The Last Witness

IV

For more years than I have fingers Inspector Cramer of Homicide had been dreaming of locking Wolfe up, at least overnight, and that day he darned near made it. He probably would have if I hadn’t spent an extra dime. Having phoned Saul Panzer, and also Fritz, from a booth in a drugstore in Washington Heights, I called the Gazette office and got Lon Cohen. When he heard my voice he said, “Well, well. Are you calling from your cell?”

“No. If I told you where I am you’d be an accomplice. Has our absence been noticed?”

“Certainly, the town’s in an uproar. A raging mob has torn the courthouse down. We’re running a fairly good picture of Wolfe, but we need a new one of you. Could you drop in at the studio, say in five minutes?”

“Sure, glad to. But I’m calling to settle a bet. Is there a warrant for us?”

“You’re damn right there is. Judge Corbett signed it first thing after lunch. Look, Archie, let me send a man—”

I told him much obliged and hung up. If I hadn’t spent that dime and learned there was a warrant, we wouldn’t have taken any special precaution as we approached Saul’s address on East Thirty-eighth Street and would have run smack into Sergeant Purley Stebbins, and the question of where to spend the night would have been taken off our hands.

It was nearly eight o’clock. Wolfe and I had each disposed of three orders of chili con carne at a little dump on 170th Street where a guy named Dixie knows how to make it, and I had made at least a dozen phone calls trying to get hold of Jimmy Donovan, Leonard Ashe’s attorney. That might not have been difficult if I could have left word that Nero Wolfe had something urgent for him, and given a number for him to call, but that wouldn’t have been practical, since an attorney is a sworn officer of the law, and he knew there was a warrant out for Wolfe, not to mention me. So I hadn’t got him, and as we crawled with the traffic through East Thirty-eighth Street the sight of Wolfe’s scowl in the rear-view mirror didn’t make the scene any gayer.

My program was to let him out at Saul’s address between Lexington and Third, find a place to park the car, and join him at Saul’s. But just as I swung over and was braking I saw a familiar broad-shouldered figure on the sidewalk, switched from the brake to the gas pedal, and kept going. Luckily a gap had opened, and the light was green at Third Avenue, so I rolled on through, found a place to stop without blocking traffic, and turned in the seat to tell Wolfe, “I came on by because I decided we don’t want to see Saul.”

“You did.” He was grim. “What flummery is this?”

“No flummery. Sergeant Purley Stebbins was just turning in at the entrance. Thank God it’s dark or he would have seen us. Now where?”

“At the entrance of Saul’s address?”

“Yes.”

A short silence. “You’re enjoying this,” he said bitterly.

“I am like hell. I’m a fugitive from justice, and I was going to spend the evening at the Polo Grounds watching a ball game. Where now?”

“Confound it. You told Saul about Miss Weltz.”

“Yes, sir. I told Fritz that if the Queen of Hearts phones she is to call Saul’s number, and I told Saul that you’d rather have an hour alone with her than a blue orchid. You know Saul.”

Another silence. He broke it. “You have Mr. Donovan’s home address.”

“Right. East Seventy-seventh Street.”

“How long will it take to drive there?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Go ahead.”

“Yes, sir. Sit back and relax.” I fed gas.

It took only nine minutes at that time of evening, and I found space to park right in the block, between Madison and Park. As we walked to the number a cop gave us a second glance, but Wolfe’s size and carriage rated that much notice without any special stimulation. It was just my nerves. There were a canopy and a doorman, and rugs in the lobby. I told the doorman casually, “Donovan. We’re expected,” but he hung on.

“Yes, sir, but I have orders — Your name, please?”

“Judge Wolfe,” Wolfe told him.

“One moment, please.”

He disappeared through a door. It was more like five moments before he came back, looking questions but not asking them, and directed us to the elevator. Twelve B, he said.

Getting off at the twelfth floor, we didn’t have to look for B because a door at the end of the foyer was standing open, and on the sill was Jimmy Donovan himself. In his shirt sleeves, with no necktie, he looked more like a janitor than a champion of the bar, and he sounded more like one when he blurted, “It’s you, huh? What kind of a trick is this? Judge Wolfe!”

“No trick.” Wolfe was courteous but curt. “I merely evaded vulgar curiosity. I had to see you.”

“You can’t see me. It’s highly improper. You’re a witness for the prosecution. Also a warrant has been issued for you, and I’ll have to report this.”

He was absolutely right. The only thing for him to do was shut the door on us and go to his phone and call the DA’s office. My one guess why he didn’t, which was all I needed, was that he would have given his shirt, and thrown in a necktie, to know what Wolfe was up to. He didn’t shut the door.

“I’m not here,” Wolfe said, “as a witness for the prosecution. I don’t intend to discuss my testimony with you. As you know, your client, Leonard Ashe, came to me one day in July and wanted to hire me, and I refused. I have become aware of certain facts connected with what he told me that day which I think he should know about, and I want to tell him. I suppose it would be improper for me to tell you more than that, but it wouldn’t be improper to tell him. He is on trial for first-degree murder.”

I had the feeling I could see Donovan’s brain working at it behind his eyes. “It’s preposterous,” he declared. “You know damn well you can’t see him.”

“I can if you’ll arrange it. That’s what I’m here for. You’re his counsel. Early tomorrow morning will do, before the court sits. You may of course be present if you wish, but I suppose you would prefer not to. Twenty minutes with him will be enough.”

Donovan was chewing his lip. “I can’t ask you what you want to tell him.”

“I understand that. I won’t be on the witness stand, where you can cross-examine me, until tomorrow.”

“No.” The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “No, you won’t. I can’t arrange for you to see him; it’s out of the question. I shouldn’t be talking to you. It will be my duty to report this to Judge Corbett in the morning. Good evening, gentlemen.”

He backed up and swung the door shut, but didn’t bang it, which was gracious of him. We rang for the elevator, were taken down, and went out and back to the car.

“You’ll phone Saul,” Wolfe said.

“Yes, sir. His saying he’ll report to the judge in the morning meant he didn’t intend to phone the DA now, but he might change his mind. I’d rather move a few blocks before phoning.”

“Very well. Do you know the address of Mrs. Leonard Ashe’s apartment?”

“Yes, Seventy-third Street.”

“Go in that direction. I have to see her, and you’d better phone and arrange it.”

“You mean now.”

“Yes.”

“That should be a cinch. She’s probably sitting there hoping a couple of strange detectives will drop in. Do I have to be Judge Goodwin?”

“No. We are ourselves.”

As I drove downtown on Park, and east on Seventy-fourth to Third Avenue, and down a block, and west on Seventy-third, I considered the approach to Robina Keane. By not specifying it Wolfe had left it to me, so it was my problem. I thought of a couple of fancy strategies, but by the time I got the car maneuvered to the curb in the only vacant spot between Lexington and Madison I had decided that the simplest was the best. After asking Wolfe if he had any suggestions and getting a no, I walked to Lexington and found a booth in a drugstore.

First I called Saul Panzer. There had been no word from the Queen of Hearts, but she had said around nine o’clock and it was only eight-forty. Sergeant Stebbins had been and gone. What he had said was that the police were concerned about the disappearance of Nero Wolfe because he was an important witness in a murder case, and they were afraid something might have happened to him, especially since Archie Goodwin was also gone. What he had not said was that Inspector Cramer suspected that Wolfe had tramped out of the courtroom hell-bent on messing the case up, and he wanted to get his hands on him quick. Had Wolfe communicated with Saul, and did Saul know where he was? There was a warrant out for both Wolfe and Goodwin. Saul had said no, naturally, and Purley had made some cutting remarks and left.

I dialed another number, and when a female voice answered I told it I would like to speak to Mrs. Ashe. It said Mrs. Ashe was resting and couldn’t come to the phone. I said I was speaking for Nero Wolfe and it was urgent and vital. It said Mrs. Ashe absolutely would not come to the phone. I asked it if it had ever heard of Nero Wolfe, and it said of course. All right, I said, tell Mrs. Ashe that he must see her immediately and he can be there in five minutes. That’s all I can tell you on the phone, I said, except that if she doesn’t see him she’ll never stop regretting it. The voice told me to hold the wire, and was gone so long I began to wish I had tried a fancy one, but just as I was reaching for the handle of the booth door to let in some air it came back and said Mrs. Ashe would see Mr. Wolfe. I asked it to instruct the lobby guardians to admit us, hung up, went out and back to the car, and told Wolfe, “Okay. You’d better make it good after what I told her. No word from Helen Weltz. Stebbins only asked some foolish questions and got the answers he deserved.”

He climbed out, and we walked to the number. This one was smaller and more elegant, too elegant for rugs. The doorman was practically Laurence Olivier, and the elevator man was his older brother. They were chilly but nothing personal. When we were let out at the sixth floor the elevator man stayed at his open door until we had pushed a button and the apartment door had opened and we had been told to enter.

The woman admitting us wasn’t practically Phyllis Jay, she was Phyllis Jay. Having paid $4.40 or $5.50 several times to see her from an orchestra seat, I would have appreciated this free close-up of her on a better occasion, but my mind was occupied. So was hers. Of course she was acting, since actresses always are, but the glamour was turned off because the part didn’t call for it. She was playing a support for a friend in need, and kept strictly in character as she relieved Wolfe of his hat and cane and then escorted us into a big living room, across it, and through an arch into a smaller room.

Robina Keane was sitting on a couch, patting at her hair. Wolfe stopped three paces off and bowed. She looked up at him, shook her head as if to dislodge a fly, pressed her fingertips to her eyes, and looked at him again. Phyllis Jay said, “I’ll be in the study, Robbie,” waited precisely the right interval for a request to stay, didn’t get it, and turned and went. Mrs. Ashe invited us to sit, and, after moving a chair around for Wolfe, I took one off at the side.

“I’m dead tired,” she said. “I’m so empty, completely empty. I don’t think I ever — But what is it? Of course it’s something about my husband?”

Either the celebrated lilt of her voice was born in, or she had used it so much and so long that it might as well have been. She looked all in, no doubt of that, but the lilt was there.

“I’ll make it as brief as I can,” Wolfe told her. “Do you know that I have met your husband? That he called on me one day in July?”

“Yes, I know. I know all about it — now.”

“It was to testify about our conversation that day that I was summoned to appear at his trial, by the State. In court this morning, waiting to be called, an idea came to me which I thought merited exploration, and if it was to bring any advantage to your husband the exploration could not wait. So I walked out, with Mr. Goodwin, my assistant, and we have spent the day on that idea.”

“What idea?” Her hands were fists, on the couch for props.

“Later for that. We have made some progress, and we may make more tonight. Whether we do or not, I have information that will be of considerable value to your husband. It may not exculpate him, but at least it should raise sufficient doubt in the minds of the jury to get him acquitted. The problem is to get the information to the jury. It would take intricate and prolonged investigation to get it in the form of admissible evidence, and I have in mind a short cut. To take it I must have a talk with your husband.”

“But he — How can you?”

“I must. I have just called on Mr. Donovan, his attorney, and asked him to arrange it, but I knew he wouldn’t; that was merely to anticipate you. I knew that if I came to you, you would insist on consulting him, and I have already demonstrated the futility of that. I am in contempt of the court, and a warrant has been issued for my arrest. Also I am under subpoena as a witness for the prosecution, and it is improper for the defense counsel even to talk with me, let alone arrange an interview for me with his client. You, as the wife of a man on trial for his life, are under no such prescription. You have wide acquaintance and great personal charm. It would not be too difficult, certainly not impossible, for you to get permission to talk with your husband tomorrow morning before the court convenes; and you can take me with you. Twenty minutes would be ample, and even ten would do. Don’t mention me in getting the permission; that’s important; simply take me with you and we’ll see. If it doesn’t work there’s another possible expedient. Will you do it?”

She was frowning. “I don’t see — You just want to talk with him?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to tell him?”

“You’ll hear it tomorrow morning when he does. It’s complicated and conjectural. To tell you now might compromise my plan to get it to the jury, and I won’t risk it.”

“But tell me what it’s about. Is it about me?”

Wolfe lifted his shoulders to take in a deep breath, and let them sag again. “You say you’re dead tired, madam. So am I. I would be interested in you only if I thought you were implicated in the murder of Marie Willis, and I don’t. At considerable risk to my reputation, my self-esteem, and possibly even my bodily freedom, I am undertaking a step which should be useful to your husband and am asking your help; but I am not asking you to risk anything. You have nothing to lose, but I have. Of course I have made an assumption that may not be valid: that, whether you are sincerely devoted to your husband or not, you don’t want him convicted of murder. I can’t guarantee that I have the key that will free him, but I’m not a novice in these matters.”

Her jaw was working. “You didn’t have to say that.” The lilt was gone. “Whether I’m devoted to my husband. My husband’s not a fool, but he acted like one. I love him very dearly, and I want—” Her jaw worked. “I love him very much. No, I don’t want him convicted of murder. You’re right, I have nothing to lose, nothing more to lose. But if I do this I’ll have to tell Mr. Donovan.”

“No. You must not. Not only would he forbid it, he would prevent it. This is for you alone.”

She abandoned the prop of her fists and straightened her back. “I thought I was too tired to live,” she said, lilting again, “and I am, but it’s going to be a relief to do something.” She left the couch and was on her feet. “I’m going to do it. As you say, I have a wide acquaintance, and I’ll do it all right. You go on and make some more progress and leave this to me. Where can I reach you?”

Wolfe turned. “Saul’s number, Archie.”

I wrote it on a leaf of my notebook and went and handed it to her. Wolfe arose. “I’ll be there all night, Mrs. Ashe, up to nine in the morning, but I hope it will be before that.”

I doubted if she heard him. Her mind was so glad to have a job that it had left us entirely. She did go with us to the foyer to see us out, but she wasn’t there. I was barely across the threshold when she shut the door.

We went back to the car and headed downtown on Park Avenue. It seemed unlikely that Purley Stebbins had taken it into his head to pay Saul a second call, but a couple of blocks away I stopped to phone, and Saul said no, he was alone. It seemed even more unlikely that Stebbins had posted a man out front, but I stopped twenty yards short of the number and took a good long look. There was a curb space a little further down, and I squeezed the car into it and looked some more before opening the door for Wolfe to climb out. We crossed the street and entered the vestibule, and I pushed the button.

When we left the self-service elevator at the fifth floor Saul was there to greet us. I suppose to some people Saul Panzer is just a little guy with a big nose who always seems to need a shave, but to others, including Wolfe and me, he’s the best free-for-all operative that ever tailed a subject. Wolfe had never been at his place before, but I had, many times over the years, mostly on Saturday nights with three or four others for some friendly and ferocious poker. Inside, Wolfe stood and looked around. It was a big room, lighted with two floor lamps and two table lamps. One wall had windows, another was solid with books, and the other two had pictures and shelves that were cluttered with everything from chunks of minerals to walrus tusks. In the far corner was a grand piano.

“A good room,” Wolfe said. “Satisfactory. I congratulate you.” He crossed to a chair, the nearest thing to his idea of a chair he had seen all day, and sat. “What time is it?”

“Twenty minutes to ten.”

“Have you heard from that woman?”

“No, sir. Will you have some beer?”

“I will indeed. If you please.”

In the next three hours he accounted for seven bottles. He also handled his share of liver pâté, herring, sturgeon, pickled mushrooms, Tunisian melon, and three kinds of cheese. Saul was certainly prancing as a host, though he is not a prancer. Naturally, the first time Wolfe ate under his roof, and possibly the last, he wanted to give him good grub, that was okay, but I thought the three kinds of cheese was piling it on a little. He sure would be sick of cheese by Saturday. He wasn’t equipped to be so fancy about sleeping. Since he was the host it was his problem, and his arrangement was Wolfe in the bedroom, me on the couch in the big room, and him on the floor, which seemed reasonable.

However, at a quarter to one in the morning we were still up. Though time hadn’t dragged too heavily, what with talking and eating and drinking and three hot games of checkers between Wolfe and Saul, all draws, we were all yawning. We hadn’t turned in because we hadn’t heard from Helen Weltz, and there was still a dim hope. The other thing was all set. Just after midnight Robina Keane had phoned and told Wolfe she had it fixed. He was to meet her in Room 917 at 10 °Centre Street at half-past eight. He asked me if I knew what Room 917 was, and I didn’t. After that came he leaned back in his chair and sat with his eyes closed for a while, then straightened up and told Saul he was ready for the third game of checkers.

At a quarter to one he left his chair, yawned and stretched, and announced, “Her panic wore off. I’m going to bed.”

“I’m afraid,” Saul apologized, “I have no pajamas you could get into, but I’ve got—”

The phone rang. I was nearest, and turned and got it. “This is Jackson four-three-one-oh-nine.”

“I want— This is the Queen of Hearts.”

“It sure is. I recognize your voice. This is Archie Goodwin. Where are you?”

“In a booth at Grand Central. I couldn’t get rid of him, and then — but that doesn’t matter now. Where are you?”

“In an apartment on Thirty-eighth Street with Mr. Wolfe, waiting for you. It’s a short walk. I’ll meet you at the information booth, upper level, in five minutes. Will you be there?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Of course I will!”

I hung up, turned, and said loftily, “If it wore off it wore on again. Make some coffee, will you, Saul? She’ll need either that or bourbon. And maybe she likes cheese.”

I departed.