Too Many Clients (14 page)

A mind can do crazy things. Mine, instead of instantly tackling the situation, took a tenth of a second to tell me how lucky I was that Stebbins hadn’t been already inside and with Mrs. Perez in the hall when we stepped out of the elevator. That helped a lot, to know I was lucky.

“You?” Stebbins said. He crossed the sill. “And you, Mrs. Yeager?”

“We were just leaving,” I said. “Having had a talk with Mrs. Perez.”

“What about?”

“About her daughter. I suppose you know that Mrs. Yeager has hired Mr. Wolfe to find out who killed her husband. She told Cramer yesterday. She has some detective instincts herself. When she read in the paper today that a girl named Maria Perez had been murdered, shot in the head, and she had lived in this street, in the block where Yeager’s body had been found, and her body had been taken somewhere and dumped just as Yeager’s had been, she got the idea that there was some connection between the two murders. Mr. Wolfe thought it was possible, and so did I. Mrs. Yeager’s idea was that Maria Perez might have seen the murderer dumping Yeager’s body in the hole, maybe from the sidewalk as she was coming home, or maybe even from inside, from a window. Of course there were difficulties, but Mr. Wolfe thought it wouldn’t hurt for me to have a talk with Maria’s mother or father, and Mrs. Yeager wanted to come along. It would be a coincidence if you came with the same idea just as we were leaving. Wouldn’t it?”

As I was reeling it off I knew how bad it was. First, because it was full of holes, and second, because it wasn’t me. When Stebbins barked at me a question like “What about?” my natural answer would be “The weather” or something similar, and he knew it. It was against all precedent for me to oblige with a long, detailed explanation, but I had to, for Mrs. Yeager and Mrs. Perez. It was probably up the flue anyway, but there was a chance that they would catch on and help me save the pieces.

Actually it wasn’t as bad as I thought. I knew so much about that house and that room that I didn’t sufficiently consider that Stebbins knew nothing whatever about it, that Homicide and the DA had been assuming for three days that Yeager had been killed elsewhere and brought and dumped in that hole because it was convenient, and they had absolutely no reason to connect him with that house. And Mrs. Yeager came through like an angel. She couldn’t have done better if I had spent an hour priming her. She offered a hand to Mrs. Perez and said in exactly the right tone, “Thank you, Mrs. Perez. We have both lost someone dear to us. I have to go, I’m late now. We didn’t intend to keep you so long and it was very kind of you. I’ll phone you later, Mr. Goodwin, or you call me.” The door was standing open, and out she went. I could have kissed her on both chins.

Stebbins was eying me as if he would like to kick me on both butts, but that was only normal. “What did you ask Mrs. Perez and what did she tell you?” he demanded. He was hoarse, but that was normal too. Wolfe and I both have that effect on him, Wolfe more than me.

It was a good question. The way I had sketched it, we had come to ask Mrs. Perez about her daughter’s whereabouts and movements Sunday night, and presumably she had told us; and I had no idea where Maria had been Sunday night. An excellent question. So I reverted to type. “What do you suppose I asked her'I wanted to know if it was possible that her daughter had seen someone dumping Yeager’s body in that hole and climbing in to put the tarp over him. As for what she said, get the best evidence. She’s here. Ask her.”

“I’m asking you.” Stebbins is not a fool.

“And I’m reserving my answer. I don’t owe Mrs. Perez anything, but she has a right to decide for herself what she wants to say for the official record. Mrs. Yeager and I were merely people. You’re a cop.”

And by gum Mrs. Perez came through too. Not as grand a performance as Mrs. Yeager’s, but plenty good enough. “What I told him was just the truth,” she told Stebbins. “If my daughter saw anything like that Sunday she would tell me, so she didn’t.”

“Was she home all evening?”

“Yes. Two of her friends came and they watched television.” “What time did the friends come?” “It was about eight o’clock.” “What time did they leave?”

“Right after eleven o’clock. Right after a program they like every Sunday night.”

“Did your daughter go out with them?” “No.”

“Did she leave the house at all that evening?” “No.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I’m sure. We always knew where she was.”

“You didn’t know last night. And any time during the night, Sunday night, she could have gone to the front room and looked out through the window. Couldn’t she?”

“Why would she'Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, but she could.” Stebbins turned. “All right, Goodwin, I’ll ride you downtown. You can tell the inspector about it.”

“About what'What is there to tell?”

He stuck his chin out. “Look, you. Monday afternoon you began checking on a man that was already dead, two hours before the body was found. When the inspector goes to see Wolfe he finds the widow there, and he gets the usual crap. The widow has hired Wolfe to find out who killed her husband, which may not be against the law but it’s against the policy of the New York Police Department. And I come here investigating not that murder but another one, and by God here you are, you and the widow, here in the house where that girl lived, talking with her mother. So you’re coming downtown or you’re under arrest as a material witness.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. I said or.”

“It’s nice to have a choice.” I got a quarter from my pocket, flipped it in the air, caught it, and looked at it. “I win. Let’s go.”

It suited me fine to get him away from Mrs. Perez and out of that house. As I mounted the three steps to the sidewalk I was thinking how different it would be if he had come thirty seconds sooner or we had left the bower thirty seconds later. As I climbed in the PD car I yawned, thoroughly. Having had less than three horns’ sleep, I had been needing a good healthy yawn all day but had been too busy.

Six hours later, at one-thirty in the morning, I was sitting in the kitchen, putting away black bread (made by Fritz), smoked sturgeon, Brie cheese, and milk, and reading the early edition of Friday’s Times, which I had picked up on my way home from the District Attorney’s office.

I was about pooped. The day had been fairly active, and the evening, an hour with Cramer and four hours with a couple of assistant DAs, had been really tough. It’s a strain to answer a thousand questions put by experts when you know that: a) you have to keep a wall between two sets of facts, the ones they already know and the ones you hope to God they never will know; b) you’re making a record that may hook you on a charge you can’t possibly dodge; and c) one little slip could spill the soup. Of all the sessions I have had at Homicide West and the DA’s office, that was the worst. There had been only two letups, when they called time out for ten minutes for me to eat an inedible ham sandwich and a pint of Grade F milk, and when I announced, around ten o’clock, that they could either let me make a phone call or lock me up for the night.

Anyone who thinks the phone booths in that building are not tapped has a right to his opinion, but so have I. Therefore when I got Wolfe and told him where I was we kept it on a high plane. I reported the encounter with Stebbins and said that as usual Cramer and the DA thought I was withholding information they had a right to, which, as he knew, was absurd. He said that he already knew of the encounter with Stebbins, that Mrs. Yeager had phoned and he had requested her to come to the office, and they had discussed the matter. He asked if it would be advisable for Fritz to keep the casseroled kidneys warm, and I said no, I was on a diet.

They finally turned me loose at a quarter to one, and when I got home the house was dark and there was no note on my desk.

When I had taken on a satisfactory amount of the bread and sturgeon and cheese, and learned from the Times that the District Attorney hoped he would soon be able to report progress in the Yeager murder investigation, I dragged myself up the two flights to my room. I had promised my dentist years ago that I would brush my teeth every night, but that night I skipped it.

Since I had done all my errands and there had been no note on my desk, and I was behind on sleep, I didn’t turn the radio alarm on, and when I pried my eyes open enough to see the clock it said 9:38. Wolfe would have finished breakfast and gone up to the .orchids. I thought another ten minutes wouldn’t hurt, but I hate to dash around in the morning fog, so I turned on my will power and rolled out. At 10:17 I entered the kitchen, told Fritz good morning, and got my orange juice. At 10:56 I finished my second cup of coffee, thanked Fritz for the bacon and apricot omelet, went to the office, and started opening the mail. The sound came of the elevator and Wolfe entered, said good morning, went to his desk, and asked if there was any word from Hewitt about the Lycaste delicatissima. True to form. Granting that he knew they hadn’t tossed me in the can as a material witness, since I was there, and that I had nothing urgent to report, since I wouldn’t have waited until eleven o’clock, he might at least have asked how long they had kept me. Slitting envelopes, I said there was nothing from Hewitt.

“How long did they keep you?” he asked. “Only three hours more after I phoned. I got home a little after one.”

“It must have been rather difficult.”

“There were spots. I refused to sign a statement.”

“That was wise. Satisfactory. Mrs. Yeager told me of your impromptu explanation to Mr. Stebbins. She was impressed. Satisfactory.”

Two satisfactories in one speech was a record. “Oh,” I said, “just my usual discretion and sagacity. It was either that or shoot him.” I took the mail to him. “Anything on the program?”

“No. We are suspended.” He pushed the buzzer button, one long and one short, for beer, and got at the mail. In a moment Fritz came with a bottle and a glass. I sat and yawned, and got my notebook out. There would be letters. The phone rang. It was Lon Cohen, wanting to know if I had spent a pleasant evening at the DA’s office and how had I got bail in the middle of the night. I told him bail wasn’t permitted on a murder one charge; I had jumped out a window and was now a fugitive. When I hung up Wolfe was ready to dictate, but as I picked up my notebook and swiveled, the phone rang again. It was Saul Panzer. He wanted Wolfe. Wolfe didn’t give me the off signal, so I stayed on.

“Good morning, Saul.”

“Good morning, sir. I’ve got it. Tight.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. A little place on Seventy-seventh Street near First Avenue. Three-sixty-two East Seventy-seventh Street. His name is Arthur Wenger.” Saul spelled it. “He picked him from the photograph and he’s positive. He’s not sure of the day, but it was last week, either Tuesday or Wednesday, in the morning. I’m in a booth around the corner.”

“Satisfactory. I want him here as soon as possible.”

“He won’t want to come. He’s alone in the place. Ten dollars would probably do it, but you know how that is. He’ll be asked if he was paid.”

“He won’t be asked�or if he is, I’ll be foundered anyway. Ten dollars, twenty, fifty, no matter. When will you have him here?” “Half an hour.” “Satisfactory. I’ll expect you.”

We hung up. Wolfe glanced up at the clock and said, “Get Mr. Aiken.”

I dialed Continental Plastic Products. Mr. Aiken was in conference and couldn’t be disturbed. I got that not only from a female who was polite, but also from a male who thought he shouldn’t have been disturbed. The best I could get was that a message would be conveyed to Mr. Aiken within fifteen minutes, and I made the message brief: “Call Nero Wolfe, urgent.” In nine minutes the phone rang and the polite female asked me to put Mr. Wolfe on. I don’t like that, even with a president, so I told her to put Mr. Aiken on, and she didn’t make an issue of it. In a minute I had him and signed to Wolfe.

“Mr. Aiken'Nero Wolfe. I have a report to make and it’s exigent. Not on the telephone. Can you be here with Miss McGee by a quarter past twelve?”

“Not conveniently, no. Can’t it wait until after lunch?”

“It shouldn’t. Sometimes convenience must bow to necessity. Delay would be hazardous.”

“Damn it, I. . .” Pause. “You say with Miss McGee?”

“Yes. Her presence is required.”

“I don’t know.” Pause. “All right. We’ll be there.”

Wolfe hung up. He cleared his throat. “Your notebook, Archie. Not a letter, a draft of a document. Not for mailing.”

On the wall of the office, at the right as you enter, is a picture of a waterfall, not large, 14 by 17. Its center is one inch below my eye level, but I’m just under six feet tall. The picture was made to order. On the wall of the alcove at the end of the hall is a hinged wood panel. Swing it open, and there’s the back of the picture, but your eyes go on through and you are looking into the office. At twenty minutes past twelve the eyes that were doing that belonged to Mr. Arthur Wenger of 362 East 77th Street, a skinny guy past fifty with big ears and not much hair, who had been delivered by Saul Panzer in a little less than the specified half-hour. The object in the office nearest him was the red leather chair, and its occupant, Mr. Benedict Aiken.

I wasn’t in the alcove with Wenger; Saul was. Wolfe and I were at our desks in the office. Julia McGee was on a yellow chair facing Wolfe’s desk. Wolfe was speaking. “. . . but before I submit my conclusion I must tell you how I came to it. When you asked me Tuesday evening who would decide if I have faithfully observed the provision of my employment, I said reason and good faith, applied jointly. You can judge fairly only if you know how I proceeded. Frankly, I am myself not entirely certain. I only know that in the circumstances� Yes, Saul?”

Saul was in the doorway. “It’s a perfect fit, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Very well. I’ll look at it later.” Wolfe went back to Aiken. “In the circumstances there was no other course open to me. As I told you, the only way to stop the police investigation of the murder was to reach an acceptable solution of it without involving that room. I have never tackled a task that looked so unpromising. Indeed, knowing as I did that Yeager had been killed in that room, it seemed all but hopeless.”

“You didn’t know that until you set that trap for Miss McGee yesterday.” Aiken was curt.

“No. I knew it much earlier, Tuesday noon, when Mr. Goodwin reported his conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Perez, the janitor of that house and his wife. When Mr. Perez had gone up with refreshments at midnight Sunday he had found the body there, and they had taken it out and put it in that hole.”

“They admitted it?”

“They had to. The alternative Mr. Goodwin offered them was worse.”

“They killed him. That’s obvious. They killed him.”

Wolfe shook his head. “That was an acceptable conjecture until yesterday morning, but they didn’t kill their daughter-and that’s where my report to you begins. That conjecture was then discarded in favor of another, that that girl had been killed by the person who killed Yeager�discarded by me, not by Mr. Goodwin, who had not accepted it. Summoned to that house Wednesday night by Mrs. Perez, he searched the girl’s room and found evidence that supported the second conjecture. Archie?”

I went and got Maria’s collection from the safe and took it to him.

He tapped it with a fingertip. “This,” he said, “is that girl’s carefully hidden record of a secret venture that in the end cost her her life. It is all concerned with Thomas G. Yeager. No doubt it was initiated, as so many ventures are, by simple curiosity, stirred by the existence of the elevator and the room which she was not allowed to see. She found that by turning out the light in her room and opening her door a crack she could see visitors bound for the elevator as they came down the hall. I don’t know when she first did that, but I do know that, having started, she repeated it frequently.”

He picked up the tear sheets. “These are from the financial pages of the Times, with the entries for Continental Plastic Products marked with a pencil.” He put them aside. “These are advertisements of Continental Plastic Products.” He put them with the tear sheets. “Labels from champagne bottles. Mr. Goodwin is of the opinion that Miss Perez drank none of the champagne, and I concur. These items are not essentials, they are merely tassels. So are these: newspaper reproductions of photographs, two of Mr. Yeager, one of his son, and one of his wife. I mention them only to show you how diligent Miss Perez was.”

He put them with the other tassels and picked up the pictures of Meg Duncan and the bills. “These two items are of more consequence: nine five-dollar bills, and three pictures of a woman who is a public figure�one from a newspaper and two from magazines. I have spoken with her, and Mr. Goodwin talked with her at length yesterday afternoon. The money was extorted from her by Miss Perez, who had seen her in that house and demanded what she called hush money. The woman sent her five dollars a month for nine months, by mail. There is no need to name her.”

He opened a drawer, put the pictures and bills in it, and shut it. “But those items raise a question. Call the woman Miss X. Mr. Yeager arrived at the house Sunday evening around seven o’clock. Miss McGee arrived at a quarter past nine and found him dead. The conjecture was that Miss Perez had seen someone arrive between those hours, had recognized him or her, had concluded that he or she had killed Yeager, had undertaken a more ambitious venture in extortion, and had herself been killed. Then, since she would have recognized Miss X, why not assume that Miss X was the culprit'A reasonable assumption; but it has been established beyond question that Miss X was at a public gathering Wednesday evening until eleven o’clock, and Miss Perez left the motion-picture theater, to keep her appointment with her intended prey, before nine o’clock.”

Aiken flipped an impatient hand. “You said this was urgent. What’s urgent about proving that a Miss X is out of it?”

“The urgency will appear. This is a necessary prelude to it. Still another reason for excluding not only Miss X, but others: Whoever went there Sunday evening between seven and nine, with a gun and intending to use it, must have known that no other visitor would be there. What is true of Miss X is also true of every other woman who had keys to that place: First, she couldn’t have gone by invitation, since Miss McGee had been invited, and Yeager entertained only one guest at a time; and second, she couldn’t have expected to find him alone there on a Sunday evening�or rather, she could have expected to find him alone only if she knew that Miss McGee would arrive at nine o’clock.” Wolfe’s head turned. “Miss McGee. Had you told anyone that you were going there at nine o’clock?”

“No.” It came out a squeak and she tried it again. “No, I hadn’t.”

“Then the others are excluded as well as Miss X. Now for you, madam. And the next item in Miss Perez’ collection. These are pencil sketches she made of women she saw in that hall.” He picked them up. “She was not without talent. There are thirty-one of them, and they are dated. Mr. Goodwin and I have studied them with care. There are four sketches each of three women, three each of five women, two of one woman, and one each of two women. The one of whom there are two sketches is you, and one of them is dated May eighth. It gave me the surmise, which I tricked you into validating, that you were there Sunday evening. Would you care to look at it?”

“No.” That time it was too loud.

Wolfe put the sketches in the drawer and returned his eyes to Julia McGee. “It was the fact that those two sketches were in the collection that made it extremely doubtful that it was you who had killed Miss Perez, having been threatened with exposure by her. For there are no sketches of persons whose names she knew. There are none of Mr. Yeager or Miss X. The sketches are merely memoranda. It is highly likely that she had made one or more of Miss X, but when she had identified her from published pictures she discarded the sketches. If she had identified you, if she knew your name, she would have preserved, not the sketches, but the ground for the identification, as she did with Miss X. Surely she would not have made a second sketch of you when she saw you in the hall Sunday evening.”

Aiken snorted. “You don’t have to persuade us that Miss McGee didn’t kill the girl. Or Yeager.”

Wolfe turned to him. “I am describing my progress to my conclusion. It is apparent that Miss Perez had assembled, and was keeping hidden, a complete record of her discoveries regarding Mr. Yeager and the visitors to that room. It is certain that she knew the name of the person whom she saw in the hall between seven and nine Sunday evening, since she was able to reach him, to confront him with her knowledge and her threat. Therefore it was a sound assumption that this collection contained an item or items on which her identification of that person was based.”

He pointed to the tassels. “Two such items are there: the pictures of Mr. Yeager’s wife and son, with their names. I rejected them because they did not meet the specifications. The person who went there Sunday evening with a gun and shot Yeager with it must have had keys and known how to use them, and he must have known that Miss McGee intended to arrive at nine o’clock, since otherwise he could not have expected to find Yeager alone. It was conceivable that either the wife or son met those requirements, but it was highly improbable.”

He picked up the remaining item. “Adopting that reasoning, at least tentatively, I was left with this. This is a picture, reproduced in a magazine, of a gathering in the ballroom of the Churchill Hotel, a banquet of the National Plastics Association. Mr. Yeager is at the microphone. The caption gives the names of the men on the dais with him, including you. No doubt you are familiar with the picture?”

“Yes. I have it framed on the wall of my office.”

“Well.” Wolfe dropped it on his desk. “I asked myself, what if it was you whom Miss Perez saw in the hall on your way to the elevator Sunday evening between seven and nine'What if, having this picture in her collection, she recognized you'What if, later, having learned that Yeager had been killed up in that room�for she must have seen her father and mother transporting the body -she guessed that you had killed him, decided to make you pay for her silence, communicated with you, made an appointment to meet you, and kept it'You will concede that those were permissible questions.”

“Permissible'Yes.” Aiken was disdainful. “You don’t need permission to ask preposterous questions.”

Wolfe nodded. “Of course that was the point. Were they preposterous'To answer that, further questions had to be asked. One, could you have had keys'Two, could you have known Yeager would be there alone'Three, had you a motive?”

Wolfe stuck a finger up. “One. You could have borrowed Miss McGee’s keys, but if so you would have had to return them to her before nine o’clock so she could let herself in. That did seem preposterous, that you would return the borrowed keys so she could enter, find Yeager’s body, and inevitably assume that you had killed him. Not tenable.”

“Do you expect me to sit here and listen to this nonsense?”

“I do. We have arrived at the urgency and you know it.” Another finger up. “Two. Yes. You could have known Yeager would be there alone. Miss McGee says she told no one of her nine o’clock appointment, but that was to be expected if it was you she told.” Another finger. “Three. When I first asked that question, had you a motive, I knew nothing about it, but I do now. Yesterday I made some inquiries on the telephone�I assure you they were discreet�and last evening Mrs. Yeager sat for an hour in the chair you now occupy and gave me many details. For five years, since he became executive vice-president, Yeager has been a threat to your leadership of the corporation, and in the last year the threat has become ominous and imminent. The best you could expect was that you would be made chairman of the board, removed from active control, and even that was doubtful. Since you had dominated the corporation’s affairs for more than ten years, that prospect was intolerable. You can’t very well challenge this, since the situation is known to many people.”

Wolfe’s fingers came down, and his hand dropped to the desk. “But what chiefly concerned me when you and Miss McGee left this room twenty-four hours ago was not your motive; a motive, however deeply hidden, can be exposed. The problem was the keys, and there was an obvious possibility, that you had borrowed Miss McGee’s keys, not last Sunday, but at some previous date, had had duplicates made, and had returned them to her. Testing that possibility would have been hopeless if they had been ordinary keys, but Rabsons are peculiar and there aren’t many of them. I decided to try. I sent for three men who help me on occasion and gave them this picture and the keys I got from Miss McGee yesterday. They had copies made of the picture and duplicates of the keys, and returned these to me. They were to start with the locksmiths nearest your home and office. Only a little more than an hour ago, just before I phoned you, one of them, Mr. Saul Panzer, turned the possibility into a fact. This is of course the crux of my report.” He pushed a button on his desk. “This begot the urgency.”

His eyes went to the door, and Saul appeared with Arthur Wenger. They came to the front of Wolfe’s desk and turned to face Aiken. Wolfe said to Aiken, “This is Mr. Arthur Wenger. Do you recognize him?”

Aiken was staring at Wenger. He moved the stare to Wolfe. “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen him.”

“Mr. Wenger, this is Mr. Benedict Aiken. Do you recognize him?”

The locksmith nodded. “I recognized him from the picture. It’s him all right.”

“Where and when have you seen him before?”

“He came to my shop one day last week with a couple of Rab-son keys to get duplicates made. He waited while I made them. I think it was Wednesday, but it could have been Tuesday. He’s a liar when he says he’s never seen me.”

“How sure are you?”

“I couldn’t be any surer. People are like keys; they’re a lot alike but they’re all different. I don’t know faces as well as I know keys, but well enough. I look at keys and I look at faces.”

“It’s an excellent habit. That’s all now, sir, but I’ll appreciate it if you can spare another hour.”

“I said I could.”

“I know. I appreciate it.”

Saul touched Wenger’s arm, and they went. In the hall they turned left, toward the kitchen. Soon after Saul had phoned, Fritz had got started on a chicken pie with force meat and truffles for their lunch, and it would soon be ready.

Wolfe leaned back, cupped his hands over the ends of the chair arms, and spoke. “Miss McGee. Manifestly Mr. Aiken is doomed. You shifted your loyalty from Mr. Yeager to him; now you must shift it from him to yourself. You’re in a pickle. If he is put on trial you’ll be a witness. If you testify under oath that you did not lend him your keys and that you didn’t tell him you would arrive at that house at nine o’clock Sunday evening you will be committing perjury, and it may be provable. More and worse: You may be charged as an accessory to murder. You lent him the keys, he had duplicates made, and he used the duplicates to enter a house to kill a man. You made it possible for him to enter the house without hazard, ensuring that Yeager would be alone, by arranging a nine-o’clock assignation�”