The Easter Parade Murder

Chapter 2

Easter Sunday the weather wasn’t perfect, but I had seen much worse. As, shortly before noon, I left the old brownstone, the sun was slanting down into West Thirty-fifth Street, and I crossed over to have it on me. The breeze from the river wasn’t as chilly as I had expected, and I unbuttoned my topcoat. I was not arrayed, merely had my clothes on, with the Centrex, loaded and ready, dangling from a strap over my shoulder.

Crosstown to Fifth Avenue, and uptown for five blocks, it was just a pleasant walk with plenty of room, but in front of the library some early birds were already around, moving or standing in the sunshine, and I had to start dodging. From there on it got thicker all the way, and it was a good thing I had allowed extra time, since I had told Tabby I would be in front of Saint Thomas’s at twelve-thirty.

Tabby will do for him, though I know his name and address. Tabby will do. It had been a mistake to bait him with two Cs, one down and one if and when, since a pair of twenties would have been more his speed, and it might make him nervous, but I had followed orders. I had briefed him thoroughly, shown him pictures of Millard Bynoe and his wife, and even introduced Vanda to him by giving him a spray, though not flamingo-pink, from one of Wolfe’s plants. There would be a lot of bosoms sporting orchids in that stampede, from Cattleyas to Calanthes. Also, to cinch it, I was going to give him a sign.

By the time I reached Saint Patrick’s at Fiftieth Street, with three blocks to go, the street was no better than the sidewalks — absolutely solid with dressed-up bipeds, some of them looking pleased and even happy. The display of lipstick colors and patterns, goofy hats, and flossy neckties deserved more appreciation than I had time for as I wormed my way north, rubbing not only elbows but shoulders and hips. As I pushed through to the curb in front of Saint Thomas’s, I was thinking it might be worth while to come back next year on my own time for a thorough survey of the panorama, provided I could rent a suit of armor at a bargain. At Fifty-second Street a six-foot amazon in a purple ensemble had got me in the ribs.

I stretched my own six feet by rising on my toes and spotted Tabby, anchored out of the current in a niche flanking the church entrance. He was a little squirt, several inches under six feet, but I got enough of him to see that the C I had given him had gone down the drain for a new topcoat, a gray plaid, and a new hat, a classy gray snap-brim. The true Easter-parade spirit, I thought, and grinned at him when I caught his eye. It wasn’t necessary to shove through to him, since he had been well briefed.

I needed a vantage point for aiming as they came out of the church, and there it was beside me — a wooden box there on the sidewalk at the edge of the curb, some sixteen inches high, just the elevation I needed. But it was occupied. Standing on it was a young woman in a tan woolen belted coat, with a camera in her hand held at breast level as she faced downtown, scanning the rabble as it shuffled along. I touched her elbow and she looked down at me. I gave her my best smile, which was no strain after one glimpse of her face.

“Have you ever,” I asked her, “stood on a box with a peer of the realm?”

“Certainly,” she declared. “Don’t bother me, I’m busy.” She went back to scanning.

I directed my voice up to her ear. “But you have never stood on a box with a prince of the blood, and this is your chance. My grandmother, the queen dowager, is coming out of that church and I want to get a shot of her. I’ll stand on the edge and I won’t jostle.”

She was facing down again. “I hate to refuse, Your Highness, but it’s not my box. It was lent me by a grandee, and he would—”

“Hey, Archie Goodwin!”

The voice came from behind, and I turned. There was another box at the curb, two paces along, and beyond it still another. On them were men with cameras, and straddling the gap, with his left foot on one box and his right on the other, was a third man with a camera, grinning at me.

He spoke. “You don’t remember me.”

“Sure I do. The Gazette. Joe. Joe Merrick — no, wait a minute — Herrick. Joe Herrick. Did you lend this lady the box she’s on?”

“Yeah, who wouldn’t? Look at her!”

“I have. Any objection if she shares it with me?”

“That’s up to her. I’d rather she shared it with me, but you had the idea first. What are you after? Where’s the corpse?”

“No corpse. I’m just practicing.” I turned to tell her I had cleared it with the grandee, but at that moment all four of them brought their cameras up to their chins, facing the church entrance. The exodus had started. I planted my left foot on the edge of her box, heaved myself up, and caught the edge of the next-door box with my right foot with a fancy spread-eagle. It was too near a split to be comfortable, but at least I was up high enough to focus over the heads of the crowd. A glance showed me that Tabby had left his niche and edged through to the line of exit.

Out they came, all flavors. The men ran from cutaways to sacks and from toppers to floppies, not more than half of them with topcoats, and the women displayed an assortment of furs, coats, jackets, stoles, suits, and hats for the birds. I shot a couple to warm up the camera, and once I thought I spotted my target, but the man with her was not Milliard Bynoe, and as she approached I saw that her orchid spray wasn’t Vanda, but Phalaenopsis. Then suddenly there she was, headed straight toward me, with a man on either side of her, and the one on her right was Bynoe. Her fur jacket, sable or long-haired hamster or something, was open, and drooping below her left shoulder was a ten-inch spray of glowing pink. She was one of the most attractive objects I had seen that day, and as she got closer and I aimed the camera for another shot the back of my mind was reflecting that you couldn’t find a better argument to persuade a man to marry a woman twenty years his junior, which was what Millard Bynoe had done.

Having given Tabby a sign, I had the camera to my eye again, so I didn’t actually see all of what happened in the next two seconds, but I can show one instant of it, the instant I pressed the button, with four pictures I took of her. I had warned Tabby not to try for the spray while cameras were on her, as I knew they would be as she left the church, and of course her having an escort at each elbow made it impossible to sneak up from the side, but evidently the vision of another C was too much for him, and he had worked his way around to get at her from the front. Seeing his head and arm in the finder, and the arm and hand of the man on Mrs. Bynoe’s left warding him off, I lowered the camera, slid off the boxes, and started forward with the notion of grabbing his coattail and jerking him away, but he had wriggled off before I got there. Mrs. Bynoe was looking upset, with her teeth clamped on her lip, and her escorts were asking her questions, but she shook her head, said something to her husband, and turned uptown, the men close beside her. The pink spray was intact.

I looked around, over shoulders and between hats, saw Tabby making himself small against the railing, and saw him move, uptown. The nervy little cuss was stalking his prey. It wouldn’t have been discreet to chat with him there in the public eye, even if I had anything helpful to say, and anyway it was understood that he was strictly on his own, but there was nothing against my being an impartial observer. So I tagged along, some eight rows of hats behind Tabby and fifteen or so behind the trio.

They took their time. Of course Fifth Avenue was closed to traffic, but one of the Bynoe limousines was probably parked nearby on Madison, so Tabby didn’t have all day. At Fifty-fourth Street they headed across the avenue, and that was slow going since they kept three abreast. By the time they reached the other curb Tabby had closed in to eight or ten feet, and I was keeping my distance from Tabby.

It happened when they had gone some fifty yards along Fifty-fourth Street, about halfway to Madison. The throng wasn’t as thick there as on the avenue, but it was still a throng. Tabby was almost directly behind them, and I wasn’t far off, when suddenly Mrs. Bynoe stopped short, grabbed her husband’s arms, and said to him in a sort of half-strangled scream, “I can’t stand it! I didn’t want to — here on the street — I can’t breathe! Mil, you—” She let go of his arms, straightened up, rigid, shuddered all over, and toppled. The two men had her before she went down, but then she went into convulsion, her neck and spine arching backward and she got away from them and was on the sidewalk.

Tabby darted in from the circle of bystanders, snatched the pink spray from her shoulder, darted out again, through the circle, and sprinted for Madison Avenue.

There was only one thing for me to do, and I did it. I went after him. For one thing, if anyone else felt like chasing him, my being ahead would show him he wasn’t needed. For another, I couldn’t have asked for a better excuse to make myself scarce. So I stretched my legs, and while I can no longer do the hundred in 10:7, I can move. So could Tabby. When he got to Madison I was still ten steps behind. He took the corner, turning downtown, without slackening, and ran into luck. Twenty yards down a taxi was discharging a couple of passengers. Tabby was there before they shut the door, and I was too. He tumbled in, and while I didn’t tumble, I didn’t dawdle. The hackie, swiveling his neck for a look, inquired mildly, “Ghosts?”

I controlled my panting enough to speak. “Right. My friend here had never been in a church before, and the choir’s costumes got him. Nine-eighteen West Thirty-fifth Street.”

He surveyed the street to the rear, saw no cop or other pursuer coming for fugitives, turned and pulled the gear lever, and we rolled. When we had gone a block Tabby opened his mouth to speak, but I glared at him and he shut it again. Hackies usually have good ears, sometimes too good, and it wouldn’t help to give that one any items to remember us by. It was already bad enough. So he had heard nothing, because there was nothing for him to hear, when he deposited us at the curb in front of the old brownstone. I led the way up the seven steps of the stoop, let us in with my key, got my hat and coat on the hall rack and shelf, and was going to do likewise with Tabby’s, but he hung on to his coat, carefully inserted his hand in the left side pocket, and carefully withdrew it with thumb and forefinger closed on the stem of the spray.

“Here it is,” he said. “Come across. I’m on my way.”

“Hold your horses. I have to tap the till.” I put his coat on a hanger and his hat on the shelf, steered him across the hall and into the front room, told him to wait, opened the soundproofed door to the office, passed through, and shut it behind me.

Wolfe, at his desk with sections of the Sunday paper scattered around, looked up, saw I was empty-handed except for the camera, and demanded, “Well?”

I crossed to my desk and put the camera down, and stood. “Yes, sir. I got pictures, and he got the spray. But first I want—”

“Where is it?”

“Just a minute. He’s in the front room with it, hanging on to it until he sees his money, and as soon as I pay him he’ll want to skip, and there’s a complication. Mrs. Bynoe collapsed on the sidewalk, in convulsion, and while she was lying there with her head curved back nearly to her heels he dashed in and grabbed the spray and ran. It wasn’t a pretty performance and I would have liked to collar him and call a cop, but that wouldn’t have helped her any, and also there was you to consider, sitting here with your mouth watering. So I ran after him. If I had caught him in time I would have walked him here, but before I reached him he had hopped a taxi. There was no use—”

“I want to see the spray.”

“Just a minute. We may—”

“There will be many minutes. Get him in here.”

I let him have his way because he wasn’t listening anyhow. I went to the front room and brought Tabby. When he got to Wolfe’s desk and Wolfe extended a hand, I thought Tabby was going to refuse to part with it until he touched the money, and so did he, but Wolfe growled like a lion at sight of a hunk of juicy meat, and Tabby handed him the spray, which had been crushed some, but not badly. Half of the dozen or so blossoms were intact. Wolfe looked them over, one by one, and then got a magnifying glass from a drawer and went over them again, with his lips closed so tight he didn’t have any. Finally he pushed his chair back, arose, and, holding the spray by the butt of the stem, made for the hall and the kitchen, where there were two refrigerators, one cool and one cold. Soon he returned, without the spray, crossed to his desk and sat, and announced, “I would give three thousand dollars for that plant.”

I shook my head. “Don’t look at me. No, thanks. And if you want to deal with Tabby, deal direct. Before I pay him I would like to report in detail, if and when you’ve got yourself enough under control to listen.”

“Pfui. Have you ever seen me out of control?”

“We can save that. Remind me some time. Sit down, Tabby.” I took the chair at my desk and proceeded to report, covering everything, which didn’t take long since no long conversations were involved. Apparently Wolfe was taking it in.

I ended up, “It depends on Mrs. Bynoe. As far as I know it could have been epilepsy. But if it was something else, something that gets the cops on it and makes them work, they’ll learn that the guy who tried to get at her in front of the church was the one who grabbed the orchids later, and they’ll probably find him. When they do, will he talk? Yes. Sooner or later, and I suspect sooner. So I think we might invite Tabby to stick around until we know the score.” I looked at my wristwatch. “It’s been over an hour. I can try Lon Cohen at the Gazette.”

Wolfe was frowning at me. “Do so.”

I swiveled and dialed. Usually I can get right through to Lon, but that time it took five minutes. When I finally got him he said he was in a boil and I made it snappy.

“A question, maybe two. Have you anything in about Mrs. Millard Bynoe?”

“Yes. She’s dead. That’s the boil. And last Wednesday you were here collecting pictures of her and her husband. I was just going to ring you. Where do you come in? And Nero Wolfe? Speak.”

“At present I’m just curious, and this call is absolutely off the record. If and when we do come in I’ll think of you. Where and when did she die, and what killed her?”

“On the sidewalk on Fifty-fourth Street between Madison and Fifth, about an hour ago. What, I don’t know, but they have taken the body to the morgue and the Commissioner is standing by, not to mention others. Are you going to open up or not?”

“I’m just curious. It itches. You might ring me every hour on the hour.”

He said sure, he had nothing else to do, and hung up. I turned and relayed it to Wolfe, and as I finished Tabby was out of his chair, his sharp little eyes darting from Wolfe to me and back again.

“I want my money,” he said, tending to squeak. “That’s what I want, see?” He started to tremble. “What the hell!”

I went and put a hand on his shoulder, friendly. “Take it easy, Tabby,” I told him. I turned to Wolfe. “I met this gentleman a couple of years ago in connection with one of our cases, and did him a little favor, but he doesn’t know my true character, or yours either. He suspects we may be tying a can on him, and he’s scared stiff, and you can’t blame him. Maybe he scares easy, but he has been around, and he knows they wouldn’t call the Commissioner in on Easter Sunday unless they had something, even for Mrs. Millard Bynoe, and I know it too. Ten to one it’s murder, and if so they’ll find Tabby, and if they find him they’ll find me, and if they find me they’ll find you.”

Wolfe was glaring at us. “Confound it,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “So you and Tabby have problems, not to mention me. You hired him, through me, to commit petty larceny, and that will make fine reading. He committed the larceny, but what’s worse, he has now got it in his head that we have framed him for something in a murder, and try to get it out. He’s too scared to listen to reason. You may think of something besides reason for him to listen to.”

“Is there any chance that he seized an opportunity? When he got in front of her as she crossed the sidewalk?”

“No. Cross it off. I saw it. And why? Skip it. Also, I know him and that’s not in him.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?”

“Just call him Tabby. He prefers it.”

“I want my money,” Tabby squeaked. “That’s all I want.”

Wolfe, eying him, took in air, clear down, and let it out again. “You understand, sir,” he said, “that this may be only a bugaboo. Mrs. Bynoe may have died of natural causes.”

“I want my money,” Tabby squeaked.

“No doubt. But she may not, and in that case the investigation will be thorough. We’ll soon know, and if it was murder I’m in a pickle. Putting it at a minimum, I would prefer not to have it published that I hired a man to steal a flower, especially if he tore it from her breast as she lay dying. You want your money. If I give it to you, and you leave, what will happen? Either you will spend it in an effort to keep yourself out of the hands of the police, not an attractive prospect for you; or you will go to the police at once and unburden yourself, not an attractive prospect for me.”

Wolfe sighed again. “So I’m not going to pay you, not — Let me finish, please. I shall not pay you now. There is a comfortable room on the third floor of this house, and my cook is unsurpassed if not unequaled. If you will occupy that room, communicate with no one, and not leave the house until I give the word, I will then pay you the hundred dollars and also ten dollars for each day you have been here.”

During the next minute Tabby opened his mouth three times to speak and each time closed it again. It was a hard chew for him, and when he finally got to the point of words they were not for Wolfe. He turned to me and demanded, “What about this guy?”

I grinned at him. “He could lie rings around you, Tabby. But he’s too damn conceited to double-cross a man, let alone a peanut. Also, if I count, I’ll sign it.”

He left me to squint at Wolfe, and after another chew he nodded. “Okay, but no lousy ten bucks a day. Twenty.”

As I mentioned, the offer of two Cs had been a mistake. Delusions of grandeur. Wolfe, being in a pickle, would probably have stood for it, but I put in. “Nothing doing,” I said firmly. “Ten a day and found, and wait till you taste the found.” I touched his elbow. “Come on and I’ll show you your room.”