Where There's a Will

Chapter 17

When Inspector Cramer arrived, a little before six o’clock, I was in the kitchen squeezing lemons. Various things had happened during the hundred minutes since Wolfe had gone off upstairs with Sara Dunn, approximately in this order:

The visitors had departed, not much less downhearted than when they arrived, after informing us that they had checked out of the Hawthorne mansion on 67th Street and moved to a hotel. Daisy’s chumminess with the police accounted for that.

Wolfe had phoned some orders down from the roof. To send Orrie Cather up to him for instructions was the first one. I had done so, and a little later Orrie had come down and left the house. Second, to send Fred Durkin to the address on 11th Street where Eugene Davis was Earl Dawson, with instructions to get him and bring him to the office. I instructed Fred and dispatched him. Third, to get Raymond Plehn on the phone if possible. That one was entirely beyond me. Plehn was the horticultural expert of Ditson and Company, the big wholesale florists. It was still beyond me after I got him, and listened in, and heard Wolfe ask him to come down to the house as soon as possible.

Saul Panzer and Johnny Keems both phoned in, and in both cases Wolfe told me to connect them upstairs and no record was needed, which meant that my powers of dissimulation were not to be subjected to an undue strain, and it didn’t help my temper any that I didn’t even know for whose benefit the dissembling would have been necessary.

Another thing that failed to soothe my temper was the fact that I indulged in a private session of “What’s Wrong with this Picture?” and it didn’t get me anywhere. I got the six snapshots from the safe and took them to a window and studied them with the big glass in the strong light, and as far as solving a murder was concerned I might as well have been studying picture post cards from the Grand Canyon. If it was there, it wasn’t there for me; but I was going on with it when Raymond Plehn arrived. I announced him, and Wolfe told me to have Fritz take him up in the elevator, together with the envelope of snapshots, the magnifying glass, and the thing in the vase in the kitchen which Fred had brought back from Rockland County with his bag of clues. That put me in a first-class mood. I knew it was on the level, for he wouldn’t have got Plehn down there just to make me itch, but I paced the office floor and concentrated on it and couldn’t even get within a mile of a wild guess. I was still stabbing around at it when I heard the elevator descending and Fritz leading Plehn out at the front door. He came to the office to give me the envelope, which I returned to the drawer in the safe without any further attempt at homework.

Meanwhile there had been two more phone calls. John Charles Dunn first, from his hotel room, to say that April had got back from the district attorney’s office safe and sound, with nothing worse than a bad headache, and that Andy Dunn had returned with her but not Prescott. Prescott had remained with them throughout the interview, but then had left them, sending a message to Dunn that he would communicate with him later. The second call was from Fred Durkin. He reported that he had rung the bell marked “Dawson” and got no response, had got admitted by the janitor and gone up to the apartment, and had found the door locked and got no reply to knocks or kicks. He was phoning from a drugstore around the corner. I told him to hold the wire, rang Wolfe on the house line, and relayed instructions to Fred to camp.

Shortly after that, while I was in the kitchen squeezing lemons, Cramer arrived. Fritz put him in the office, and pretty soon I joined him there and offered him a glass of good cold lemonade. He wouldn’t even say no, he merely growled. From the dirty look he gave me, you might have thought I had written to the mayor about him.

I put both glasses on my desk, sat down and told him, “This weather is simply frightful,” and stirred with a spoon.

“To hell with you,” he observed. “I want to see Wolfe.”

“Okay, brother.” I sipped lemonade. “He’ll be down in a few minutes. Nothing you say to him will hurt my feelings any. I intend to resign. He’s being crafty and mysterious again, and I’m fed up with it. You know? People phoning in by the dozen, and I mustn’t listen because I can’t keep my face straight. Phooey. What I am, I’m a helot. A damn flunky. How’s chances for a job on the force?”

“Shut up.”

“All right, I’ll surprise you. I’ll shut up.” I did so, and drank lemonade. I had finished the first glass and was starting on the second when Wolfe entered. Apparently he had left Sara up with Theodore Horstmann, for he was alone. He greeted Cramer, got seated behind his desk, rang for beer, and heaved a sigh.

He regarded the inspector with his eyes nearly shut. “Something new?”

“No.” Cramer’s voice wasn’t pleasant. “Something old.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and glanced at it, and slid it across the desk. “Take a look at that.”

Wolfe picked it up, glanced over it, let it fall to the desk, and leaned back again. A little noise came from him, something between a gurgle and a chuckle. “That thing’s dated today,” he declared. “I wouldn’t call that old.”

“No.” Cramer agreed, “that part of it’s fresh enough. But what made it necessary — your same old tricks. You’ve got no kick coming. I offered you an open road this morning, and you wouldn’t take it. Okay, I’m doing you a favor by coming after you myself. You’ve done it once too often. Even if I was inclined to play tag with you, I couldn’t. Everybody from the President of the United States down to the president of the senior class at Varney College is trying to horn in. I swear to God. But I’m not apologizing.” He turned a thumb to point it at the paper on the desk. “Skinner suggested that, but I didn’t oppose it. I’ve warned you fifty times you’d fall in some day, and this is it. What the hell did you think, because your clients are people of position and power and influence you could depend on them to pull you out, no matter—”

“I don’t depend on my clients. They depend on me.”

“Well, they’re out of luck this time. I gave you plenty of chance this morning. A chance to spill what Mrs. Hawthorne told you about young Dunn finding that cornflower. A chance to come clean about April Hawthorne’s being there with Naomi Karn disguised with a veil. Just to show you there’s no out on that, we know that Goodwin saw her there and three seconds later saw Mrs. Hawthorne in the library with you. It’s things like those we’re going to discuss downtown, those and a few others. Come on, get your hat. I’ve got a car outside that don’t jolt much.”

Wolfe looked mildly incredulous, and spoke mildly. “Nonsense. Tell me what you want.”

“I told you this morning, and what good did it do me?” Cramer arose. “Come on, they’re waiting for us down at Skinner’s office.”

“Today is Sunday, Mr. Cramer.”

“Correct. I doubt if you can get bail before tomorrow. We’ll find a cot big enough for you.”

“You haven’t got one. This is grotesque.”

“Sure it is. Come on. I may get tired of being polite.”

“You mean this. Do you?”

“I do, you know.”

“Then I request a courtesy. I want three or four minutes to dictate a letter. In your presence.”

Cramer scowled at him suspiciously. “Who to?”

“You’ll hear it.”

Cramer hesitated a moment, sat down, and growled, “Go ahead.”

Wolfe said, “Your notebook, Archie.” I opened the drawer and got it out. He leaned back and closed his eyes and started off in his usual smooth monotone:

“To W. B. Oliver, Editor of the Gazette. Dear Mr. Oliver. Inspector Fergus Cramer has arrested me as a material witness in the Hawthorne-Karn murder case, and I may be unable to get out on bail before morning. I therefore wish to expose him and his superiors to ridicule and derision, and luckily am in a position to do so. You know whether my word may be relied upon. I suggest that you publish these facts in your Monday city edition: That my arrest was motivated by professional pique. That by my own brilliant and ingenious interpretation of evidence, I have discovered the identity of the murderer. That I am not prepared as yet to disclose the murderer’s identity to the police, for fear their bungling — hint at worse if you care to — will prematurely spring a trap I have set for the criminal. That when the time comes — you may say soon — the arrest will be made by representatives of the Gazette, and the murderer will be delivered by them to the police, together with conclusive evidence of guilt. I shall certainly be out on bail by Monday noon at the latest, and if you will kindly come to my house at 1:30 for lunch, we can discuss details, including the sum your paper will be willing to pay for this coup. With the best wishes and regards, cordially yours. Sign my name and make sure it reaches Mr. Oliver before ten o’clock tonight.”

Wolfe got to his feet, grunting as usual. “Well, sir. I’m ready.”

Cramer, not stirring, growled, “Oliver won’t get that. I take Goodwin too.”

Wolfe shrugged. “That would delay it twenty-four hours. He would publish Tuesday instead of Monday.”

“He wouldn’t dare. Neither would you. You know the law. Oliver wouldn’t dare touch it. This case—”

“Bah. No matter what the law is, if we deliver the murderer and the evidence we’ll be heroes. I’m ready to go.”

“You’ll lose your license.”

“I’ll collect enough from the Gazette to retire on.”

“How much of that is bluff?”

“None of it. I’m giving Mr. Oliver my word.”

Cramer glared at me. I grinned at him sympathetically. He cocked his head at Wolfe, and suddenly acquired an excess of blood above the neck and made an exhibition of himself. He jerked up, slammed the desk with his fist, and yelled at Wolfe. “Sit down! You goddamn rhinoceros! Sit down!”

The phone rang.

I swiveled and got it, spoke to it, and heard Fred Durkin’s voice, low, husky and urgent:

“Archie? Come up here as quick as you can! I’m in that place again, and I’ve got a corpse or he soon will be!”

“I’m sorry,” I said politely, “but I haven’t had a chance to speak to Mr. Wolfe about it. I’m sure he can’t come now — he’s engaged here with a visitor from the police — hold the wire, please.” I addressed Wolfe, with the receiver close enough so Fred would get it too: “This is that fellow Dawson. He phoned this afternoon. He’s got a crate of Cattleya Mossiae from Venezuela, and he wants a hundred bucks for a dozen. He’s had an offer—”

“I can’t go now.”

“I know you can’t—”

“But you can. Tell him you’ll be there right away.”

I spoke to the phone: “Mr. Wolfe says he wants them if they’re in good condition, Mr. Dawson. I’ll come and take a look at them. You can expect me in fifteen minutes.”

I hung up and marched out. One of the things I didn’t like about it was that if Cramer decided to get suspicious it would be a cinch for him to step to the phone and have the call traced, but by the look on his face I judged that his mind was occupied with other affairs.

At the curb in front, Cramer’s car was nosing the roadster’s tail. I nodded a cheerful greeting to the two dicks on the driver’s seat, hopped in the roadster, and rolled. It wasn’t likely that they had any instructions that would cause them to follow me, but I made sure by circling into 34th Street and halting for a couple of minutes, and then headed downtown. At that time of a July Sunday afternoon the streets were nearly deserted, and I had only a little more than a mile to go. I parked where I had the day before, a little distance east of the address, trotted to the vestibule and pushed the button under Dawson, opened the door when I heard the click, and mounted the two flights.

At the door at the end of the hall, which was halfway open, I was confronted by two evidences of violence. A panel of the door and part of its frame was in splinters. That was one. The other was Fred Durkin’s face. The left side of his jaw was swollen, and there was a bruise on his right temple with the skin raw.

“Oh,” I said. “You’re the corpse, huh?”

“Huh yourself,” he retorted with Irish wit. “Look at this.” I followed him inside, and saw more evidences of violence. A table and a chair had been overturned and a couple of rugs were messed up, and lying there on the floor was Glenn Prescott. His eyes were open, staring up at us. His face was in much worse shape than Fred’s, and there was blood here and there, mostly on his collar and tie and the front of his shirt.

“He came to,” Fred said, “but he won’t talk. I wiped some blood off his face, but it dribbles out of his nose.”

Prescott let out a moan. “I’ll — talk,” he mumbled thickly. “I’ll talk if — I can. I’m afraid I’m hurt — internally.” His hand groped around his belly. “He hit me there.”

I knelt beside him and felt his pulse. Then I started feeling and poking all around. He winced and said ouch and moaned, but I couldn’t find any indication of agony. Fred brought me a wet towel and I cleaned his face off some.

I stood up. “I don’t think you’re hurt much, but of course I’m not sure. He didn’t hit you with anything but his fists, did he?”

“I don’t know. He knocked me down — and I got up — and he knocked me down again—”

“Who was it, Davis?”

“I’m not going—” He moaned.

“Sure it was Davis,” Fred put in. “He must have come while I was around the corner phoning you. I came back and watched the entrance, and pretty soon this guy walked up and pushed the button and went in. After a while I heard noises. The janitor came out from below and said he heard them too. He let me in, but he said he wasn’t looking for trouble and didn’t come up with me. Just as I got to the top of the second flight I got it. I caught a glimpse of him, but not quick enough. My head musta hit on the corner. When I come to I was wedged in there at the turn of the stairs, and he was gone. I came up and busted in the door and here was this guy on the floor.”

I looked around, saw the phone, went to it, and dialed a number. In a minute Wolfe’s voice answered.

“Archie,” I told him. “Is Cramer still there?”

“Yes.”

“Do I report?”

“Yes.”

“I’m talking from Dawson’s apartment. Prescott is here on the floor bruised up a little. Davis played tunes on him and knocked Fred downstairs and went out for a walk. Fred’s here.”

“Is Prescott badly hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Bring him here.”

“What about Cramer? His car’s out front with two dicks.”

“That’s all right. We are co-operating with the police.”

“Oh. Goody.”

I hung up and turned to Prescott. “Inspector Cramer is in Nero Wolfe’s office and wants to see you. We’re going to put you on your feet and help you downstairs.”

He moaned. “But I may be injured — it may be dangerous—”

“I don’t think so. We’ll see if you can stand up. Here, Fred.”

We got him erect without anything breaking. From the way he groaned you might have thought he wasn’t worth bothering with, but after we stood him up I tried his pulse and it was as good as mine. So we walked him and let him groan. When we got him down to the ground floor we sat him on a step and I went out and moved the roadster to the curb in front. Then we took him out and hoisted him in, and I climbed in behind the wheel and told Fred to hop in the rumble seat.

Fred, standing on the sidewalk, shook his head. “You don’t need me. I got an errand.”

“They’ll want to ask you. Get in.”

“They can ask me later. I got a certain matter.”

I looked at him. There was an edge to his voice, and a glint in his eye, that showed me there was no use arguing.

“All right,” I said, “there’s one chance in a million you might find him there. If you do, don’t be a sap. Remember that any citizen who sees a crime committed, like for instance assault and battery, can legally make an arrest. You may not have seen it much, but you sure felt it.”

“Go float on a rock,” he said, and tramped off. I saw that Prescott was propped in his corner, and started the car.

On the way up to 35th Street, Prescott put his hand on my arm and said he had decided he had better go to a hospital. I didn’t bother to persuade him out of it, but just kept going. In front of Wolfe’s house, the two city employees in Cramer’s car were obviously expecting us. They helped me ease my cargo out to the sidewalk, paying no more attention to his protests than I did as we took him up the stoop and on inside. In the hall we were met not only by Wolfe and Cramer, but also by Doc Vollmer, whose office was up the street. Wolfe took command and gave the instructions. The doctor and one of the dicks walked upstairs while I ascended with Prescott in the elevator. I left him there with them in the south bedroom, the spare on the same floor as mine, and went back down to the office.

Wolfe and Cramer were sitting there. I made my report, though there wasn’t a lot to add to what I had told Wolfe on the phone. Wolfe held himself in, but I could tell by the look of his eyes that it was only the presence of company that restrained him from making pointed remarks about Fred Durkin. I gathered that the person who was really wanted to make it a good party was Mr. Eugene Davis. Cramer got his office on the phone, and from the orders he barked to some underling it was evident that Wolfe had told him all about the Davis-Dawson angle and that every cop on the force was already searching for the junior partner of the dear old firm.

Just as Cramer hung up, the doorbell started buzzing and didn’t stop. I beat it for the hall, bumped into Fritz, and told him I would tend to it. I swung the door wide, and after one glance stepped aside with a welcoming grin. The extra dick was standing on the second step, looking alert but uncertain, staring up. Confronting me was Eugene-Earl-Davis-Dawson, haggard, untidy, without a hat, and at his elbow, with a gun stuck against his ribs, was Fred Durkin.

“Well, well,” I observed approvingly.

Fred, intent on his errand, disregarded me. “March, you big ape,” he commanded, prodding with the gun, and Davis marched. I shut the door and followed them into the office. Fred kept him going right up to Wolfe’s desk, and then dropped the gun in his pocket and faced his captive.

“Take a run,” he said grimly. “Or make a pass at me or something. All I ask—”

“That will do, Fred,” said Wolfe curtly. “Where did you find him?”

“At Wellman’s. A joint on 8th Street. The place where—”

“Very well. Satisfactory. Is he armed?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Sit down, Mr. Davis. It looks as if—”

The door opened and Doc Vollmer entered. He saw the tableau, halted, and then approached. “Excuse me, but I have to run. Patients waiting. That man upstairs will be all right. He’s got some bruises, but that’s all except that his nerves are in extremely bad condition. I advise a sedative.”

“Thank you, doctor. We’ll attend to the sedative. Run along.” Wolfe looked at Davis. “It’s Mr. Prescott. We brought him here. It’s amazing that you didn’t kill him, really amazing.” He looked at the inspector. “I believe we can go ahead now, Mr. Cramer, only it would be best to have Mr. Dunn here. All of them, I suppose. If you will please phone his hotel?”