and notebook.

Wolfe said, “I’m obliged to you, Mr. Henchy. I don’t like turmoil in my house.”

The executive director nodded. “I don’t like it anywhere. Many people wouldn’t believe that, a man in my position, but I don’t like it. I like restraint. I like peace, and maybe I’ll get some before I die. I guess you want two things from me: what I said to Mr. Vaughn and where I was last evening.”

“Not necessarily where you were, unless you have an alibi that can be established.”

“I haven’t, not for the whole time from eight o’clock to two. I know a little about alibis; I’ve had experience. As for Mr. Vaughn, I don’t think I had ever seen him before. I see many people. I won’t try to tell you what I said to him yesterday word for word because I’m not good at that. I didn’t say much; it was really just one thing. Not about Susan’s — Miss Brooke’s — who killed her. He only asked about her and Dunbar, whether they were planning to marry. Of course I knew they were, but I didn’t tell him that. I said I knew nothing about it, that I never meddled in the personal affairs of members of the staff. That’s all there was to it.”

“Can’t you give me your exact words?”

He frowned and took five seconds. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to try to. But it was just what I said. He wasn’t with me more than four or five minutes. He wanted to see someone else, and I sent him to Mr. Faison.”

“Why Mr. Faison?”

“Well, he insisted on seeing someone, and Susan had worked under him.” Henchy’s head turned for a glance at me and returned to Wolfe. “Tell me something. I know about your reputation. Is it possible that you honestly believe that one of us killed him? And killed Susan Brooke?”

“I think it likely, yes.”

“Well, we didn’t.”

Wolfe nodded. “You would say that, naturally.”

“Not just ‘naturally.’” His hands were cupped over the ends of the chair arms, gripping them. “This is the truth if I ever spoke it, if anyone on our staff is a murderer I want him punished to the full extent. It will make it harder for us, it already has, Dunbar in jail, but if we expect to be treated like good citizens we must be good citizens. But you’re wrong, I’m positive you’re wrong. At noon today Mr. Ewing heard about the murder of Peter Vaughn on the radio and came and told me, and I got them in my room, all of them who spoke with Vaughn yesterday, and I put it to them straight. I told them the police might never learn that Vaughn had been there, but if they did, there was to be no covering up. I told them that if one of them was involved in any way, I wanted to know it then and there. I told them that if any one of them had the slightest suspicion about another one, he was to speak up, then and there.”

He released the chair arms and turned his hands over. “I know my people, Mr. Wolfe. Not only because they’re my color; I know them. In my position I have to. They were there in my room with me for nearly two hours, and we talked it out. When we got through I was absolutely certain that none of them was involved in the murder of Peter Vaughn or Susan Brooke, and I was certain that none of them had any suspicion of any of the others. I’m not saying I’m as good at it as you are, but I know them! Believe me, you’re wrong. See them and question them, all right, but you’re wrong!”

Wolfe wasn’t impressed, and neither was I. The executive director of the ROCC had made a lot of speeches to a lot of audiences; he had had a lot of practice saying things like “This is the truth if I ever spoke it.” Granting that he had spread the odds some on his own ticket, on the others he was merely taking the line that a man in his position had to take, though I admit he had done it better than some I had heard on other occasions.

“Admirable,” Wolfe said. “I like to hear words well used. As for my being wrong, only the event can answer. Will you please ask Mr. Faison to come?”

“Certainly.” Henchy levered on the chair arms to rise. “I was going to mention, about alibis. Of course I asked them. None of them has an alibi he could prove beyond question. Mr. Oster could have told you that, but he was agitated.”

Wolfe nodded. “I like your taste in words. ‘Agitated.’ He was indeed.”

I was at the door to the front room, and when I swung it open as Henchy came, the sound of Oster’s voice, in charge, was heard. It didn’t stop, so apparently Henchy summoned Faison by hand; anyhow, the fund raiser appeared and crossed to the chair his boss had vacated as I shut the door.

Wolfe scowled at him, and no wonder. What was there left to ask? Cass Faison’s grin wasn’t working, and from his expression it seemed doubtful if it would ever work again, but his coal-black skin still had its high gloss when the light hit it right.

Wolfe spoke. “No preamble is required, Mr. Faison, since Mr. Oster has described the situation. Mr. Henchy sent Mr. Vaughn to you?”

Faison nodded. “That’s right.”

“To your room?”

“Yes.”

“Were you alone with him?”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No. None of us had ever seen him before.”

“How long was he with you?”

“Not more than three or four minutes. I wasn’t timing it. Possibly five.”

“What was said?”

“He said the same thing to all of us. He wanted to know how intimate Miss Brooke had been with Mr. Whipple. We all said the same thing to him. We said we didn’t know. He didn’t want to believe that. He said someone there must know. He was all — he was in a fret. I sent him to Mr. Ewing.”

Wolfe’s lips were tight. He turned to me. “This is farcical.”

“Yes, sir. They talked it out for two hours with Mr. Henchy.”

“Bring them.”

It occurred to me as I crossed to the door that I might as well get a little personal satisfaction. I would put Miss Tiger in the red leather chair. But Wolfe might himself interfere with that, so when I opened the door I asked Henchy to come and took him to the red leather chair, and then summoned the others. Since Saul had moved up enough chairs for all, I was free to enjoy the look on Oster’s face when he saw I had foxed him. That settled my relations with Harold R. Oster. We were enemies for life, and that suited me fine.

Wolfe took them in, from Henchy at the far left to Maud Jordan at the far right, nearest me. “I’m through,” he said. “I’m through with you for today, but not with the job I’m doing. The situation is unaltered. I have learned nothing whatever from Mr. Henchy, Mr. Oster, or Mr. Faison, except that you are presenting a solid front. You are maintaining that your exchanges with Mr. Vaughn yesterday were identical. I don’t believe it. I believe—”

“I’m not!” It was Maud Jordan.

Wolfe’s eyes went to her. “Not what, Miss Jordan?”

“What you said about identical exchanges. I know what that man, Vaughn, asked the rest of them, but he didn’t ask me anything. He merely said he wanted to see Mr. Henchy.”

“When he entered.”

“Yes.”

“And gave you his name.”

“Of course.”

“And when he departed?”

“He didn’t say anything.” She upped her chin and a half. “I want to say something now. You’re hounding these people, and I think it’s outrageous. You’re bullying them just because they’re Negroes. And who are you? Where were you born?”

She was only the switchboard, but nobody shushed her, not even a murmur or two. She was a volunteer, and she had given half a grand to the fund for Medgar Evers’s children. Wolfe’s head turned left. “Do you wish to support that indictment, Mr. Henchy?”

“No. I think you’re wrong, but no, I wouldn’t call it bullying.”

“Do you wish to add anything, Miss Jordan?”

“No. I mean what I said.”

“Mr. Ewing, I haven’t spoken with you. Have you anything to say?”

“No, only that I agree with Mr. Henchy. If you think one of us is a murderer, you’re wrong, but I wouldn’t call it bullying. I know what it will be like if the police find out he came there yesterday morning. Are you going to tell them?”

“Miss Tiger. Do you wish to say anything?”

“No,” she said, barely audible.

“Then we’re through. For today. I may see all of you again, and I certainly expect to see one of you; I would give something to know which one. To answer Mr. Ewing’s question, I shall not tell the police of Mr. Vaughn’s ill-fated visit. I bid you good afternoon merely as a civility.” He leaned back, laced his fingers at his center mound, and closed his eyes.

I was surprised at Oster. Not a word. He got up and headed for the hall. Saul Panzer, who was on a chair over by the bookshelves, followed him out, and as the others rose and moved, no one saying anything, I stayed put. Saul was there. I don’t especially mind holding a coat for a murderer, but I like to know when I’m doing it. I looked at my watch: 5:19. Wolfe could still have forty minutes with the orchids, but apparently he preferred to take a nap. I sat and watched his big chest rise and fall, expecting, and I admit hoping, to see the lip exercise start, but it didn’t. When the sounds from the hall ended with the closing of the front door and Saul came and took the yellow chair nearest me, he was still just sitting and breathing.

“In a way,” I told Saul, “I’m glad you’ve seen her. I’ll be doing a lot of talking about her in the future and you’ll appreciate it better. I’m sure you’ll agree that the best way to handle it is to cherish and covet her at a distance, but the question is what distance. A mile is a distance, but so is a yard or even an inch. I wish I knew more about poetry. If I could turn out—”

“Shut up!” Wolfe bellowed.

I turned and said, “Yes, sir. I was only remarking about the one single aspect of the party that struck me as worthy of remark. Was there any other?”

“No.” He had straightened up.

“Then there’s no argument. I might as well go on remarking about Miss Tiger. Two days ago I said there wasn’t one sensible thing anybody could do. Now it’s even worse; there’s not even one unsensible thing.”

“Confound it, don’t sit there inventing grotesque words!”

“Shall I go?” Saul asked.

“No. When Archie exhausts inanity he may have a suggestion. I won’t. It’s hopeless. Whatever Vaughn saw or heard there yesterday is buried beyond recovery. One of those six people either killed him or knows who did, but that key to his identity is undiscoverable. There’s another one somewhere, but a hundred men might not find it in a hundred days. Saul?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Archie?”

“Sorry and sad.”

He glared. “Two highly trained and highly skilled men, and what good are you? Go somewhere. Do something. Am I to sit here another evening, and go up to bed, contemplating frustration? Reflecting, in desperation, as I did day before yesterday, on a diphthong?”

Saul and I exchanged glances. Our genius was going potty on us. To humor him I inquired, “A diphthong?”

“Yes. Tenuous almost to nullity, it was unworthy of consideration. It still is. But I’m bereft, and it’s a fact. Get Mr. Vaughn.”

For half a second I thought he was worse than potty; then, realizing that there was a Mr. Vaughn who was still alive, and that diphthongs might be his hobby, I got at the phone. With his son not yet buried, Samuel Vaughn probably wouldn’t be at Heron Manhattan, Inc., but I tried it on the chance, was told that he wasn’t in today, and dialed his home number. He wasn’t accessible until I made it clear that Nero Wolfe wanted to ask him a question — I didn’t say about a diphthong — and in a couple of minutes I had him, and Wolfe took his phone.

“I presume to disturb you, Mr. Vaughn, only because I am concerned with the death of your son in connection with my investigation of the death of Susan Brooke, and I need a bit of information you may be able to supply. According to the published accounts, your son graduated from Harvard in nineteen fifty-nine. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“To lead to the next question. I’d rather not elucidate now, but it’s possible that this will be helpful in identifying a murderer. Do you know if your son was acquainted with a fellow student named Richard Ault? A-U-L-T. Perhaps a classmate?”

“I’m afraid I don’t— Wait a minute... yes, I do. That was the name of the boy that committed suicide that summer, after they graduated. My son told me about it. Yes, he knew him rather well; they took the same courses. But I don’t understand... what possible connection...”

“There may be none. If I find one, you’ll understand then. Do you know if your son ever visited Richard Ault at his home — perhaps at vacation time?”

“Where was his home?”

“Evansville, Indiana.”

“Then he didn’t. I’m sure he didn’t. Have you any reason to think he did?”

“No. I’m obliged to you, Mr. Vaughn, for indulging me. If this leads to anything, the obligation will be canceled.”

As I cradled the receiver my eyes were narrowed at it. I was considering diphthongs. Ch? Gh? Au? Wh? Br? I’d have to look it up. Too many years had passed since the fourth grade, or maybe fifth. I was interrupted by Wolfe saying, “Get Mr. Drucker.”

Again it took me half a second to catch up; it had been ten days since I had eaten roast beef and apple pie with Otto Drucker, the distinguished citizen, in my hotel room in Racine. I got his number from the file and put in the call, and when I got him I took time for a few sociable remarks before passing him to Wolfe. He told Wolfe it was a pleasure to speak with a man whose career he had followed with interest and admiration.

Wolfe grunted. “I may forfeit the admiration by the job I’m on now. You may be able to supply some needed information. I suppose you remember your conversation with Mr. Goodwin?”

“Certainly. Susan Brooke. Are you still on that?”

“I am. I’m floundering. What can you tell me of the young man who shot himself on the porch of the Brooke house?”

“Not much. I told Goodwin all I know. I didn’t even remember his name.”

“His name was Richard Ault. Do you know if any member of his family came to Racine? Or any representative of the family?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. As far as I recollect, they held the body here only a day or two and shipped it. I don’t remember that anyone came to get it. I can find out.”

“It isn’t worth the trouble. I believe Mr. Goodwin has told you to command us if at any time you need information from here.”

“He didn’t say ‘command,’ but he said you’d reciprocate and I appreciate it. I like that ‘command.’ If you need more on this let me know.”

Wolfe said he would, hung up, pushed the phone away as if he resented it, which he does, pushed his chair back, left it, walked over to the globe, twirled it, and focused on a spot near the center of the United States of America.

In a minute he demanded, not turning, “Where the devil is Evansville?”

“If you’ve got Indiana, at the bottom, on the Ohio River.”

Another ten seconds, and he turned. “How do you get there?”

“Probably the quickest would be a plane to Louisville.”

“I’d have to be back Monday morning for a little job,” Saul said.

“No, Archie will go. You’re needed here. Archie, find—”

He stopped because I had turned to the phone and started dialing.