Where There's a Will

Chapter 11

Wolfe let out a little growl and made himself more comfortable in his chair. He said nothing.

Daisy spoke again. Her voice had been shrill with excitement, but now it went flat. She muttered, “I didn’t intend to tell you that.”

“Why not?” Wolfe demanded.

“Because it won’t do any good. I can’t prove it and they’ll deny it. But if I had kept it to myself...”

“You might have found an occasion to use it. Was that the idea?”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?” Her voice went up the scale again, in defiance. “Even though they knew I couldn’t prove it — and like a fool I blurt it out to you.”

“It can’t be helped now.” Wolfe’s tone was smooth, even sympathetic. “I doubt if you could have used it effectively, anyway. They’re a pretty tough crowd. You say April had a bunch of cornflowers in her belt while you were having tea on the lawn Tuesday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“You might as well tell me about it. Maybe we can figure out a way of proving it.”

“You can’t. How can you? Osric Stauffer picked them in the garden and brought them and gave them to her and she stuck them in at her waist. She had on a green blouse and yellow slacks. We commented on the blue of the cornflowers with the other colors.”

“Did Mr. Stauffer keep one for himself?”

“Why, I—” She considered. “No, he didn’t.”

“Or give some to anyone else?”

“No. He gave them all to April.”

“Did she leave the gathering on the lawn before you? Or was she still there when you left?”

“She was still there. They all were except Noel and John.”

Scribbling along with my pen, I allowed myself a satisfied grin. Wolfe was working at last, picking up all the pieces he could find, methodically and patiently. He spent twenty minutes with her getting the complete picture of the tea party, and another ten with her in the field, collecting black-eyed susans, daisies to her and nothing at all to me. She had returned to the house with her arms full of them, more than an hour later, and was making arrangements in vases, when Celia Fleet burst in asking for Dunn in an agitated voice. She had followed Celia, unobtrusively, and had been within earshot when Dunn received the news of what Andy had found in the briar patch beyond the woods.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she declared, not defensively, merely imparting information. “I was later, when I heard Andy telling them about the cornflower. I actually saw it.”

Wolfe inquired, “What time was that?”

“It was late that evening, about eleven o’clock. Even then I — well, I won’t say I suspected that Noel had been murdered, but I knew of the feeling between him and John on account of that Argentina loan business, and other feelings there were around there, and I was curious and vaguely suspicious. So after the sheriff and doctor had gone away, I went to my room but I didn’t go to bed. I noticed some of them hadn’t come upstairs, and I went down without making any noise and out the back way. It was a hot night and windows were open everywhere, and there was a light from the dining room. I could hear low voices as I got closer, and then I could see them, John and June and Andy. Andy was telling them about finding the cornflower, and took it from his pocket and showed it to them. He said it had been there about fifteen feet from Noel’s body, caught on a branch of a rose briar, and he had taken it and put it in his pocket. He said it hadn’t occurred to him at the moment, but it had since, the idea that April had been there for a private talk with Noel and had lost it from the bunch she was wearing. But of course, he said, that wasn’t how it got there, because April had stated that she had been in her room taking a nap. John said calmly that it was true the cornflower couldn’t have been dropped by April, since she hadn’t been there, but that Andy had been quite right to bring it away and thereby avoid the possibility of a lot of unpleasant and irrelevant questions just because a cornflower had been found hanging on a briar. They were very casual about it, but they knew better. Their tone and the way they looked — they knew. And so did I. I knew then, as I went back up the dark stairs, that April had killed Noel.”

Wolfe wiggled a finger at her. “You knew nothing of the sort, madam.”

“But I tell you — it’s no wonder you — you’re on their side—”

“Rubbish. I’m not on anybody’s side; I’m hunting a murderer. I admit the cornflower is evidence, probably extremely important evidence, but of what? Of April’s guilt? Perhaps. Or of an attempt by the murderer to incriminate April by getting a cornflower from the garden and leaving it near the body? Perhaps. Rather inconclusive, but fairly ingenious at that. Do you by any chance know what happened to the cornflower?”

“No. I suppose John destroyed it. I said I couldn’t prove it. But you must believe — you must — you signed that paper promising to safeguard my interests—”

“Oh, I believe you all right. But my commitment in that paper was limited to the negotiations regarding the will. Please understand that. There is, after all, a remote possibility that you killed your husband yourself. I should think you might measure up to that cornflower trick.”

“Now you’re talking rubbish.”

“Perhaps. You ought to know. How long were the stems of the bouquet Stauffer presented to April?”

He got patient and methodical again. As I listened to them chewing away, putting down their syllables automatically on the unruled paper which had been the best I could find, I reflected that this appeared to be shaping up for a honey. The only nugget in the pouch so far was this cornflower on a briar, and that was certainly nothing to write home about, with a garden right there full of cornflower bushes, provided they grew on bushes. Not to mention the chance that Daisy had made it all up just to keep her brain occupied. I was idly considering alternatives when the phone buzzed, and I went and got it. It was Saul Panzer. By the time I got through taking his concise but detailed report, Wolfe had finished with Daisy and she was arising to leave.

I opened to door to let her out, and returned to the desk.

“If you ask me,” I remarked, “we would have been a hell of a sight better off if we had stuck to the last will and testament and let the murder go. Of all the—”

“That was Saul?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“He has been conferring with elevator operators and bootblacks et al. Johnny got orders for five beauty outfits before he was tossed out on his ear, and he had a date to buy a lady a dinner at the Polish Pavilion this evening. That will cost you dear. Davis is married and lives with his wife, at least nominally. He and Naomi had a romance when she was his secretary. The sort of thing May Hawthorne comprehends intellectually. L’amour. He has gone moody and taken to drink. So far information very sketchy; nothing particular on Prescott yet, except that he gives people expensive cigars, pays good salaries, and is not a knee-toucher. Saul has lines out that are promising. No start on Prescott’s confidential stenographer in March, 1938.”

Wolfe had his lips compressed. “I hate to waste Saul—” He shrugged. “It can’t be helped. What time is it?”

“Five after five. Would you care to go into the matter of the duplicate Daisy?”

“Not now. Mr. Prescott wants to see me. First some beer. Then see if Miss Karn is still down there, and who is with her. Then Mr. Prescott.”

I trotted out and descended to the main floor. There was no one around the entrance hall, so I opened a door leading to the rear of the house and yelled, “Turner!” In a moment a maid appeared and said he was upstairs, and I said all I wanted was to order three bottles of beer for Mr. Wolfe in the library. Then I proceeded to the living room for a glimpse of Naomi Karn.

But I didn’t get it. She was absent. The only person in the room was a man of about my build, pacing up and down with his fists making his pockets bulge. I stopped short and regarded him with surprise. He had put his pants on, but I recognized him anyway.

I said, “Hello.”

He quit pacing and scowled at me. Before he said a word I knew exactly the condition he was in, more from observation than from personal experience. You drink all night, and pass out, and someone takes you home and drops you on a bed. When you come to, there is no telling what day it is or when they started running the subway inside your head or how many people came to your funeral. But something drastic must be done immediately. You get your pants and shoes on and fight your way to the street and along to and into a place, order a double Scotch and gulp it down, spilling maybe a quarter of it. You spill much less of the second one, and by the time the third one comes along you have nearly stopped trembling and you don’t waste a drop. Then, while you still are not quite ready to tell the date on a calendar, you have a strong impression that you are prepared to cope with whatever it is that requires coping, and off you go.

“Who are you?” he demanded, in a voice that made me afraid he would strip his gears. “I want Glenn Prescott.”

“Yes, sir,” I said ingratiatingly. “I know you do. If you will come this way, please.”

“I’m not coming that way or any other way.” He planted himself. His fists were still bulging in his pockets. “He can come here. You can go and tell him—”

“Yes, sir, I will. But this is a sort of a public room. People come in here all the time. These chairs are no good to sit on, either. I’ll be glad to bring Mr. Prescott wherever you say, but I do honestly think the library would be much better.” I backed toward the doorway. “Come and see for yourself. If you don’t like it you can return here.”

“I’ll like it all right, but he won’t.” He stayed planted. Then abruptly he rumbled, “You don’t need to show me the library, I know where it is,” and moved so fast he nearly toppled me over as he went by.

I was at his heels going up the stairs, and stayed there, thinking to steer him in case he was too optimistic about knowing where the library was, but he went straight to the door and flung it open. I followed him in, closed the door, and announced to Wolfe:

“Mr. Eugene Davis.”

Davis glared around. “Where’s Prescott?” He glared at Wolfe. “Who are you?” He glared at me. “What kind of a run-around is this? You’re not Turner! I sent Turner to get Prescott!”

“That’s all right,” I said soothingly, “we’ll get him. I’m not a butler, I’m a detective. Detectives are better than butlers for getting people. This is Mr. Nero Wolfe.”

“Who the hell—”

He stopped abruptly. You might have thought I had reached inside his skull and flipped a switch. A sort of spasm went over his face, and his shoulders stiffened and then relaxed again, and when he focused his eyes on Wolfe they were no longer merely bleary and foolishly truculent. They were alert and intelligent and on guard.

“Oh,” he said. His tone had changed even more than his eyes. “You’re Nero Wolfe.”

Wolfe nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re here helping to prove Hawthorne was murdered. Or that he wasn’t. I see.” He turned to survey me. “So Turner announced me to you instead of to Prescott. And told you I was drunk, I suppose. It’s Prescott I came here to see. I’ll find him.”

He started off, but Wolfe snapped, “One minute, Mr. Dawson!”

Halfway to the door, he halted, stood there for four seconds with his back to us, and then slowly turned around. “My name’s Davis,” he said with careful precision. “Eugene Davis.”

“Not on 11th Street. There it’s Earl Dawson. And how did you know Hawthorne was murdered? Did Mr. Prescott tell you? Or did you learn it from Miss Karn when you were dining with her last evening?”

He had things under control all right. Knowing the feeling he must have been experiencing in his stomach under the circumstances, I admired him. All he did was stand and gaze at Wolfe and chew his lower lip. Finally he crossed to a chair, steadily and without haste, sat down, and asked:

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk with you, Mr. Davis.”

“What about?”

“This mess. This murder. This will business.”

“I know nothing about either one. How did you know I am Earl Dawson on 11th Street?”

“You drank to excess last night. A man who works for me took you home and removed your trousers. Another man who works for me — Mr. Goodwin here, Mr. Archie Goodwin — went there this morning and identified you from articles in your pockets. As for your dining with Miss Karn, she was being followed.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that. I was stupid. It still surprises me to realize I was stupid, because originally I wasn’t meant to be. About my being Dawson, I would like to know who has been informed. The police?”

“No. No one. Mr. and Mrs. Dunn know that you were found somewhere in a drunken stupor, but not where, and not that you were incognito.”

“Is that straight?”

“Yes, sir. I would have no compunction about lying to you, but that’s straight.”

“I’ll take it that way.” I could see that the fingernails of his right hand were digging into his palm. He saw that I saw it, and stuck the hand into his coat pocket. He went on, “In view of the way things are, I suppose it’s an affectation for me to try to keep the Dawson thing — that place — secret, but as I say, I can’t be counted on any more not to act stupidly. I don’t want that known, Mr. Wolfe. I’ll talk about anything you want me to, within reason.”

Wolfe was frowning. “Not with any pledge of secrecy from me, sir. Neither tacit nor explicit. But I expose no man’s privy affairs unnecessarily.”

“If that’s all I can get, I’ll take that. What do you want to ask me?”

“Several things. First, where were you Tuesday afternoon from 4 to 6?”

There was no immediate reply. I could see there was movement inside the pocket where his fist was. To make things easier I horned in: “Which do you want, Scotch or rye?”

He looked at me and said sarcastically, “All the comforts of hell. If you mean it, Scotch. Don’t spoon it out, you know.”

I told him I wouldn’t and trotted out and downstairs. In the ambush behind the draperies in the living room, on the shelves back of the bar, there were four brands to choose from. I long-armed cross the bar and got one, with a glass, poured out a generous triple, and returned to the library with it. It simply wasn’t possible for Davis to keep his fingers from shaking as he took it. He only had to swallow twice. After a moment he put the glass down on the desk, and his fingers were steady.

He met Wolfe’s eyes. “Tuesday afternoon,” he said. “I was with Miss Karn from 3 o’clock until around 7.”

“Where?”

“Driving. We went up to Connecticut and back. If the police have questioned her, that isn’t what she told them, but I’m not telling the police, I’m telling you. If they question me, I’ll tell them where I was, but I’ll say I was alone.”

“Did you stop to eat or drink?”

“No. We have no corroboration.”

“That’s too bad. Will you have some beer?”

Davis shuddered. “No!”

“I’m thirsty.” Wolfe poured and put the bottle down. “You see, Mr. Davis, you may get into trouble. I doubt if the police have smelled you yet, but they certainly will if they keep on. They’ll learn that you formed an attachment for Miss Karn a long while ago, and that when—”

“That’s an old story. Back in 1935. How did you know about it?”

“I have men working for me. But the attachment still exists, doesn’t it?”

“Certainly not.”

“You were with Miss Karn Tuesday. You were with her last evening.”

“We are friends. I’m a lawyer. She was consulting me.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Please don’t waste time like that. There are two pictures of her in your wallet, and Mr. Dawson has eight more scattered around his apartment.”

Davis flushed in sudden anger, and his jaw stiffened. He shot me a glance that he should have been ashamed of, considering the fact that I had just saved his life with a triple Scotch.

“By God,” he declared, “if I wasn’t tied hand and foot—”

“You’d assault Mr. Goodwin. I know. I know too, I think, how reluctant you are to admit your attachment for Miss Karn as an item in a discussion like this. It is a vital necessity for you right now to keep your head clear and working efficiently, and that’s difficult when a subject arises which causes your heart to pump an excess of blood. I’ll go as easy as I can. But here’s the material we have to deal with: You were passionately attached to Miss Karn. Noel Hawthorne saw her and liked her, and wanted her, and took her. Naturally you resented that. How much I don’t know, but surely you resented it. However, either you continued some sort of association with her, or after a time you resumed association. Which?”

Davis didn’t reply. Wolfe went on:

“I’m not thinking about murder now, I’m thinking about that will. Where was it drawn? In the office of Dunwoodie, Prescott & Davis. Where was it kept? In a vault in that office. Who benefited by it? Chiefly Miss Karn. Did she know that? Yes; Mr. Prescott let her read it shortly after it was drawn, having been instructed to do so by Mr. Hawthorne. Did you know that? I don’t know. Did you?”

“No,” said Davis curtly. “It was none of my business. Prescott drew it.”

“But you have access to the vault?”

“I’m a lawyer, not a snoop, Mr. Wolfe.”

“But isn’t it plausible that Miss Karn told you about it? Couldn’t you have learned it that way?”

“It may be plausible, but she didn’t. I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about the terms of that will until Miss Karn told me last night. Has Prescott told you I did?”

“Oh, no. No one has told me anything, really. They’re all like you. I’ve sat in this confounded room over seven hours, and I know very little more than when I entered it. I don’t resent it that each of you people has something to conceal — everybody in the world has — but it has never taken me so long to find a loose end. Let’s start somewhere else. You say you are Miss Karn’s friend and lawyer and she consults you. Did you advise her to come here this afternoon to negotiate with Mrs. Hawthorne?”

“No. Why?”

“Because she came.”

“She came here?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know? Did you see her?”

“No. Mr. Goodwin did. He had a little talk with her. Down in the living room. I thought perhaps—”

He chopped it off because the door suddenly opened. There was no knock, but it swung wide and Glenn Prescott marched in.