Too Many Clients

9

At the meeting of those two, Wolfe and Cramer, naturally I am not an impartial observer. Not only am I committed and involved; there is also the basic fact that cops and private detectives are enemies and always will be. Back of the New York cop are the power and authority of eight million people; back of the private detective is nothing but the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and while that's a fine thing to have it doesn't win arguments. But though I am not impartial I'm an observer, and one of the privileges of my job is to be present when Cramer walks into the office and aims his sharp gray eyes at Wolfe, and Wolfe, his head cocked a little to the side, meets them. Who will land the first blow, and will it be a jab, a hook, or a swing?

On this occasion I got cheated. That first quick impact didn't take place because Mrs. Yeager didn't let it. As Cramer crossed the sill into the office she was there confronting him, demanding, "Am I being followed around?"

Cramer looked down at her. He was polite. "Good morning, Mrs. Yeager. I hope you haven't been annoyed. When there's a murderer loose we don't like to take chances. For your protection we thought it advisable - "

"I don't need any protection and I don't want any!" With her head tilted back the crease between her chins wasn't so deep. "Did you follow me here?"

"I didn't. A man did. We - "

"Where is he? I want to see him. Bring him in here. I'm telling you and I'm going to tell him, I will not be followed around. Protect me?" She snorted. "You didn't protect my husband. He gets shot on the street and put in a hole and you didn't even find him. A boy had to find him. Where's this man?"

"He was merely obeying orders." Cramer's tone sharpened a little. "And he followed you here, and maybe you do need protection. There are things to be protected from besides personal violence, like making mistakes. Maybe coming here was one. If you came to tell Nero Wolfe something you haven't told us, something about your husband, something that is or may be connected with his death, it was a mistake. So I want to know what you've said to him and what he said to you. All of it. You've been here nearly half an hour."

For half a second I thought she was going to spill it, and she did too. My guess would be that what popped into her mind was the notion that the simplest and quickest way to see that room on 82nd Street would be to tell Cramer about it, and she might actually have acted on it if Wolfe's voice hadn't come at her from behind.

"I'll return your retainer if you want it, madam."

"Oh," she said. She didn't turn. "I hired him to do something," she told Cramer.

"To do what?"

"To find out who killed my husband. You didn't even find his body, and now all you do is follow me around, and this stuff about protecting me when there's nothing to protect me from. If I had anything to tell anybody I'd tell him, not you." She took a step. "Get out of the way; I'm going to see that man."

"You're making a mistake, Mrs. Yeager. I want to know what you said to Wolfe."

"Ask him." Seeing that Cramer wasn't going to move, she circled around him, headed for the hall. I followed her out and to the front. As I reached for the knob she came close, stretched her neck to get her mouth near my ear, and whispered, "When will you take me to see that room?" I whispered back, "As soon as I get a chance." I would have liked to stay at the door to see how she went about finding her tail, but if Cramer was going to blurt at Wolfe, "When did you take over that room on Eighty-second Street?" I wanted to be present, so I closed the door and went back to the office.

Cramer wasn't blurting. He was in the red leather chair, the front half of it, with his feet planted flat. Wolfe was saying, "… and that is moot. I'm not obliged to account to you for my acceptance of a retainer unless you charge interference with the performance of your official duty, and can support the charge."

"I wouldn't be here," Cramer said, "if I couldn't support it. It wasn't just the report that Mrs. Yeager was here that brought me. That would be enough, finding that you were sticking your nose into a murder investigation, but that's not all. I'm offering you a chance to cooperate by asking you a straight question: What information have you got about Yeager that might help to identify the person that killed him?"

So he knew about the room, and we were up a tree. I went to my desk and sat. It would be hard going, and probably the best thing for Wolfe to do would be to empty the bag and forget the clients.

He didn't. He hung on. He shook his head. "You know better than that. Take a hypothesis. Suppose, for instance, that I have been informed in confidence that a certain person owed Yeager a large sum of money and Yeager was pressing for payment. That might help to identify the murderer, but I am not obliged to pass the information on to you unless I am confronted with evidence that it would help. Your question is straight enough, but it's impertinent, and you know it."

"You admit you have information."

"I admit nothing. If I do have information the responsibility of deciding whether I am justified in withholding it is mine - and the risk."

"Risk my ass. With your goddam luck, and you talk about risk. I'll try a question that's more specific and maybe it won't be so impertinent. Why did Goodwin phone Lon Cohen at the Gazette at five o'clock Monday afternoon to ask for dope on Yeager, more than two hours before Yeager's body was found?"

I tried to keep my face straight, and apparently succeeded, since Cramer has good eyes with a lot of experience with faces, and if my relief had shown he would have spotted it. Inside I was grinning. They hadn't found the room; they had merely got a tip from some toad at the Gazette and had put the screws on.

Wolfe grunted. "That is indeed specific."

"Yeah. Now you be specific. I've seen you often enough horn in on a murder case, that's nothing new, but by God this is the first time you didn't even wait until the body was found. How did you know he was dead?"

"I didn't. Neither did Mr. Goodwin." Wolfe turned a hand over. "Mr. Cramer. I don't take every job that's offered to me. When I take one I do so to earn a fee, and sometimes it's necessary to take a calculated risk. I'm taking one now. It's true that someone, call him X, said something in this room Monday afternoon that caused Mr. Goodwin to phone Mr. Cohen for information about Thomas G. Yeager. But, first, nothing that X said indicated that he knew Yeager was dead, and it is our opinion that he did not know. Second, nothing that X said indicated that Yeager was in peril, that anyone intended to kill him or had any motive for killing him. Third, nothing that X said was the truth. We have discovered that every word he uttered was a lie. And since our conclusion that he didn't know Yeager was dead, and therefore he didn't kill him, is soundly based, I am justified in keeping his lies to myself, at least for the present. I have no information for you."

"Who is X?"

"I don't know."

"Nuts. Is it Mrs. Yeager?"

"No. I probably wouldn't name him even if I could, but I can't."

Cramer leaned forward. "Calculated risk, huh? Justified. You are like hell. I remember too many - "

The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it. "Nero Wolfe's offi - "

"I've got one, Archie."

My fingers tightened around the phone, and I pressed it closer to my ear. Fred again: ' That you, Archie?"

"Certainly. I'm busy." If I told him to hold the wire and went to the kitchen, Cramer would step to my desk and pick it up.

"I said I've got another one. Another woman."

"I'm not sure that was sensible, Mr. Gerson. That might get you into serious trouble.''

"Oh. Somebody there?"

"Certainly." Fred had good enough connections in his skull, but the service was a little slow. "I guess I'll have to, but I don't know how soon I can make it. Hold the wire a minute." I covered the transmitter and turned to Wolfe. "That damn fool Gerson has found his bonds and has got two of his staff locked in a room. He could get hooked for more damages than the bonds are worth. He wants me to come, and of course I ought to, but."

Wolfe grunted. "You'll have to. The man's a nincompoop. You can call Mr. Parker from there if necessary."

I uncovered the transmitter and told it, "All right, Mr. Gerson, I'm on my way. Keep them locked in till I get there." I hung up and went.

At the curb in front was Cramer's car. Trading waves with the driver, Jimmy Burke, I headed east. There was no reason to suppose that Cramer had a tail posted for me, but I wasn't taking the thinnest chance of leading a city employee to 82nd Street. Getting a taxi on Ninth Avenue, I told the driver I would give directions as we went along. We turned right on 34th Street, right again on Eleventh Avenue, right again on 56th Street, and left on Tenth Avenue. By then I knew I was clear, but I kept an eye to the rear all the way to 82nd and Broadway. From there I walked.

The hole was being filled in. There was no uniform around, and no one in sight who might be representing Homicide West or the DA's bureau. Turning in at the basement entrance of 156, using Meg Duncan's key, and going down the hall, I had no feeling of eyes on me, but as I approached the end Cesar Perez appeared at the kitchen door.

"Oh, you," he said, and turned. "It's Mr. Goodwin."

His wife came from inside. "There's a woman up there," she said.

I nodded. "I came to meet her. Had you seen her before?"

"No." She looked at her husband. "Cesar, we must tell him."

"I don't know," Perez spread his hands. "You think better than I do, Felita. If you say so."

Her black eyes came at me. "If you're not an honest man, may the good God send us help. Come in here." She moved.

I didn't hesitate. Fred hadn't sounded on the phone as if he had any new scratches, and this pair might have something hot. I stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Perez went to the table and Picked up a card and handed it to me. "That man came this morning," she said.

It was the engraved card of a John Morton Seymour, with ' 'Attorney at Law" in one corner and a midtown address in the other. "And?" I asked.

"He brought this." She picked up an envelope from the table and offered it. "Look at it."

It had been sealed and slit open. I took out a paper with the regulation blue legal backing and unfolded it. There were three typewritten sheets, very neat and professional. I didn't have to read every word to get the idea; it was a deed, signed by Thomas G. Yeager and properly witnessed, dated March 16, 1957, conveying certain property, namely the house and ground at 156 West 82nd Street, Borough of Manhattan, City of New York, to Cesar and Felita Perez. First and most interesting question: how long had they known it existed?

"He brought that and gave it to us," she said. * 'He said Mr. Yeager told him that if he died he must give it to us within forty-eight hours after he died. He said it was a little more than forty-eight hours but he didn't think that would matter. He said he would take care of it for us - formalities, he said - without any charge. Now we have to tell you what we were going to do. We were going away tonight. We were going somewhere and not come back. But now we argue, we fight. My husband and daughter think we can stay, but I think we must go. For the first time we fight more than just some words, so I am telling you."

Cesar had an eye half closed. "What he say yesterday," he said, "your Mr. Wolfe. He say when they find out Mr. Yeager owned this house they come here and then we have bad trouble, so we decide to go tonight. But this man today, this Mr. Seymour, he say Mr. Yeager did this paper like this so nobody could know he owned this house and we must not say he owned it. He say it is fixed so nobody will know. So I say we can stay now. It is our house now and we can take out the things we don't want up there and it can be our room. If it's too big we can put in walls. That kitchen and that bathroom are beautiful. My wife thinks better than I do nearly always, but this time I say I don't see why. Why must we run away from our own house?"

"Well." I put the deed in the envelope and tossed it on the table. "When Mr. Wolfe said yesterday that you would be in trouble when they find out that Yeager owned this house you knew they wouldn't find out, and why didn't you say so?"

"You don't listen," Mrs. Perez said. "This Mr. Seymour didn't come yesterday, he came this morning. You don't listen."

"Sure I do. But Yeager told you about that paper long ago. You knew the house would be yours if he died."

Her black eyes flashed. "If you listen do you call us liars? When we say we were going away and this Mr. Seymour comes with this paper, and now we fight?"

I nodded. "I heard you. Have you got a Bible?"

"Of course."

"Bring it here."

She left the room, not to the hall, by another door. In a moment she was back with a thick little book bound in stiff brown leather. It didn't resemble the Bibles I had seen, and I opened it for a look, but it was in Spanish. Holding it, I asked them to put their left hands on it and raise their right hands, and they obliged. "Repeat this after me: I swear on this Bible… that I didn't know… Mr. Yeager was going to give us this house… and I had no reason… to think he was going to… before Mr. Seymour came this morning."

I put the Bible on the table. "Okay. If Mr. Seymour says he can handle it so no one will know Yeager owned it he probably can, but there are quite a few people who already know it, including me, so I advise you not to take anything from that room, not a single thing, even if it's your property. I also advise you to stay here. I'm not saying who did the best thinking on that, but skipping out is the worst thing you could possibly do. Yeager was killed up there, and you moved the body. If you skip it could even be that Mr. Wolfe will decide he has to tell the police about you, and it wouldn't take them long to find you, and swearing on a Bible wouldn't help you then."

"They wouldn't find us," Mrs. Perez said.

"Don't kid yourself. Smarter people than you have thought they could go where they couldn't be found, and it can't be done. Forget it. I have to go upstairs and see that woman. Please accept my congratulations on having a house all your own. May a cop never enter it."

I was going, but she spoke. "If we go away, we'll tell you before we go."

"We're not going," Perez said. "We're citizens of the United States of America."

"That's the spirit," I said, and went to the elevator and pushed the button. It came, and I entered and was lifted.

That bower of carnality grew on you. Emerging from the elevator and seeing that all was serene, that Fred hadn't had to use the coverlet again, I let my eyes glance around. Unquestionably the place had a definite appeal. It would have been an interesting and instructive experiment to move in and see how long it would take to get used to it, especially a couple of pictures across from the -

But I had work to do. Fred was in a yellow silk chair, at ease, with a glass of champagne in his hand, and on a couch facing him, also with a glass of champagne, was a female who went with the surroundings much better than either Meg Duncan or Julia McGee, though of course they hadn't been relaxed on a couch. This one was rather small, all curves but not ostentatious, and the ones that caught your eye and held it were the curves of her lips - her wide, but not too wide, full mouth. As I approached she extended a hand.

"I know you," she said. "I've seen you at the Flamingo. I made a man mad once saying I wanted to dance with you. When Fred said Archie Goodwin was coming I had to sit down to keep from swooning. You dance like a dream."

I had taken the offered hand. Having shaken hands with five different murderers on previous occasions, I thought one more wouldn't hurt if it turned out that way. "I'll file that," I told her. "If we ever team up for a turn I'll try not to trample you. Am I intruding? Are you and Fred old friends?"

"Oh no, I never saw him before. It just seems silly to call a man Mister when you're drinking champagne with him. I suggested the champagne."

"She put it in the freezer," Fred said, "and she opened it, and why waste it? I don't like it much, you know that."

"No apology needed. If she calls you Fred, what do you call her?"

"I don't call her. She said to call her Dye. I was just waiting for you."

On the couch, at arm's length from her, was a leather bag shaped like a box. I was close enough so that all I had to do to get it was bend and stretch an arm. Her hand darted out, but too late, and I had it. As I backed up a step and opened it, all she said was, "That's not nice, is it?"

"I'm only nice when I'm dancing." I went to the end of the couch and removed items one by one, putting them on the couch. There were only two things with names on them, an opened envelope addressed to Mrs. Austin Hough, 64 Eden Street, New York 14, and a driver's license, Dinah Hough, same address, thirty, five feet two inches, white, brown hair, hazel eyes. I put everything back in, closed the bag, and replaced it on the couch near her. "I left the gun at home," she said, and took a sip of champagne.

"That was sensible. I only wanted to know how to spell Di. I may be able to save you a little trouble, Mrs. Hough. Nero Wolfe wants to see anyone who comes to this room and has keys to the door downstairs and the elevator - by the way, I left them in your bag - but if we went there now he'd be just starting lunch and you'd have to wait. We might as well discuss matters here while you finish the champagne."

"Will you have some? The bottle's in the refrigerator."

"No, thanks." I sat on the couch, four feet away, twisted around to face her. "I don't suppose the champagne's what you came here for. Is it?"

"No. I came to get my umbrella."

"Yellow with a red plastic handle?"

"No. Gray with a black handle."

"It's there in a drawer, but you'll have to manage without it for a while. If and when the police get interested in this place they won't like it if things have been taken away. How did it get here?"

'' I need a refill.'' She was off of the couch and on her feet in one smooth movement. "Can't I bring you some?"

"No, thanks."

"You, Fred?"

"No, one's enough of this stuff." She crossed to the kitchen door and on through. I asked Fred, "Did she try to buy you off or talk you off?"

He shook his head. "She didn't try anything. She gave me a look and saw I'm twice as big as she is, and she said, 'I don't know you, do I? What's your name?' She's a damn cool specimen if you ask me. Do you know what she asked me after we got talking? She asked me if I thought this would be a good place to have meetings of the Parent-Teachers Association. Believe me, if I was a woman and I had keys to this place and I came and found a stranger - ''

Mrs. Hough had reappeared, with a full glass. She came and resumed her place on the couch without spilling a drop, lifted the glass, said, "Faith, hope, and charity," and took a sip. She adjusted her legs. "I left it here," she said. "Two weeks ago Friday, three weeks this coming Friday. It was raining. Tom Yeager had told me he knew a place that was different, worth seeing, he said, and he gave me keys and told me how to get in. When I came, this is what I found." She waved a hand. "You have to admit it's different. But there was no one here but him, and he had ideas I didn't like. He didn't actually assault me, say nothing but good of the dead, but he was pretty difficult, and I was glad to get away without my umbrella but with everything else."

She took a sip. "And when I read about his death, about his body being found in a hole in the street, this street, you can imagine. I wasn't worried about being suspected of having something to do with his death, that wasn't it, but I knew how clever they are at tracing things, and if the umbrella was traced to me, and this room described in the papers - well…" She gestured. "My husband, my friends, everyone who knows me - and if it got bad enough my husband might even lose his job. But this place wasn't mentioned in the papers yesterday, and when it wasn't mentioned again today I thought they probably didn't know about it, and I decided to come and see and perhaps I could get my umbrella. So here I am."

She took a sip. "And you say I can't have it and talk about going to see Nero Wolfe. It would be fun to see Nero Wolfe, I wouldn't mind that, but I want my umbrella, and I have an idea. You say it's here in a drawer?"

"Right."

"Then you take it, and tonight take me to the Flamingo and we'll dance. Not just a turn, we'll dance till they close, and then you might feel like letting me have the umbrella. That may sound conceited, but I don't mean it that way, I just think you might, and it won't hurt to find out, and anyhow you'll have the umbrella."

"Yeah." The curve of her lips really caught the eye. "And it won't be here. I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Hough, but I'll be working tonight. Speaking of working, why would your husband lose his job? Does he work for Continental Plastic Products?"

"No. He's an assistant professor at NYU. A wife of a faculty member getting involved in a thing like this - even if I'm not really involved…"

There was a click in my skull. It wasn't a hunch; you never know where a hunch comes from; it was the word "professor" that flipped a switch. "What's he professor of?" I asked.

"English literature." She took a sip. "You're changing the subject. We can go to the Flamingo tomorrow night. You won't be losing anything except a few hours if you don't like me, because you'll have the umbrella." She looked at her wrist watch. "It's nearly half past one. Have you had lunch?"

"No."

"Take me to lunch and maybe you'll melt a little."

I was listening with only one ear. Teacher of literature. Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts, Robert Browning. I would have given ten to one, which would have been a sucker's bet, but a detective has as much right to look on the bright side as anyone else.

I stood up. "You're getting on my nerves, Mrs. Hough. It would be no strain at all to call you Di. I haven't seen anyone for quite a while that I would rather take to lunch or dance with, melting would be a pleasure, but I have to go. Nero Wolfe will still want to see you, but that can wait. Just one question: Where were you Sunday night from seven o'clock on?"

"No." Her eyes widened. "You can't mean that."

"Sorry, but I do. If you want to have another conference with yourself, I'll wait while you go to fill your glass again."

"You really mean it." She emptied the glass, taking her time. "I didn't go to the kitchen to have a conference with myself. Sunday night I was at home, at our apartment, with my husband. Seven o'clock on? We went to a restaurant in the Village a little after six for dinner, and got home after eight - around half past eight. My husband worked at some papers, and I read and watched television, and I went to bed around midnight, and stayed there, really I did. I seldom get up in the middle of the night and go and shoot a man and drop his body in a hole."

"It's a bad habit," I agreed. "Now Mr. Wolfe won't have to ask you that. I suppose you're in the phone book?" I turned to Fred. "Don't let her talk you out of the umbrella. How's the room service here? Okay?"

"No complaints. I'm beginning to feel at home. How much longer?"

"A day or a week or a year. You never had it softer."

"Hunh. You leaving her?"

"Yeah, she might as well finish the bottle. I've got an errand." As I made for the elevator Dinah Hough left the couch and headed for the kitchen. She was in there when the elevator came and I entered. Down below Mr. and Mrs. Perez were still in their kitchen, and I poked my head in and told them that their only hope of steering clear of trouble was to sit tight, and blew. At the corner of 82nd and Columbus was a drugstore where I could have treated my stomach to a glass of milk, but I didn't stop. I had a date with an assistant professor of English literature, though he didn't know it.