The Gun with Wings

IX

So the clients stayed for the party.

There were ten guests altogether: the six who had been there Monday evening, the two clients, Inspector Cramer, and my old friend and enemy, Sergeant Purley Stebbins. What made it unusual was that the dumbest one of the lot, Clara James, was the only one who had a notion of what was up, unless she had told her father, which I doubted. She had the advantage of the lead I had given her at the Churchill bar. Adele Bosley, Dr. Lloyd, Rupert Grove, Judge Arnold, and Gifford James had had no reason to suppose there was anything on the agenda but the damage claim against James, until they got there and were made acquainted with Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins. God only knew what they thought then; one glance at their faces was enough to show they didn’t know. As for Cramer and Stebbins, they had had enough experience of Nero Wolfe to be aware that almost certainly fur was going to fly, but whose and how and when? And as for Fred and Peggy, even after the arrival of the law, they probably thought that Wolfe was going to get Mion’s suicide pegged down by producing Clara’s statement and disclosing what Fred had told us about moving the gun from the bust to the floor, which accounted for the desperate and cornered look on their faces. But now they were stuck.

Wolfe focused on the inspector, who was seated in the rear over by the big globe, with Purley nearby. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Cramer, first I’ll clear up a little matter that is outside your interest.”

Cramer nodded and shifted the cigar in his mouth to a new angle. He was keeping his watchful eyes on the move.

Wolfe changed his focus. “I’m sure you’ll all be glad to hear this. Not that I formed my opinion so as to please you; I considered only the merits of the case. Without prejudice to her legal position, I feel that morally Mrs. Mion has no claim on Mr. James. As I said she would, she accepts my judgment. She makes no claim and will ask no payment for damages. You verify that before these witnesses, Mrs. Mion?”

“Certainly.” Peggy was going to add something, but stopped it on the way out.

“This is wonderful!” Adele Bosley was out of her chair. “May I use a phone?”

“Later,” Wolfe snapped at her. “Sit down, please.”

“It seems to me,” Judge Arnold observed, “that this could have been told us on the phone. I had to cancel an important engagement.” Lawyers are never satisfied.

“Quite true,” Wolfe agreed mildly, “if that were all. But there’s the matter of Mion’s death. When I—”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“I’m about to tell you. Surely it isn’t extraneous, since his death resulted, though indirectly, from the assault by Mr. James. But my interest goes beyond that. Mrs. Mion hired me not only to decide about the claim of her husband’s estate against Mr. James — that is now closed — but also to investigate her husband’s death. She was convinced he had not killed himself. She could not believe it was in his character to commit suicide. I have investigated and I am prepared to report to her.”

“You don’t need us here for that,” Rupert the Fat said in a high squeak.

“I need one of you. I need the murderer.”

“You still don’t need us,” Arnold said harshly.

“Hang it,” Wolfe snapped, “then go! All but one of you. Go!”

Nobody made a move.

Wolfe gave them five seconds. “Then I’ll go on,” he said dryly. “As I say, I’m prepared to report, but the investigation is not concluded. One vital detail will require official sanction, and that’s why Inspector Cramer is present. It will also need Mrs. Mion’s concurrence; and I think it well to consult Dr. Lloyd too, since he signed the death certificate.” His eyes went to Peggy. “First you, madam. Will you give your consent to the exhumation of your husband’s body?”

She gawked at him. “What for?”

“To get evidence that he was murdered, and by whom. It is a reasonable expectation.”

She stopped gawking. “Yes. I don’t care.” She thought he was just talking to hear himself.

Wolfe’s eyes went left. “You have no objection, Dr. Lloyd?” Lloyd was nonplused. “I have no idea,” he said slowly and distinctly, “what you’re getting at, but in any case I have no voice in the matter. I merely issued the certificate.”

“Then you won’t oppose it. Mr. Cramer. The basis for the request for official sanction will appear in a moment, but you should know that what will be required is an examination and report by Dr. Abraham Rentner of Mount Sinai Hospital.”

“You don’t get an exhumation just because you’re curious,” Cramer growled.

“I know it. I’m more than curious.” Wolfe’s eyes traveled. “You all know, I suppose, that one of the chief reasons, probably the main one, for the police decision that Mion had committed suicide was the manner of his death. Of course other details had to fit — as for instance the presence of the gun there beside the body — and they did. But the determining factor was the assumption that a man cannot be murdered by sticking the barrel of a revolver in his mouth and pulling the trigger unless he is first made unconscious; and there was no evidence that Mion had been either struck or drugged, and besides, when the bullet left his head it went to the ceiling. However, though that assumption is ordinarily sound, surely this case was an exception. It came to my mind at once, when Mrs. Mion first consulted me. For there was present — But I’ll show you with a simple demonstration. Archie. Get a gun.”

I opened my third drawer and got one out.

“Is it loaded?”

I flipped it open to check. “No, sir.”

Wolfe returned to the audience. “You, I think, Mr. James. As an opera singer you should be able to follow stage directions. Stand up, please. This is a serious matter, so do it right. You are a patient with a sore throat, and Mr. Goodwin is your doctor. He will ask you to open your mouth so he can look at your throat. You are to do exactly what you would naturally do under those circumstances. Will you do that?”

“But it’s obvious.” James, standing, was looking grim. “I don’t need to.”

“Nevertheless, please indulge me. There’s a certain detail. Will you do it as naturally as possible?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Will the rest of you all watch Mr. James’ face? Closely. Go ahead, Archie.”

With the gun in my pocket I moved in front of James and told him to open wide. He did so. For a moment his eyes came to mine as I peered into his throat, and then slanted upward. Not in a hurry, I took the gun from my pocket and poked it into his mouth until it touched the roof. He jerked back and dropped into his chair.

“Did you see the gun?” Wolfe demanded.

“No. My eyes were up.”

“Just so.” Wolfe looked at the others. “You saw his eyes go up? They always do. Try it yourselves sometime. I tried it in my bedroom Sunday evening. So it is by no means impossible to kill a man that way, it isn’t even difficult, if you’re a doctor and he has something wrong with his throat. You agree, Dr. Lloyd?”

Lloyd had not joined the general movement to watch James’ face during the demonstration. He hadn’t stirred a muscle. Now his jaw was twitching a little, but that was all.

He did his best to smile. “To show that a thing could happen,” he said in a pretty good voice, “isn’t the same thing as proving it did happen.”

“Indeed it isn’t,” Wolfe conceded. “Though we do have some facts. You have no effective alibi. Mion would have admitted you to his studio at any time without question. You could have managed easily to get the gun from the base of Caruso’s bust, and slipped it into your pocket without being seen. For you, as for no one else, he would upon request have stood with his mouth wide open, inviting his doom. He was killed shortly after you had been compelled to make an appointment for Dr. Rentner to examine him. We do have those facts, don’t we?”

“They prove nothing,” Lloyd insisted. His voice was not quite as good. He came out of his chair to his feet. It did not look as if the movement had any purpose; apparently he simply couldn’t stay put in his chair, and the muscles had acted on their own. And it had been a mistake because, standing upright, he began to tremble.

“They’ll help,” Wolfe told him, “if we can get one more — and I suspect we can, or what are you quivering about? What was it, Doctor? Some unfortunate blunder? Had you botched the operation and ruined his voice forever? I suppose that was it, since the threat to your reputation and career was grave enough to make you resort to murder. Anyhow we’ll soon know, when Dr. Rentner makes his examination and reports. I don’t expect you to furnish—”

“It wasn’t a blunder!” Lloyd squawked. “It could have happened to anyone—”

Whereupon he did blunder. I think what made him lose his head completely was hearing his own voice and realizing it was a hysterical squawk and he couldn’t help it. He made a dash for the door. I knocked Judge Arnold down in my rush across the room, which was unnecessary, for by the time I arrived Purley Stebbins had Lloyd by the collar, and Cramer was there too. Hearing a commotion behind me, I turned around. Clara James had made a dive for Peggy Mion, screeching something I didn’t catch, but her father and Adele Bosley had stopped her and were getting her under control. Judge Arnold and Rupert the Fat were excitedly telling Wolfe how wonderful he was. Peggy was apparently weeping, from the way her shoulders were shaking, but I couldn’t see her face because it was buried on Fred’s shoulder, and his arms had her tight.

Nobody wanted me or needed me, so I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk.