Death of a Dude

Chapter 9

Nero Wolfe said to Woodrow Stepanian, “No. After full consideration I might agree with you. I meant only what I said, that a majority of your fellow citizens would not.”

It was twenty minutes to nine. We were in the middle section of the Hall of Culture, called the Gallery by Lily. The doors to the sections you had to pay to enter were both closed; the movie wasn’t over and the romp hadn’t started. Only one fact of importance had been acquired at the Bar JR: that trout baked in foil with ham, brown sugar, onions, and Worcestershire sauce was digestible. If we had got one from Mel or Emmett or Pete I didn’t know it. I had got one from Saul Panzer, when I had called him on the Greves’ phone. If Philip Brodell, on his visits to New York, had ever run into Diana Kadany or Wade Worthy, Saul had found no trace of it and thought the chance that there was one to be found was slim.

What Wolfe was saying he might agree with was something Woody had said regarding one of the items hanging on the wall back of Woody’s desk — a big card in a homemade frame which said in homemade lettering by Woody:

Wolfe had asked why that had been chosen for display in a frame and Woody had said because he thought it was the greatest sentence in American literature. Wolfe had asked why he thought that, and Woody had replied because it said the most important thing about America, that no man had to let anybody else decide things for him, and what made it such a wonderful sentence was that it wasn’t a man who said it, it was a boy who had never read any books, and that showed that he was born with it because he was American.

I had an errand to do, but I stayed to listen because I thought I might learn something either about America or about literature. When Wolfe said that a majority of Woody’s fellow citizens wouldn’t agree with him Woody asked him what they would regard as a greater sentence, and Wolfe said, “I could suggest a dozen or more, but the most likely one is also displayed on your wall.” He pointed to the framed Declaration of Independence. “‘All men are created equal.’”

Woody nodded. “Of course that’s great, but it’s a lie. With all respect. It’s a good lie for a good purpose, but it’s a lie.”

“Not in that context. As a biological premise it would be worse than a lie, it would be absurd, but as a weapon in a mortal combat it was potent and true. It was meant not to convince but to confound.” Wolfe pointed again. “What’s that?”

“That” was another hand-lettered item in a frame, but I can’t show it to you because I didn’t have a camera with me. Apparently it was eight or nine words, but what kind? The two words below, smaller, were “Stephen Orbelian.”

“That is older,” Woody said. “About seven hundred years old. I’m not sure it is great, but I have much affection for it because it is very subtle. It was written by that man, Stephen Orbelian, in ancient classical Armenian, and it says simply, ‘I love my country because it is mine.’ But of course it is not simple at all. It is very subtle. It means more different things than you would think possible for only eight words. With all respect, may I ask if you agree?”

Wolfe grunted. “I agree that it’s subtle. Extraordinary. Let’s sit and discuss it.”

I wasn’t invited to help, so I left to do the errand, which was merely a chauffeuring chore, driving the station wagon to the cabin to supply transportation for Lily and Diana and Wade Worthy. My expectation was that Lily and Wade would be in the big room, ready, but Diana wouldn’t, and that was how I found it. Of course nine women out of ten are late leavers and arrivers, but with Diana it wasn’t only that. She had to make entrances. She never just came to the kitchen at breakfast time; she entered. Without an audience, an entrance is merely an arrival, and the bigger the audience the better. The arrangement had been that I would come for them a little after nine. If Diana had been dressed and her face-work done at nine o’clock, she would have waited in her room until she heard the car, and in the hall until she heard me inside. So I was there telling Lily and Wade that the real Montana trout deal had gone down fine when Diana glided in, a treat for any audience in a red silky thing that started late at the top but nearly made it to her ankles at the bottom. Lily, who didn’t sneer at audiences but had different ideas, was in a pale pink shirt and white slacks.

Back at Lame Horse there was no parking room left in front, so I circled around Vawter’s to a secluded spot by the rear platform of the store, and we walked to the front through the passage between the two buildings. When we entered I wasn’t expecting Wolfe to be visible. We had asked Woody for permission to use his living quarters in the back, and he had given it, with all respect, and the arrangement was that I would escort Sam Peacock there whenever I found, or made, an opportunity. But there he was, on a chair about half wide enough, by the rear wall, and he had company. The law was never much in evidence at the Hall of Culture’s Saturday nights because the precautions Woody took never let anyone get out of hand. Now and then a uniformed state cop would drop in for a look, and that was all. But that evening not only was Sheriff Morley Haight there, on a chair some three steps to the right of Wolfe, but also one of his deputies, a well-weathered specimen with the kind of shoulders Haight wished he had, whose name was Ed Welch. He was standing over near the door at the right, where the man with the till was posted. Diana and Wade headed for that door, but Lily, beside me, looked at the deputy, then at the sheriff, and asked me, loud enough for him to hear, “Haven’t I seen that man somewhere?”

To save me the trouble of providing a fitting reply she made for the door, taking her purse from her slacks pocket. I crossed to Wolfe and asked him, “Have you met Sheriff Haight?”

“No,” he said.

“That’s him.” I pointed noticeably. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

I turned to Haight. “Good evening. Do you want to ask Mr. Wolfe or me something? Or tell us something?”

“No,” he said.

Thinking that was enough noes for a while, I went and handed the man at the door two bucks and passed through. The musicians were taking a rest, but as I was winding through the mob across to where I knew Lily would be, they started up, something I couldn’t name, and Lily came to meet me, and we were off. Also on. We had moved together so many hours to so many beats that on a dance floor we were practically a four-legged animal.

We don’t usually talk much while we’re dancing, but in a minute she said, “He followed you in.”

“Who? Haight?”

“No, the other one.”

“I supposed he would. I didn’t want to please him by looking back.”

After another minute: “What does that ape think he’s doing, sitting there?”

“Hoping. Hoping for an excuse to bounce us out of his county.”

After another minute, during which we saw Diana hopping with a guy in a purple shirt and Levi’s, and Wade with a girl in a sweater and a mini: “You said he was going to be in Woody’s rooms.”

“So did he. Evidently he decided to watch the herd arrive and spot the murderer. He is capable of deciding absolutely anything.”

After two more minutes: “What is it about Sam Peacock? No, I take it back. I will not ask questions. It’s just that seeing him sitting there, if it goes on much longer he’ll decide I have to be obliterated, and damn it, he’s the only man on earth I could be afraid of. Do you want to tell me about Sam Peacock or not?”

“Not. It may get us a lead, but don’t hold your breath. As for Nero Wolfe, forget it. This will do him good. He even ate some of Carol’s mashed potatoes. You didn’t involve him and neither did I; he involved himself, and he’s fully aware of it. He’s aware of everything.”

“I haven’t seen Sam Peacock.”

“He’s always late. Last week he didn’t come until nearly eleven. I told you, remember, I heard him tell a girl that when he was a yearling they had to tie his mother up before she’d let him suck.”

When the band stopped for breath I took Lily to her favorite spot by an open window and went on a tour to see who was there, and to confer with myself. Deputy Sheriff Ed Welch was standing over by the band platform and I passed by with my elbow missing his by half an inch to show him how nonchalant I was. If Morley Haight was going to stay put on that chair in the Gallery, and he probably would when Wolfe went inside, I didn’t like the program. Seeing me take Sam Peacock in to Wolfe, Haight would of course sit tight and collar Sam when he came out, and Sam was the one and only person from whom Wolfe might pry something to bite on. Not just his trying to slide past the Thursday morning when Brodell had gone for a look at Berry Creek; there was also all day Tuesday and all day Wednesday, when Brodell had been with him and no one else. And if Wolfe got a hint from Sam and Sam knew it, Haight would worm it out of him. I did not like the prospect that if we got a glimmer Haight would get it too, and I knew Wolfe wouldn’t. As I moseyed past the door I took a look through at the Gallery. Haight was there, at Woody’s desk, with a paperback, and Wolfe wasn’t.

Moving around, and standing near a corner when the band was going, in the next half-hour I saw maybe 183 faces I had seen before, and I had names for about half of them, including most of the people you have met — everybody at Farnham’s, and Pete Ingalls and Emmett Lake at the Bar JR. Pete was dancing with Lily, and she wiggled a finger at me as they went by. No Sam Peacock, but I saw a friend of his, the girl who had told him the week before that he looked awful. She had on the same cherry-colored shirt, or one just like it. When the band stopped and she walked away from her partner, looking as if she hadn’t enjoyed it much, I went and headed her off and said, “I dance better than he does.”

“I know you do,” she said, “I’ve seen you. You’re Archie Goodwin.”

At close quarters she looked younger and prettier. Some do. “If you know my name,” I said, “I ought to know yours.”

“Peggy Truett. Thank you for telling me how good you dance. Now I know.”

“That was just coiling the rope. The next move is to show you. I was leading up to it.”

“I bet you were.” She brushed back a strand of wavy blond hair. “You’re shy, that’s your trouble, I know. I’m not. Sure, I’d like to accept your kind invitation, but I guess I won’t. I’ve seen you here a lot of times, last year and this year, and maybe you saw me, but you never headed in to me before, so why now? That’s easy. You want to ask me about Sam Peacock.”

“Do I? What about him?”

“You know damn well what about him. You and that fatty Nero Wolfe, last night you pumped him good just because he wrangled that dude and that was his job. If I was him I wouldn’t give you—”

Her eyes left me, went past me, for something in my rear, and then all of her left. As she brushed my arm going by I turned for a look and saw Sam Peacock arriving. He saw Peggy Truett coming and came to meet her, and I looked at my wrist and saw that in nine minutes it would be eleven o’clock. The band started up and I moved to the wall, over near the door, and stood noticing pairings on the floor with my eyes only — Lily and Woody, Bill Farnham and Mrs. Amory, Pete Ingalls and Diana Kadany, Armand DuBois and a woman in a black dress, Wade Worthy and a girl from an upriver ranch. Ed Welch, the deputy, was sitting on the edge of the platform, a little higher than on a chair.

I was as useless there as a bridle without a bit, and I went out to the Gallery. Sheriff Haight was still there, with his feet up on Woody’s desk, with a magazine. He had a glance for me but no words, and I had none for him. I stepped across for a look at the greatest sentence in American literature, which put me an arm’s length from him, counted to a hundred, and turned around. Yes. The deputy was there. I thought of three different remarks to make to him, all witty, vetoed all of them, crossed to the door at the back, opened it and passed through, and shut it.

I was in Woody’s kitchen, which was fully as modern as the one at the cabin, though much smaller. Next came the bedroom and bath, also small and functional, and then the room that Lily called the Museum. It was big, about 24 by 36, with six windows, and it contained one or more specimens of nearly every item Woody’s father had peddled. Name it and Woody would show it — anything from eight different brands of chewing tobacco, plug and twist, in a glass case, to an assortment of lace curtains on a rack. The heaviest item was a 26-inch grindstone, not mounted, and the biggest one was a combination churn and icecream freezer. About the only things in the room that didn’t qualify were the chairs and the lights and the shelves of books, which were all in hard covers. No paperbacks; it was Woody’s personal library.

When I entered, two of the books were on a small table by the wall and one was in the hands of Nero Wolfe, who was in a big, roomy chair by the table. At his left was a reading lamp and at his right, on the table with the other two books, were a glass and two beer bottles, one empty and one half full. He was so well fixed that I should have about-faced and beat it, but he looked up and said, “Indeed.”

Meaning where the hell have you been. So I moved a chair to face him, sat, and said, “I told you he would be late. He just came.”

“You have spoken with him?”

“No. I doubt if I should.”

“Why? Is he drunk?”

“No. But I have a case to put. Haight is still there and shows no sign of leaving. So I get Sam, now or later, and bring him, and in an hour, or six hours, either you get something or you don’t. If you don’t, you’ve wasted a lot of time and energy, which would be regrettable but that often happens. If you do, and when Sam leaves Haight is still there, what will happen will be worse than regrettable. Haight will—”

“I am not obtuse, Archie.” He closed the book with a finger in at his place.

“I concede that.”

“Isn’t that” — he aimed a thumb — “an outside door?”

“Yes. I’m not obtuse either. I suppose you saw the brawny baboon who was standing there when I came, and you may have noticed that he followed me inside. That’s a deputy sheriff, Ed Welch. I’m his subject for the evening. If I ushered Sam Peacock out the front entrance and around to the back, to that door, he would be close behind, and Haight would be even keener to work on him when he left. Of course leaving by that door wouldn’t help; Welch would be out there waiting for him. I’m not sure we weren’t both a little obtuse, especially me. I might have known Haight would be here. I should have hunted Sam up this afternoon, or even at suppertime, instead of that goddam real Montana trout deal. So all you have to show for tonight is a trout recipe which you will of course pass on to Fritz, and a subtle sentence in ancient classical Armenian. Tomorrow is Sunday and Sam will probably have a day off, but I’ll find him and bring him. The more I look at it, the more I like Sam Peacock. I do not believe that Brodell had no suspicion that there was someone in the neighborhood who would like to get him, and I also do not believe that during all of Tuesday and all of Wednesday, and part of Thursday, he didn’t say a single word that would provide a hint. Didn’t I say that, or something like it, three days ago?”

“Not three. Two. Thursday afternoon. You said you had tried to use what you called my ‘filter job’ on him, and he wouldn’t cooperate.”

“He certainly wouldn’t. You got more out of him last night than I had in three tries. But now it’s you, not just me, and you’re official, and he knows it. I suggest that we now leave by the back door and I drive you to where your bed is so you can get a night’s sleep, and tomorrow I’ll bring him. I’ll come back for the others.”

He made a face. “What time is it?” he growled.

I looked. “Twenty-four minutes to midnight.”

“I’m in the middle of an exposition that is refreshing my memory.” He poured beer and opened the book. “Perhaps you should tell Miss Rowan we are going.”

I said it wasn’t necessary, that we usually stayed until around one o’clock, and went to look over his shoulder to see what was refreshing his memory. It was a volume of Macaulay’s Essays, and he was on Sir William Temple, of whom I had no memory to be refreshed. I moved around, with my eyes and sometimes my hands on museum pieces, but my mind was on people, specifically Morley Haight and Ed Welch. I was not admiring them. If a sheriff and his top deputy are so strong on law and order that they stay on the job Saturday night, they could find better things to do than try to trip up a pair of worthy citizens who had been authorized by the county attorney to investigate a crime in their territory. They needed to have their noses pushed in, and I considered three or four possible ways of taking a stab at it when I got back, but none of them was good enough.

It was close to midnight when Wolfe finished the beer, closed the book, switched the lamp off, picked up the other two books, went to return them to their places on the shelves, and asked me, “The glass and bottles?” At home, at that time of night, he would have taken them to the kitchen himself, but this was far away and called for allowances, and I made them and obliged. When I returned from the kitchen he was in another chair, bending over to turn a corner of a rug up for inspection. He knew a lot about rugs and I could guess what he was thinking, but he didn’t even grunt. He put the corner down and got up, and I went and opened the back door, which had a Murdock lock, and he came. He asked if we should turn the lights out and I said no, I would when I returned.

Outside, a little light from the draped windows helped some for the first twenty yards, but when we turned the corner of the deepest wing of Vawter’s it was good and dark, with no moon and most of the stars behind clouds.

We took it easy on the rough ground. No other car had joined the station wagon there in back of the building. I had taken the ignition key but hadn’t locked the doors, and, leading the way, and regarding it as common courtesy, not pampering, to open the door for Wolfe on his side, I did so. That gave us light, the ceiling light, and the light gave us news. Bad news. We both saw it through the closed window. On the rear seat. Rather, partly on the seat. His torso was on the seat, but his head was hanging over the edge and so was most of his legs.

Wolfe looked at me and took a step so I could open the door. I didn’t want to touch the damn door or anything else, but it was possible that he was breathing, even in that position, so I pressed the latch and pulled it open and leaned in. The best quick test is to lay something light and fluffy on the nostrils, but nothing that would do was handy and I reached for a wrist. No perceptible pulse, but that proved only that if the blood was moving it was dawdling. The wrist was warm, but of course it would be since I had seen him on the dance floor only an hour ago. The only blood in sight was some blobs on his bruised ear, and I stretched across to get fingertips on his skull and felt a deep dent. I backed out and stood and said, “It’s barely possible he’s alive. I stay here and you go in. You’ll have to tell that sheriff sonofabitch, and that’s a lousy break too. Tell him to bring a doctor, there are at least two there.” I reached in the front to the dash and got the flashlight, switched it on, and focused it on the entrance to the passage between the buildings. “That’s the shortest way. Here.” I offered him the flashlight but he didn’t take it. He spoke.

“Wouldn’t it be possible to—”

“You know damn well it wouldn’t. There’s one chance in a million he’s alive, and if so he may talk again. You don’t have to tell him it’s Sam Peacock, just say a man. Here.”

He took the flashlight and went.