Trio for Blunt Instruments

7

NEARLY FOUR HOURS LATER, at six o’clock, Mr. and Mrs. Paul Fougere were in the office, waiting for Wolfe to come down from the plant rooms-she in the red leather chair and he in one of the yellow ones in front of Wolfe’s desk. To my surprise he had two marks, a red slightly puffed nose and a little bruise under his left eye. I hadn’t thought Kirk had shown that much power, but of course with bare knuckles it doesn’t take much.

Nothing had happened to change my attitude or opinion. When I went to the office after finishing with the kept-warm kidneys and accessories Wolfe permitted me to report on the conversation and slugging match at Vance’s apartment, leaning back and closing his eyes to show he was listening, but he didn’t even grunt when I told the Stebbins part, though ordinarily it gets under his skin, way under, when a client is hauled in. When I was through I said it was a good thing he knew Kirk was innocent since otherwise the typewriter development might make him wonder.

His eyes opened. “I didn’t say I knew it. I said it was extremely improbable that he had killed his wife, and it still is. Any of the others could have managed access to his typewriter for a few minutes, in his absence.”

“Sure. And when his wife told him she had let someone use it, it made him so mad he got rid of it the next day. She could confirm it, but she’s dead. Tough. Or his getting rid of it just then could have been coincidence, but that would be even tougher. Judges and juries hate coincidence, and I’ve heard you make remarks about it.”

“Only when it’s in my way, not when it serves me.” He straightened up and reached for his book. “Can Mrs. Fougere have her husband here at six o’clock?”

“I haven’t asked her. I doubt it. They’re not chummy, and he’s the wrong end of the horse.”

“Perhaps…” He considered it. He shook his head. “No. I must see him. Tell her to tell him, or you tell him, that he has slandered my client before witnesses, and he will either sign a retraction and apology or defend a suit for defamation of character. I’ll expect him at six o’clock.” He picked up the book and opened it.

Cut. I hadn’t expected him to open up, since he is as pigheaded as I am steadfast, but he could have made some little comment. As I looked up the Fougere number and dialed it, I was actually considering something I had never done and thought I never would: retract, apologize, and ask him please to tell me, as a favor to an old associate and loyal assistant, what the hell was in his mind, if anything. But of course I didn’t. When I hung up after getting no answer from the Fougere number, I had an idea: I would ask him if he wanted me to phone Parker. With a client collared as a material witness and probably headed for the coop on a murder charge, it should be not only routine but automatic for him to get Parker. But I looked at his face as he sat, comfortable, his eyes on the book, and vetoed it. He would merely say no and go on reading. It would have improved my feelings to pick up something and throw it at him, but not the situation, so I arose, went to the hall and up two flights to my room, stood at the window, and reviewed the past thirty hours, trying to spot the catch I had missed, granting there had been one. The trouble was I was sore. You can work when you’re sore, or eat or sleep or fight, but you can’t think straight.

My next sight of Wolfe was at two minutes past six when the elevator brought him down from the plant rooms and he entered the office. The slander approach had got results. The fifth time I tried the Fougere number, a little after four, Paul had answered, and I poured it on. On the phone his squeak sounded more like the one that had told me to burn the tie, but of course it would. A voice on a phone, unless it’s one you know well, is tricky. He said he’d come. An hour later Rita phoned. She was too frantic to be practical. She wanted to know if we had heard from Kirk, and were we doing anything and if so what, and shouldn’t Kirk have a lawyer. Being sore, I told her Wolfe was responsible to his client, not to her, that Kirk would of course need a lawyer, if and when he was charged with something, and that we were expecting her husband at six o’clock. When she said she knew that and she was coming along, I said she might as well have saved the dime. I am rude to people only when I am being rude to myself, or they have asked for it. I admit she hadn’t asked for it.

For Wolfe, being rude is no problem at all. When he entered he detoured around the red leather chair to his desk, gave Rita a nod, sat, narrowed his eyes at the husband, and snapped, “You’re Paul Fougere?”

It’s hard to snap back with a squeak, but Fougere did the best he could with what he had. “You’re Nero Wolfe?”

“I am. Did you kill that woman?”

I had known when I let them in that Fougere had decided on his line. It’s easy to see when a man’s all set. So the unexpected question flustered him. “You know damn well I didn’t,” he said. “You know who did, or you ought to.”

“Possibly I don’t. Do you?”

Fougere looked at his wife, at me, and back at Wolfe. He was adjusting. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said. “With witnesses. All right, I can’t prove it, and anyway that’s not up to me, it’s up to the cops. But I’m not going to sign anything. I’ve told Vance I shouldn’t have said it, and I’ve told my wife. Ask her.” He turned to me. “You were the only other one that heard me. I’m telling you now, I can’t prove it and I shouldn’t have said it.” Back to Wolfe: “That covers it. Now try hooking me for defamation of character.”

“Pfui.” Wolfe flipped a hand to dismiss it. “I never intended to. That was only to get you here. I wanted to tell you something and ask you something. First, you’re a blatherskite. You may perhaps know that Mr. Kirk didn’t kill his wife, but you can’t possibly know that he did. Manifestly you’re either a jackass or a murderer, and conceivably both.” He turned his head. “Archie. A twenty-dollar bill, please.”

I went to the safe and got a twenty from the petty cash drawer and came back and offered it, but he shook his head. “Give it to Mrs. Fougere.” To Paul: “I assume your wife is an acceptable stakeholder. Give her a dollar. Twenty to one Mr. Kirk did not kill his wife.”

“You’ve got a bet.” Fougere got out his wallet, extracted a bill, and handed it to me. “You keep it, Goodwin. My wife might spend it. I suppose his conviction decides it? Do I have to wait until after the appeals and all the horsing around?”

Obviously Rita wasn’t hearing him. Probably she had had a lot of practice at not hearing him. She was gazing at Wolfe. “You really mean that, don’t you?” she asked. “You mean it?”

“I expect to win that dollar, madam.” His eyes stayed at Fougere. “As for you, sir, let’s see how sure you are. I would like to ask some questions which may give you a hint of my expectations. If you don’t care to hear them you are of course at liberty to go.”

Fougere laughed. It would be fair to say that he giggled, but I’ll give him a break. He laughed. “Hell, I’ve got a bet down,” he said. “Go right ahead. You’ve already asked me if I killed her. I’ve answered that.”

Wolfe nodded. “But you’re not a mere onlooker. You’re not in the audience; you’re on the stage. Do you know about the envelope Mr. Goodwin received in the mail yesterday morning and its contents?”

“Yes, I do now. From Vance and my wife.”

“Then you know why attention is centered on you four, both the police’s attention and mine. You all had opportunity; any of you could have been admitted to that apartment Monday afternoon by Mrs. Kirk, and Mr. Kirk had a key. The means, the vodka bottle, was at hand. What about motive? Let’s consider that. That’s what I want to discuss with you. You are well acquainted with those three people and their relationships, both with one another and with Mrs. Kirk. Your adroit handling of my charge of slander showed that you have a facile and ingenious mind. I invite you to exercise it. Start with yourself. If you killed Mrs. Kirk, what was your motive?”

Fougere pronounced a word that isn’t supposed to be used with a lady present, and since some lady may read this I’ll skip it. He added, “I didn’t.”

“I know. I’ll rephrase it. If you had killed Mrs. Kirk, what would have been your motive? You’re staying to hear my questions because you’re curious. I’m curious too. What would have been your motive? Is it inconceivable that you could have had one? You need not be reserved because your wife is here; she has informed me of your intimacy with Mrs. Kirk. When I suggested to her the possibility that you had killed her, she said no, you were too shallow. Are you?”

Fougere looked at Rita. “That’s a new one, my pet. Shallow. You should have told me.” To Wolfe: “Certainly I could have had a motive for killing her. I could name four men that could-counting Kirk, five.”

“What would yours have been?”

“That would depend on when. Two months ago it would have been for my-well, for my health.”

“And Monday? I’m not just prattling. Monday?”

“It’s prattle to me. Monday, that would have been different. It would still have been for my health, but in a different way. Very different. Do you want me to spell it out?”

“I think not. So much for you. If your wife killed her, what was her motive?”

“Now that’s a thought.” He grinned. “That appeals to me. We hadn’t touched each other for nearly a year and she wanted me back. I’m shallow, but I’ve got charm. I’m not using it right now, but I’ve got it, don’t think I haven’t.”

I was looking at Rita because I had had enough of looking at him, and from the expression on her face I would have given twenty to one that she was thinking what I was: that he was one in a million. He actually had no idea of how she felt about Kirk. Not that he would necessarily have brought it in, but his tone, even more than his words, made it obvious. I took another look at him. A man that dumb could batter a woman’s skull with a vodka bottle and mosey to the nearest bar and order a vodka and tonic.

Wolfe had the thought too, for he asked, “Have you no other motive to suggest for your wife?”

“No. Isn’t that enough? A jealous wife?”

“There are precedents. I assume Mr. Kirk presents no difficulty. Since you think you know he killed her, you must know why.”

“So do you.”

“Correct. Since like the others it’s an if. He could no longer abide her infidelities, he couldn’t break loose because he was infatuated, and he couldn’t change her, so he took the only way out, since he wanted to live. You agree?”

“Sure. That has precedents too.”

“It has indeed. That leaves only Mr. Vance, and I suppose he does present difficulties, but call on your ingenuity. If he killed her, why?”

Fougere shook his head. “That would take more than ingenuity. You might as well pass Jimmy Vance. He was still hoping.”

“Hoping for what?”

“For her. She had poor Jimmy on a string, and he was still hoping.”

“Mr. Kirk told me that she regarded him as a nice old guy-his phrase-and rather a bore.”

Fougere grinned. I had decided the first time he grinned that I would never grin again. “Martin wouldn’t know,” he said. “She told me all about it. She had a lot of fun with Jimmy. Bore, my eye. When she was bored she would go up and use one of his pianos, that was just an excuse, and dangle him. Of course it wasn’t only fun. He had started it, reaching for her, and he owned the house and she liked it there, so she played him.”

“But he was still hoping.”

“Oh sure, for her that was easy. If you had known Bonny- Hell, she could have played you and kept you hoping. Bonny could play any man alive.”

“Have you told the police this?”

“You mean about Vance? No. Why would I? I don’t know why I’m telling you.”

“I invited it. I worked for it.” Wolfe leaned back and took a deep breath, then another one. “I am obliged to you, sir, and I don’t like to be in debt. I’ll save you a dollar. We’ll call the bet off.”

“We will not,” Fougere squeaked. “You want to welsh?”

“No. I want to show my appreciation. Very well; it can be returned to you.” Wolfe swiveled. “Madam, it’s fortunate that you came with your husband. There will be three of us to refresh his memory on what he has told me if at some future time he is inclined to forget. I suggest that you should write it down and…”

I was listening with only one ear. Now that I knew which target he was aiming at, I should certainly be able to spot what had made him pick it, and I shut my eyes to concentrate. If you had already spotted it, as you probably had, and are thinking I’m thick, you will please consider that all four points went back to before the body was discovered. I got one point in half a minute, but that wasn’t enough, and by the time I opened my eyes Fougere had gone and Rita was on her feet, prattling. Wolfe looked at me. I am expected-by him-both to understand women and to know how to handle them, which is ridiculous. I’ll skip how I handled her and got her out because I was rude again, making twice in less than two hours.

When I returned to the office after shutting the door behind her I had things to say, but Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes closed, and his lips were working, so I went to my desk and sat. When we’re alone I’ll interrupt him no matter what he’s doing, with only one exception, the lip exercise. When he’s pushing his lips out and then pulling them in, out and in, he’s working so hard that if I spoke he wouldn’t hear me. It may take only seconds or it may go on and on. That time it was a good three minutes.

He opened his eyes, sat up, and growled, “We’re going to need Mrs. Fougere.”

I stood up. “I might possibly catch her. Is it urgent?”

“No. After dinner will do. Confound it.”

“I agree.” I sat down. “I’m up with you. There were two things. Right?”

“Four.”

“Then I’m shy a couple. I have his phoning and his letting me have the tie. What else?”

“Only seven ties. Why?”

“Oh.” I looked at it. “Okay. And?”

“Well… take you. What have you that is a part of you? Say the relics you keep in a locked drawer. Would you give one of them to someone casually?”

“No.” I gave that a longer look. “Uhuh,” I conceded. “Check. But all four points wouldn’t convince a jury that he’s a murderer, and I doubt if they would convince Cramer or the DA that he ought to be jugged.”

“Certainly not. We have a job before we’re ready for Mr. Cramer, and not an easy one. Phenomena needed for proof may not exist, and even if they do they may be undiscoverable. Our only recourse-”

The doorbell rang. I got up and went to the hall, took a look, stepped back into the office, and said, “Nuts. Cramer.”

“No,” he snapped.

“Do you want to count ten?”

“No.”

I admit it’s a pleasure to slip the bolt in, open the door the two inches the chain permits, and through the crack tell a police inspector that Mr. Wolfe is engaged and can’t be disturbed. The simple pleasures of a private detective. But that time I didn’t have it. I was still a step short of the door when a bellow came from the office, my name, and I turned and went back.

“Bring him,” Wolfe commanded.

The doorbell rang. “Maybe this time you should count ten,” I suggested.

“No. Bring him.”

I went. From my long acquaintance with Cramer’s face I can tell with one glance through the glass if he’s on the warpath, so I knew he wasn’t before I opened the door. He even greeted me as if it didn’t hurt. Of course he didn’t let me take his hat, that would have been going too far, but he removed it on his way down the hall. When he’s boiling he leaves it on. From the way he greeted Wolfe it seemed likely that he would have offered a hand to shake if he hadn’t known that Wolfe never did.

“Another hot day,” he said and sat in the red leather chair, not settling back, and hanging on to his hat. “I just stopped in on my way home. You’re never on your way home, because you’re always home.”

I stared at him. Unbelievable. He was chatting!

Wolfe grunted. “I go out now and then. Will you have some beer?” That was logical. If Cramer acted like a guest, he had to act like a host.

“No, thanks.” Pals. “A couple of questions and I’ll go. The district attorney has about decided to hold Martin Kirk on a homicide charge. Kirk was here today for over an hour. Are you working for him?”

“Yes.”

Cramer put his hat on the stand at his elbow. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m here to hand you something-like a chance to cut loose from a murderer. The fact is, frankly, I think it’s possible the DA’s office is moving a little too fast. There are several reasons why I think that. The fact that you have taken Kirk on as a client isn’t the most important one, but I admit it is one. You don’t take on a murder suspect, no matter what he can pay, unless you think you can clear him. I said a couple of questions, and here’s the second one. If I go back downtown instead of home to supper, to persuade the DA to go slow, have you got anything I can use?”

One corner of Wolfe’s mouth went up a sixteenth of an inch, his kind of a smile. “A new approach, Mr. Cramer. Rather transparent.”

“The hell it is. It’s a compliment. I wouldn’t use it with any other private dick alive, and you know it. I’m not shoving, I’m just asking.”

“Well. It’s barely possible…” Wolfe focused narrowed eyes on a corner of his desk and rubbed his nose with a fingertip. Pure fake. He had had his idea, whatever it was, when he bellowed me back to the office. He held the pose for ten seconds and then moved his eyes to Cramer and said, “I know who killed Mrs. Kirk.”

“Uhuh. The DA thinks he does.”

“He’s wrong. I have a proposal. I suppose you have spoken with Mr. Vance, James Neville Vance. If you will send a man to his apartment at ten o’clock this evening to take him to you, and you keep him until you hear from me or Mr. Goodwin, and then send or bring him to me, I’ll give you enough to persuade the district attorney that he shouldn’t hold Mr. Kirk on any charge at all.”

Cramer had his chin up. “Vance? Vance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My God.” He looked at me but saw only a manly, open face. He took a cigar from his pocket, slow motion, stuck it in his mouth, clamped his teeth on it, and took it out again. “You know damn well I won’t. Connive at illegal entry? Of course that’s why you want him away.”

“Merely your conjecture. I give you the fullest assurance, in good faith without reservation, that there will be no illegal entry or any other illegal act.”

“Then I don’t see…” Moving back in the chair, he lost the cigar. It dropped to the floor. He ignored it. “No. Vance is a respectable citizen in good standing. You’d have to open up.”

Wolfe nodded. “I’m prepared to. Not to give you facts, for you already have them; I’ll merely expound. You shouldn’t need it, but you have been centered on Mr. Kirk. Do you know all the details of the necktie episode? Mr. Goodwin getting it in the mail, the phone call he received, and his visit to Mr. Vance?”

“Yes.”

“Then attend. Four points. First the phone call. It came at a quarter past eleven. You assume that Mr. Kirk made it, pretending he was Vance. That’s untenable, or at least implausible. How would he dare? For all he knew, Mr. Goodwin had phoned Vance or gone to see him immediately after opening the envelope. For him to phone and say he was Vance would have been asinine.”

Cramer grunted. “He was off his hinges. The shape he was in, he wouldn’t see that.”

“I concede the possibility. The second point. When Mr. Goodwin went to see Vance he showed him the envelope and letterhead and let him take the tie to examine it. Vance was completely mystified. You know what was said and done. He inspected the ties in his closet and said that the one that had been mailed to Mr. Goodwin was his. But when Mr. Goodwin asked for it he handed it over without hesitation. Preposterous.”

Cramer shook his head. “I don’t think so. The body hadn’t been discovered. He thought it was just some screwy gag.”

“Pfui. One of his ties taken from his closet, his stationery used to mail it to a private detective with a message ostensibly from him, and the phone call; and he was so devoid of curiosity or annoyance that he let Mr. Goodwin take the tie, and the envelope and letterhead, with no sign of reluctance? Nonsense.”

“But he did. If he killed her, why isn’t it still nonsense?”

“Because it was part of his devious and crackbrained plan.” Wolfe looked at the clock. “It’s too close to dinnertime to go into that now. It was ill-conceived and ill-executed, and it was infantile, but it wasn’t nonsense. The third point, and the most significant: two missing neckties. He had nine and had given one to Mr. Kirk, and there were only seven left. Of course you have accounted for that in your theory. How?”

“That’s obvious. Kirk took it from Vance’s closet. Part of his plan to implicate Vance.”

Wolfe nodded. “As Vance intended you to. But have you examined that assumption thoroughly?”

“Yes. I don’t like it. That’s one reason I think the DA is moving too fast. Kirk would have been a sap to do that. Someone else could have taken it to implicate Kirk. For instance, Fougere.”

“Why not Vance himself?”

“Because a man doesn’t smash a woman’s skull unless he has a damn good reason and Vance had no reason at all.”

Wolfe grunted. “I challenge that, but first the fourth point. Those neckties were an integral item of James Neville Vance’s projection of his selfhood. Made exclusively for him, they were more than merely distinctive and personal; they were morsels of his ego. Conceivably he might have given one of them to someone close and dear to him, but not to Martin Kirk-not unless it was an essential step in an undertaking of vital importance. So it was.”

“Damn it,” Cramer growled, “his reason!”

A corner of Wolfe’s mouth went up. “Your new approach is an improvement, Mr. Cramer. You know I wouldn’t fix on a man as a murderer without a motive, so I must have one for Mr. Vance, and you want it. Not now. You would get up and go. That would be enough for you to take to the district attorney, and while it would postpone a murder charge against my client it would by no means clear him permanently, because I strongly doubt if you can get enough evidence against Vance to hold him, let alone convict him. My knowledge of Vance’s motive is by hearsay, so don’t bother to warn me about withholding evidence; I have none that you don’t have. If I get some I’ll be glad to share it. I need to know with certainty where Mr. Vance will be this evening from ten o’clock on, and when Mr. Goodwin told me that you were at the door it occurred to me that the surest way would be for you to have him with you. Do you want it in writing, signed by both of us, that there will be no illegal act-under penalty of losing our licenses?”

Cramer uttered a word about the same flavor as the one Fougere had used, but of course there was no lady present. He followed it up. “I suppose I’d send it to the Commissioner so he could frame it?” He flattened his palms on the chair arms. “Look, Wolfe. I know you. I know you’ve got something. I admit your four points taken together add up. I’ll take your word that you won’t send Goodwin to break and enter. I know I can’t pry any more out of you even if it wasn’t time for you to eat, and anyway I eat too. But you say I’m to keep Vance until I hear from you or Goodwin, and that might mean all night, and he’s not just some bum. Nothing doing. Make it tomorrow morning, say ten o’clock, and limit it to six hours if I don’t hear from you or Goodwin, and I’ll buy it.”

Wolfe grinned. “That’s better anyway. I was rushing it. I said send a man to get him.”

“I heard you.”

“Very well.” Wolfe turned. “Archie. Mr. Cramer and I need a few minutes to make sure of details. Tell Fritz. And use the phone in the kitchen to get Mrs. Fougere. I must see her this evening. Also get Saul and Fred and Orrie. I want them either this evening or at eight in the morning.”

I rose. “Does it matter which?”

“No.”

I beat it to the kitchen.