Not Quite Dead Enough

Chapter 7

On account of Roy Douglas, there was a mighty slim hope of being able to fill in my sketch, but when I jumped from the cab at the corner and hotfooted it for Number 316 and saw there was no sign of anything unusual, the chances looked slightly better. The odds against me were still about 20 to 1. If anyone else, including Roy, had beat me to it and called the cops or a doctor or even the neighbors, or if grandma had come home early, or if 17 other things, my plan was a washout.

It would have been a swell break if the door had been unlatched, but it wasn’t, so I pushed the Chack-Amory button, not daring to risk one of the others, and in about five seconds the click sounded. That might have been either good or bad, and there was no time to speculate. I entered and went down the hall, and there was Roy standing in the open door of the Chack apartment, his face pasty and twitching, trembling all over. Before he could say anything I shoved him inside and closed the door, touching it only with a knuckle. He looked as if he might start screaming. I steered him out of the little hall into a room and to a chair, and pushed him into it.

“She’s dead,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t — look at her.”

“Keep quiet,” I commanded him. “Understand? Keep quiet. I know things about this you don’t know.”

I made a survey. There was no disorder, no sign of a scrap. I didn’t blame Roy for not being able to look at Ann, because it wasn’t actually Ann. It was only what was left, and it didn’t resemble Ann at all. Lily had mentioned the two main aspects, the tongue and the eyes. The upper part of the body was sort of propped up against the front of an upholstered chair, and the blue woolen scarf around the throat had a knot under the left ear. Approaching and kneeling down, it took me ten seconds to make sure that it was a body and not a girl. It was still as warm as life.

I returned to Roy. He was slumped in the chair with his head hanging, and I doubted if there was enough stiffness in his spine to lift his head to look at me, so I lowered myself to one knee to look at him.

“Listen, Roy,” I said, “we’ve got to do some things. How long ago did you get here?”

He stared at me. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I came straight here.”

“How did you get in?”

“In where? Oh — my key—”

“No, in here. This apartment.”

“The door was open.”

“Wide open?”

“I don’t know — no, not wide open. Just open a little.”

“Did you see anybody? Did anybody see you?”

“No, I didn’t see anybody.”

“You didn’t call anyone, phone anyone? A doctor? The police?”

“A doctor?” He squinted at me. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, she’s dead. You didn’t call the police?”

He shook his head vaguely. “I didn’t — I wasn’t—”

“Okay. Hold it. Stay where you are.” I got erect and glanced around, and through an open door saw a corner of a bed. I crossed over and into the bedroom, sat down on a stool at a dressing-table, got my notebook and pencil from my inside breast pocket, and wrote on a sheet of the book:

I tore out the sheet and folded it and crinkled it a little, then leaned closer to the mirror to see better, separated a lock of my hair from the mop I wore, maybe eight or ten hairs, twisted them around my finger, and yanked them out. Returning to the living-room, I squatted in front of the body, shoved the folded paper down the front of the dress, next to the skin, and tucked the lock of hair behind the scarf around the throat, under the right jaw. The scarf was so tight it took force to do it. I patted her on the shoulder and murmured at her, “All right, Ann, we’ll get the bastard. Or bitch, as the case may be.” Then I straightened up and proceeded to make fingerprints. Three sets would be enough, I thought, one on the arm of a chair, one on the edge of the table, and one on the cover of a magazine on the table. My watch said 6:37. If Mrs. Chack happened to return early from squirrel-feeding, she might come any minute, and it would be a crime to spoil it now.

I went over to Roy. “How are you? Can you walk?”

“Walk?” He had quit trembling. “Where is there to walk to? We’ve got to get—”

“Look here,” I said. “Ann’s dead. Somebody killed her. We want to find out who did it. Don’t we?”

“Yes.” He showed his teeth. It was like a dog snarling in its sleep. “I do.”

“Then come along.” I took hold of his arm. “We’re going somewhere.”

“But we can’t — just leave her—”

“We can’t help her any. We’ll notify the police, but not from here. I tell you I know something about this. Come on, let’s get going.”

I hefted his arm, and he got to his feet, and I headed him for the door. I had decided against fingerprints there, so I used my hankerchief for wiping the knob and turning it, and the same on the outside. The hall was deserted and there was no sound of life. I hustled Roy along, got him out to the street, and turned toward Christopher, taking a normal pedestrian gait. My heart was pumping. I admit it. It looked as if I was going to put it over, with only one item left, to dispose of Roy for 24 hours.

I took him into a bar on Seventh Avenue, got him onto a chair at a table, ordered two double Scotches, told him I’d be back in a minute, and went to the phone booth and dialed a number.

“Lily? Me. Are you packing?”

“Yes, damn you. What—”

“Me talking. No time for explanations. All for now is, don’t leave till I phone you again. Okay?”

“Did you go—”

“Sorry. Busy. Stay there till I phone you.”

Back at the table, Roy was fingering his glass and beginning to tremble again. I saw that he got the drink down, all of it, and then leaned forward to him:

“Now listen, Roy. Get this. You can trust me. You know who I am, and you know who Nero Wolfe is. That ought to be enough. We’re going to find out who killed Ann, and you’ve got to help us. You want to, don’t you?”

He was frowning. The kick of the drink was putting color in his face. “But the police—” he began.

“Sure, the police will be on it any minute, as soon as Mrs. Chack gets home. And I’ll phone them myself, and I’ll be working with them. But I’ve got a line on this that I don’t dare tell them about. Do you know Lily Rowan? By sight?”

“No, I’ve never seen her.”

“Well, I think she’s going to skip. I’m sure of it. She lives at the Ritz. We’ll go there now, and if she comes out with luggage I’ll point her out to you, and you follow her. Hang onto her no matter where she goes. Will you do that?”

His cheeks were flushed. Apparently he was no soak. He said, “I’ve never followed anybody. I don’t know how.”

“All it takes is intelligence, and you’ve got that.” I got out my wallet, extracted five twenties, and handed them to him. “I would do it myself, only I must do something else. And this is important, remember this: don’t try to report to me until Thursday morning at nine o’clock, and then report by telephone, no matter where you are, and then either to Nero Wolfe or to me. Nobody else.” I finished my drink. “You’ve got to do this, Roy. I’ll make a phone call and then we’ll go. Well? Have you got it in you?”

He nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good for you. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I went to the phone booth and dialed the number again.

“Lily, my angel? Me. Get this. In twenty minutes, maybe less, I’ll be on the sidewalk at the Madison Avenue entrance of the Ritz, and Roy Douglas will be with me. He’s the guy that was there when you arrived at Wolfe’s house. I’ll point you out to him and he’ll follow you, tail you. I want him out of town for a day or so, and this is the only way I can work it. When you take a taxi to the railroad station—”

“I’m not going to a railroad station. I’m going to the Worthington at Greenwich, and I’m going to drive—”

“No. Take a train. This is part of the deal, or the deal’s off. Be sure he doesn’t loose you. When you buy your ticket at Grand Central, be sure he’s close enough to hear where to, and be sure he makes the train. Take a day coach, no parlor car. He’ll stay at the Worthington too. Keep an eye on him, but don’t let him know you know he’s tailing you. Don’t do any horseback riding or anything to frustrate him. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Make it as soon after as you can, because I’m busy—”

“Wait a minute! Archie! You’re batty. Have you been there? To Ann’s apartment?”

“Certainly not. No time—”

“Then where did you get that Roy Douglas?”

“Caught up with him before he got there. No time for explanations. See you Saturday, if not before.”

When I got back to the table, the darned fool was having another drink. I called the waiter and paid for it.

Then Roy said, “I can’t do it. I can’t go. I forgot about my birds. I have to take care of my birds.”

Another complication, as if I didn’t already have enough to contend with. I got him out of there and into a taxi, and on the way uptown I managed to sell him the idea that I would get in touch with Miss Leeds before 8:00 in the morning and arrange with her to tend the pigeons. The chief trouble now was that he was more than half lit, and what with that and the shock he had had it was a question how much comprehension he had left, so I carefully repeated all the instructions and made sure he knew which pocket the hundred bucks were in.

At that, he seemed to have things fairly under control when we got out at the Ritz. It worked like a charm. We hadn’t been waiting more than ten minutes when Lily came out, with only three pieces of luggage, which for her was practically a paper bag. As she waited for the taxi door to be opened I saw her get me out of the corner of her eye, and I handed Roy into another taxi, shook his hand and told him I trusted him, and instructed the driver to hang onto the taxi in front at any cost. I stood and watched them roll off.

My watch said 7:45. I entered the Ritz and sent a telegram to Miss Leeds, signing it Roy Douglas, asking her to take care of my pigeons. I wanted to get back to 35th Street as soon as possible, because it was an open question whether the note I had written to Ann would be discovered by the first squad man that got there, or hours later when the medicals started on the p.m., and I simply had to be home when the phone rang or a visitor arrived. But one little errand had first call, because it was urgent. After all, Roy Douglas was Ann’s fiancé, and although it seemed incredible that he could have been coolheaded enough to sit and chin with me about pigeons just after strangling his sweetheart, I had to make sure if I didn’t want to make a double-breasted boob of myself. So I went for a phone book and a phone.

It took nearly three-quarters of an hour. First I dialed the number of the National Bird League on the chance that someone might be working late, but there was no answer. Then I went to it. I tried the Times and Gazette, and finally found someone on the Herald Tribune who gave me the name and address of the president of the National Bird League. He lived in Mount Kisco. I phoned there, and he was in Cincinnati, but his wife gave me the name and address of the secretary of the League. I got her, a Brooklyn number, and by gum she had been away from the office that afternoon, attending a meeting, and I had to put all I had on the ball to coax out of her the name and phone number of another woman who worked in the office. At last I had a break; the woman was at home, and apparently bored, for I didn’t have to coax her to talk. She worked at the desk next to Ann Amory, and they had left the office together that afternoon at a couple of minutes after five. So it was worth all the trouble, since that was settled. Roy had got to Wolfe’s house at 4:55, before Ann had even left the office. It was gratifying to know I hadn’t slipped the murderer a hundred bucks to take a trip to the country.

I took a taxi down to 35th Street, stopping on the way to pick up a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of milk, and found that luck was with me there too. All was serene. They had gone to bed. The house was dark. I would have liked to enjoy the sandwiches in the kitchen, but didn’t want the doorbell to ring, so I sneaked in and got a glass, turning on no light, and went back to the stoop, closing the door, and sat there on the top step to eat my dinner. Everything was going smooth as silk.

They were pretty good sandwiches. As time wore on I began to get chilly. I didn’t want to stamp around on the stoop or pace the sidewalk, since Fritz slept in the basement and I didn’t know how soundly he slept during training, so I stood and flapped my arms to work up a circulation. Then I sat on the step again. I looked at my watch and it was 10:40. An hour later I looked again and it was 10:55. Having been afraid before I got there that some squad man might discover the note first thing, now I began to wonder if the damn laboratory was going to wait till morning to start the p.m. and keep me out all night. I stood up and flapped my arms some more.

It was nearly midnight when a police car came zipping down the street and rolled to a stop right in front, and a man got out. I knew him before he hit the sidewalk. It was Sergeant Stebbins of the Homicide Squad. He crossed the sidewalk and started up the steps, and saw me, and stopped.

I said cheerfully, “Hello, Purley. Up so late?”

“Who are you?” he demanded. He peered. “Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t recognize you in uniform. When did you get to town?”

“Yesterday afternoon. How’s crime?”

“Just fine. What do you say we go in and sit down and have a little conversation?”

“Sorry, can’t. Don’t talk loud. They’re all asleep. I just stepped out for a breath of air. Gee, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Yeah. I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Well — for instance. When did you last see Ann Amory?”

“Aw, hell,” I said regretfully. “You would do that. Ask me the one question I’m not answering tonight. This is my night for not answering any questions whatever about anybody named Ann.”

“Nuts,” he growled, his bass growl that I had been hearing off and on for ten years. “And I don’t mean peanuts. Is it news to you that she’s dead? Murdered?”

“Nothing doing, Purley.”

“There’s got to be something doing. She’s been murdered. You know damn well you’ve got to talk.”

I grinned at him. “What kind of got?”

“Well, to start with, material witness. You talk, or I take you down, and maybe I do anyway.”

“You mean arrest me as a material witness?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Go ahead. It will be the first time I’ve ever been arrested in the city of New York. And by you! Go ahead.”

He growled. He was getting mad. “Goddamn it, Archie, don’t be a sap! In that uniform? You’re an officer, ain’t you?”

“I am. Major Goodwin. You didn’t salute.”

“Well, for God’s sake—”

“No good. Final. Regarding Ann Amory, anything about Ann Amory, I don’t open my trap.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ve always thought you were cuckoo. You’re under arrest. Get in that car.”

I did so.

There was one little chore left before I could sit back and let nature take its course. Arriving at Centre Street, and asserting my right to make one phone call, I got a lawyer I knew out of bed and gave him some facts to relay to Bill Pratt of the Courier. At 3:45 in the morning, after spending three hours in the company of Inspector Cramer, two lieutenants, and some assorted sergeants and other riffraff, and still refusing to utter a syllable connected in any way with the life or death of Ann Amory, I was locked into a cell in the beautiful new city prison, which is not as beautiful inside as outside.