Plot It Yourself

Chapter 8

At half past five the next day, Tuesday, I entered the vestibule of the tenement at 632 West 21st Street and pressed the button by Simon Jacobs’s name. In my breast pocket were two documents, one signed by Richard Echols and the other signed by Thomas Dexter for Title House. Both were notarized. In my side pocket was a neat little package containing five thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and Cs. Another five thousand was distributed among other pockets, not in packages.

I could have been there two hours earlier but for the fact that no hurricane had hit town. Nothing less than a hurricane would make Wolfe cancel his afternoon session in the plant rooms, from four to six, and it had been decided that instead of trying to hook Jacobs myself I was to bring him to 35th Street and watch Wolfe do it, chiefly because it would be desirable to have a witness. I was not to be visible; I would be stationed in the alcove at the end of the hall with my notebook, at the hole in the wall, concealed by a trick picture on the office side, through which I could both see and hear. I had the documents and money with me because it might take more than words to get Jacobs to come.

There had been no snags. Shortly after twelve Cora Ballard, the executive secretary of NAAD, had come in person with the documents. She had brought them instead of sending them because she wanted to brief us on Simon Jacobs, whom she had known for nearly thirty years, ever since he had joined NAAD in 1931. He had always been a little odd, but she had always regarded him as honest and honourable, so much so that when he had accused Richard Echols of plagiarism she had had a faint suspicion that there might be something to it, but had abandoned it when she tried to get in touch with him and he wouldn’t talk. He was proud and touchy and he loved his wife and kids, and her advice was not to threaten him or try to get tough with him but just show him the money and the documents and put it on a basis of common sense. All of which might have been very helpful if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had already been dead about fourteen hours.

No, no snags. It couldn’t be called a snag that Amy Wynn and Reuben Imhof had withdrawn their offer to sweeten the pot, since that had been expected. While Wolfe and I were at lunch a messenger had arrived with the ten thousand dollars’ worth of lettuce from Mortimer Oshin.

So at five-thirty I pressed the button in the vestibule, the click came, and I opened the door and entered. I was ready for the garlic and took a deep breath as I headed for the stairs. My opening line was on my tongue. Three flights up I turned to the front, and there, at the open door where Mrs Jacobs and the boy had awaited me on my previous visit, I was again awaited, but not by them. In the dim light I took two steps before I recognized him, then stopped. We spoke simultaneously, and spoke the same words.

“Not you,” we said.

I knew. As Jane Ogilvy would have put it, a fact felt though not perceived. The presence there of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Homicide West might have meant any one of a dozen things-one of the kids had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, or Jacobs had killed his wife, or one of them was merely being questioned about some other death by violence-but I knew. It had to be. That was why I said, “Not you.”

“I’ve been here five minutes,” Purley said. “Just five minutes, and here you come. Jumping Jesus!”

“I’ve only been here five seconds,” I said, “and here you are. I came to see a man named Simon Jacobs on business. Please tell him I’m here.”

“What kind of business?”

“A private kind.”

His jaw worked. “Look, Goodwin.” He has been known to call me Archie, but in different circumstances. “I come here on a job. If I’m somewhere on a job and someone asks me who is the last person on God’s earth I would want to show up, I would name you. What I’d like, I’d like to tell you to go somewhere and scratch your ass with your elbow. A man’s body is found. He was murdered. We get him identified. I go to where he lived to ask some questions, and I no sooner get started than the bell rings and I go to the door, and it’s you, and you say you came to see him on business. When you come to see a corpse on business, I know what to expect. I’m asking you, what kind of business?”

“I told you. Private and personal.”

“When did you learn Jacobs had been killed? And how? He was identified only an hour ago.”

“Just now. From you.” I had joined him at the door. “Let’s take a short cut. Sergeant. The long way would be for you to bark at me a while, getting upset because I won’t unload, and then you would take me to Homicide West, only a short walk, which you have no right to do, so I would get upset, and then Inspector Cramer would go to see Mr Wolfe, and so on. The short way would be for me to phone Mr Wolfe and get his permission to tell you why I came to see Jacobs, which he would probably give because there’s no reason why he shouldn’t and it may be connected with his death. You know damn well that without his permission I tell you nothing.”

“You admit it’s connected.”

“Nuts. You’re not the DA and we’re not in court. Of course Mr Wolfe will want some details-when and how he was killed, and by whom, if you know.”

Purley opened his mouth and shut it again. When I have facts he needs, he would like to force them out by jumping up and down on my belly, but for that I would have to be lying on my back.

“With me listening,” he said.

“Sure, why not?”

“Okay. The body was found at two o’clock this afternoon behind a bush in Van Cordandt Park. It had been dragged across the grass from the edge of the road, so it was probably taken there in a car. There was one stab wound in the chest with a broad blade. No weapon found. The ME says between nine o’clock and midnight. Probably nothing taken. Eighteen dollars in his wallet. You can call Wolfe on the phone in here.”

“Any leads?”

“No.”

“When or where he went last night, or who with?”

“No. I was asking his wife when you came. She says she doesn’t know. The phone’s in his room, where he worked. Where he wrote. He wrote stories.”

“I know he did. What time did he go out?”

“Around eight o’clock. If he had an appointment he made it on the phone and she didn’t know anything about it. So she says. I just got started with her. I brought her here from the morgue after she identified the body. She says he told her he was going to see somebody and might be late, and that was all. If Wolfe wants to know what he had in his stomach he’ll have to wait until-”

“Don’t be flippant. Where’s the phone?”

We went inside and he shut the door and led the way down the narrow hall to a door on the left. It was a small room with one window, a table with a typewriter, shelves with books and magazines, and a row of drawers. There were two chairs, and on one of them was Mrs Jacobs. I said she wasn’t a crone when I saw her five days before, but she was now. I wouldn’t have known her. As we entered her eyes came to us. She focused on me, staring, and blurted, “It was you!”

“What?” Purley asked her. “Do you know this man?”

“I’ve seen him.” She was on her feet. “He was here last week. His name’s Goodwin. My husband saw him just for a minute, and after he left Simon told me if he ever came again to shut the door on him.” She was trembling all over. “I knew from the way-”

“Take it easy, Mrs Jacobs.” Purley had her arm. “I know this Goodwin. I’ll handle him, don’t worry. You can tell me about it later.” He was easing her out. “You go and lie down a while. Drink something. Drink some hot tea…”

He got her to the hall. In a moment he returned, shut the door, and turned. “So you’ve been here before.”

“Sure. With Mr Wolfe’s permission I’ll confess everything.”

“There’s the phone.”

I sat at the table and dialed, and after five rings had Fritz, who always answers when Wolfe is up with the orchids. I told him to buzz the plant rooms, and after a wait Wolfe’s voice came. “Yes?”

“I have to report another complication. I’m in Simon Jacobs’s apartment, the room he wrote stories in. Sergeant Stebbins is with me. He is investigating the murder of Simon Jacobs, whose body was found at two o’clock this afternoon behind a bush in Van Cortlandt Park. Stabbed. Between nine and twelve last night. Body taken there in a car. No leads. No anything.”

“Confound it!”

“Yes, sir. Stebbins was here when I arrived, and naturally he is curious. Are there any details I should save?”

Silence. Ten seconds, then: “No. There’s nothing worth saving.”

“Right. Tell Fritz to save some of that shashlik for me. I’ll be home when I get there.” I hung up and told Purley, “He says there’s nothing worth saving. Shall I just tell it or would you rather grill me?”

“Try telling it,” he said, and got the chair the widow had vacated, sat, and got out his notebook.