The Doorbell Rang (9 page)

At 10:35 Saturday morning I used a key on the door of 63 Arbor Street, ascended two flights of wooden stairs, used another key, and entered the apartment that had been Morris Althaus’s.

I was following my own approach to the problem of getting it out of Sarah Dacos. I admit it was roundabout, especially in view of the fact that time was short, but it was a better stab at getting results than persuading her to go to the Flamingo for an evening of dancing. The fact that time was short had been made publicly evident by an item on the twenty-eighth page of the morning paper, which I had read at my breakfast table in the kitchen. It was headlined FINGERS CROSSED'and said:

The members of the Ten for Aristology, one of the most exclusive of New York’s gourmet groups, evidently do not believe that history repeats itself. Lewis Hewitt, capitalist, socialite, orchid fancier, and aristologist, will entertain the group at dinner at his home at North Cove, Long Island, on Thursday evening, January 14. The menu will be chosen by Nero Wolfe, the well-known private investigator, and the food will be prepared by Fritz Brenner, Mr Wolfe’s chef. Mr Wolfe and Archie Goodwin, his confidential assistant, will be present as guests.

That arrangement arouses memory of another occasion when Mr Brenner cooked a dinner for the Ten for Aristology, and Mr Wolfe and Mr Goodwin were guests, at the home of Benjamin Schriver, the shipping magnate. It occurred on April 1, 1958, and one of the Ten, Vincent Pyle, head of a Wall Street brokerage firm, was poisoned with arsenic in his portion of the first course, served to him by Carol Annis, who was subsequently convicted of first-degree murder.

Yesterday a Times reporter, remembering that former occasion, telephoned Mr Hewitt and asked him if any of the Ten for Aristology (aristology means science of dining) had shown any reluctance to attend the affair next Thursday, and Mr Hewitt said no. When the reporter asked him if he would keep his fingers crossed he said, “How can I'I couldn’t handle my knife and fork.”

It will certainly be an excellent meal.

Setting the date definitely, Thursday the fourteenth, was the detail I had been hottest about when discussing it with Wolfe Thursday night. I said it should be left open, that the item in the paper could say something like “some evening this month.” Wolfe said that Hewitt, when phoning his fellow aristologists, would have to name a date. I said he could tell them it would have to be indefinite because it would depend on when Fritz could get something shipped by air from France. Gourmets love things shipped by air from France. But Wolfe had insisted, and now we were stuck with it, only five days to go.

So I hadn’t liked the roundabout approach to Sarah Dacos, but it was obviously the best bet, and right after breakfast I had phoned Mrs Althaus to ask if she could give me ten minutes.

She had said yes, and I had gone, of course ignoring the tail problem. The more they saw me working the Althaus angle, the better. I told her there had been some developments which we would tell her about when we had figured them out, and it might help if she would let me take a look at everything that had been in her son’s apartment, at least what was left of it. She said everything was left. The lease had nearly a year to go, and they hadn’t tried to sublet. They hadn’t removed anything, and as far as she knew the police hadn’t either; they hadn’t asked for permission to. I promised to take nothing without her permission if she would let me go and have a look, and she went and got the keys without phoning the lawyer or even her husband.

Perhaps I appeal more to middle-aged women than to young ones, but don’t try to tell Wolfe that.

So at 10:35 Saturday morning I entered the apartment of the late Morris Althaus, shut the door, and sent my eyes around. It wasn’t bad at all if you ignored the pictures. As Sarah Dacos had said, the wall-to-wall carpet was thick. There was a big couch with a coffee table in front of it, a good sitting chair near a lamp, four other chairs, a small table with a metal object on it that might have been created by some kid handy with tools out of junk stuff he found in the garage, a large desk with nothing much on it besides a telephone, and a typewriter on a stand. Most of one wall had bookshelves, full, nearly to the ceiling. The less said about the pictures on the other walls the better. They would have been fine for a guessing game-have a party and everybody guesses what they are-if you could find someone who knew the answers.

I put my hat and coat on the couch and toured. Two closets in the living room. There was a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a bedroom with a single bed, a chest of drawers, a dresser, two chairs, and a closet full of clothes. On the dresser were framed photographs of his father and mother, so he hadn’t resigned from the family, only from Peggy Pilgrim. I returned to the living room and started looking. With the tan drapes drawn it was dim, and I turned the lights on. The dust was thick on everything, but I was there legally and properly, so I didn’t bother to put gloves on.

Of course I didn’t expect to find anything obvious, pointing straight at anyone or anything in particular, since the cops had been through it, but they had had no one specffically in mind, and I did have: Sarah Dacos. No doubt you would like very much to have a complete inventory of everything in the place, especially the contents of the drawers and closets, but it would take too much space. I mention only one item, the 384 pages of the unfinished novel. I read a page and a half of it. To read it through to see if there was a girl in it who reminded me of Sarah Dacos would have taken all day.

The only other item I mention was in the bottom drawer of the chest in the bedroom. Along with a lot of other miscellaneous articles there were a dozen or so photographs. There was none of Sarah Dacos, but there was one of Althaus, lying on his side on the couch in the living room, with nothing on but his skin. I hadn’t seen him naked before, since in the pictures of him in the Gazette file he had been decent. He had been in pretty good shape, muscles visible and belly flat, but the back of the photograph was more interesting than the front. Someone had written a poem on it, or part of one. I have since been allowed to reproduce it, so I can show it here:

Bold lover, ever, ever shalt thou kiss,

And win the willing goal, and never leave;

She will not fade, and Thou shalt have they bliss,

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair

I haven’t read all the poetry in the world, but Lily Rowan has a shelf of it and on certain occasions wants me to read some aloud to her, and I was pretty sure I had read that, but there was something wrong with it. I tried to place it but couldn’t. Anyway, the point was, who had written it'Not Althaus; I had seen his hand on various items. Sarah Dacos'If so, I had something. I had plenty. I put it on top of the chest and spent another hour looking, but drew a blank.

I had promised Mrs Althaus I would take nothing without her permission, but I was tempted. I could take the photograph, not out of the house, but just one flight down, knock at Sarah Dacos’s door, and if she was there, as she might be on a Saturday, display it and ask her, “Did you write that?” It was a real temptation, so quick and direct. But it was too damned direct. I would have to stick to the roundabout. I left the apartment and the house, found a phone booth, dialed Mrs Bruner’s number and got her, and told her I wanted to come and ask her something. She said she would be there until one o’clock. It was only twenty past twelve. I went out and got a taxi.

She was in her office, at her desk with some papers, expecting me. She asked if Miss Dacos had come as arranged, saying she had rather expected her to phone, but she hadn’t. I said yes, she had come, and had been very cooperative. I emphasized the “very,” since it was possible that the room was bugged. Then I sat, leaned forward to her, and whispered, “Do you mind if we whisper?”

She frowned. “It is so ridiculous!”

“Yes,” I whispered, “but it’s safe. You don’t need to say much. I only want a sample of Miss Dacos’s handwriting. Anything-a memo, a note to you. I know this seems even more ridiculous, but it isn’t. Don’t ask me to explain because I can’t. I’m following instructions. Either you trust Mr Wolfe to do the job and do it right or you don’t.”

“But why on earth-” she began, but I showed her a palm.

“If you don’t want to whisper,” I whispered, “just give me what I asked for and I’ll go.”

When I left the house five minutes later, with two samples of Sarah Dacos’s hand in my pocket-a nine-word entry on a sheet from a desk calendar and a six-line memo to Mrs Bruner-I was feeling that middle-aged women are the backbone of the country. She hadn’t whispered a word. She had fished in a drawer and got the memo and torn the sheet from the calendar, handed them to me, said, a little louder than usual.

“Let me know when there is something I should know,” and picked up one of the papers. What a client.

In the taxi back downtown I inspected the samples, and I was already ninety-per-cent sure when I mounted the two flights at 63 Arbor Street. I went to the bedroom for the photograph, got comfortable in the good sitting chair under the lamp in the living room, and compared. I am not a handwriting expert, but it didn’t need one. The person who had written the samples had written the poetry on the back of the photograph. Probably she had also taken the photograph, but that didn’t matter. I formed a conclusion. I concluded that Sarah Dacos’s memory had failed her when she said that it had not progressed to intimacy.

The immediate question was, should I phone Mrs Althaus for permission to take the photograph, or should I leave it'I decided that leaving it would be too risky; Sarah might get in somehow and find it and take it. I got a sheet of typewriter paper from the desk and folded it, and inserted the photograph. It was almost too wide for my breast pocket, but I eased it in. I looked around a little, from habit, to be sure things were as I had found them, and left with my loot. As I passed the door of Sarah Dacos’s apartment on the way down I threw it a kiss. Then it occurred to me that it rated more than a kiss, and I went and took a look at the lock. It was the same make as the one on Althaus’s door, a Bermatt, nothing special.

At the same booth where I had phoned Mrs Bruner I rang Mrs Althaus’s number, got her, told her I had left everything in order in the apartment, and asked if she wanted the keys returned immediately. She said at my convenience, no hurry.

“By the way,” I said, “I’m taking one item, if you don’t mind-a photograph of a man that was in a drawer. I want to see if someone recognizes it. All right?”

She said I was very mysterious, but yes, I could take it. I would have liked to tell her what I thought of middle-aged women but decided we weren’t intimate enough. I dialed another number, told the woman who answered, whose name was Mimi, that I would like to speak to Miss Rowan, and in a moment the familiar voice came.

“Lunch in ten minutes. Come and get it.”

“You’re too young for me. I’ve decided women under fifty are-what are they?”

“Well, jejune’s a good word.”

“Too many Js. I’ll think of one and tell you this evening. Two things. One, I have to be home at midnight. I’m sleeping in the office and- I’ll explain when I see you.”

“Good Lord, has he rented your room?”

“As a matter of fact, he has, for one night. I won’t explain that. Hold it a second.” I transferred the receiver to my right hand and used the left to slip the photograph from my pocket. “Here’s some poetry. Listen.” I read it, with feeling. “Do you recognize it?”

“Certainly. So do you.”

“No I don’t, but it seems familiar.”

“It should. Where did you get it?”

“I’ll tell you someday. What is it?”

“It’s a take-off of the last four lines of the second stanza of Keats’s ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ It’s sort of clever, but no one should monkey with Keats. Escamillo, you’re a pretty good detective and you dance like an angel, and you have other outstanding qualities, but you will never be a highbrow. Come and read Keats to me.”

I told her she was too jejune, hung up, slipped the photograph back in my pocket, and went out and took my fifth taxi in five hours. The client could afford it.

It was five minutes to two when I put my hat and coat on the rack in the hall, went to the door of the dining room, told Wolfe, who was at the table, that it looked and felt like snow, and proceeded to the kitchen. I don’t join Wolfe when I arrive in the middle of a meal; we agree that for one man to hurry with meat or fish while the other dawdles with pastry or cheese is bad for the atmosphere. Fritz put things on my breakfast table and brought what was left of the baked bluefish, and I asked him how he was getting on with the menu for next Thursday’s blowout.

“I’m not discussing that,” he said. “I am not discussing anything, Archie. He was in my room for more than an hour before lunch, talking with the television on loud. If it is so dangerous I will not talk at all.”

I told him we should be back to normal by the time the shad roe started coming, and he threw up his hands and said good God in French.

When I finished and went to the office Wolfe was standing over by the globe, turning it and scowling at it. The man who gave him that globe, the biggest one I have ever seen, couldn’t have known what a big help it would be. Whenever a situation gets so ticklish that he wishes he were somewhere else, he can walk over to the globe and pick spots to go to. Wonderful. As I entered he asked if I had anything, and when I nodded he went to his desk and I turned on the radio, took a yellow chair around near his elbow, and reported. It didn’t take long, since there had been no conversation to speak of, just the action. I didn’t mention the phone call to Lily Rowan because it had been purely personal. Having read the poetry twice, he handed the photograph back to me and said she had an ear for meter.

“I told you she wasn’t a sap,” I said. “Pretty neat, doing that with the last four lines of the second stanza of Keats’s ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ “

His eyes narrowed at me. “How the deuce do you know that'You don’t read Keats.”

I shrugged. “Back in Ohio in my boyhood days. As you know, I have quite a memory. I don’t brag about that, but I have a brag coming about this.” I tapped the photograph. “We know why she lied. She’s involved. Possibly not too deep; it could be that she merely didn’t want to admit she was close with him, close enough for him to tell her about the FBI. Or possibly very deep. ‘Ever, ever shalt thou kiss.’ And ‘Forever wilt thou love.’ But he told her he was going to marry another girl, so she shot him, probably with his own gun. The second alternative, which we prefer by far. It would be hard to nail her. She might be able to prove she was at that lecture but not what time she left. Possibly she wasn’t there at all. She spent the evening at Sixty-three Arbor Street, having it out with the bold lover, and she shot him before the G-men arrived. Does that appeal to you?”