Death Times Three SSC Read online

  "According to Drew, no. You don't twitch long with a scarf as tight as that around your throat."

  "What about the medical examiner?"

  "He got there at two minutes after twelve. With blood he might have timed it pretty close, but there wasn't any. That's out."

  "What about the setup? Someone left that room quick after we heard the sounds. If it was the murderer, he or she had to cradle the phone and tie the scarf, but that wouldn't take long. If it was a fill-in, as you want to suppose, all she had to do was cradle the phone. Whichever it was, wasn't there anyone else around?"

  "If there was they're keeping it to themselves. So far. As you know, Bianca Voss wasn't popular around there. Anyway, that place is a mess, with three different elevators--one in the store, one at the back for service and deliveries, and one in an outside hall with a

  separate entrance so they can go up to the offices without going through the store."

  "That makes it nice. Then it's wide open."

  "As wide as a barn door." Cramer stood up. To Wolfe: "So that's the best you can do. You thought the sounds were open to question."

  "Not intrinsically. Circumstantially, of course."

  "You know a lot of long words, don't you? After we study this statement we may have some questions." He was going. After two steps he turned. "I don't like gags about homicide, murder is no joke, but I can mention that if it was Bianca Voss you had on the phone, she had you. wrong. Scum. Stinking sewer. That's too strong. That's a little too strong." He headed out.

  When I returned to the office from going to hold his coat for him, which he didn't deserve after his parting crack, Wolfe had turned his chair to reading position and was opening a book.

  Crossing to my desk to get the carbons of the statement for filing, I remarked, "That would help, if he can prove that what we heard was a phony. You might not have to sit on a hard bench in a courthouse, after all."

  "He won't. No such luck." He looked at me. "Archie."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Am I a dolt?"

  "No. That would be a little too strong."

  "Then I will not be taken for one."

  "That sounds as if you're contemplating something. Can I be of any help?"

  "At the moment, no."

  "Any instructions for this evening?"

  "No."

  He went to his book and I went to the cabinet with the carbons.

  The next morning, Wednesday, eating breakfast in the kitchen with the paper propped up in front of me-which is routine, of course--I read the account of the Bianca Voss murder. There were various details that were news to me, but nothing startling or even helpful. It included the phone call from John H. Watson, but didn't add that he had been identified as Archie Goodwin, and there was no mention of Nero Wolfe. I admit that the cops and the D.A. have a right to save something for themselves, but it never hurts to have your name in the paper, and I had a notion to phone Lon Cohen at the Gazette and give him an exclusive. However, I would have to mention it to Wolfe first, so it would have to wait until eleven o'clock. He eats breakfast in his room from a tray delivered by Fritz, and doesn't come down to the office until after his morning session with the orchids.

  As a matter of fact, another item in the paper meant more to me personally. Sarah Yare had committed suicide. Her body had been found Tuesday evening in her little walk-up apartment on East Thirteenth Street. I have never written a fan letter to an actress, but I had been tempted to a couple of years back when I had seen Sarah Yare in Thumb a Ride. The first time I saw it I had a companion, but the next three times I was alone. The reason for repeating was that I had the impression I was infatuated and I wanted to wear it down, but when the impression still stuck after three tries, I gave up. Actresses should be seen and heard from no closer than the fifth row, and not touched. At that, I might have given the impression another test in a year or two if there had been an opportunity, but there wasn't. She quit Thumb a Ride abruptly some months later, and the talk was that she was an alco and done for.

  So I read that item twice. It didn't say that it had been pronounced suicide officially and finally, since she had left no note, but a nearly empty bourbon bottle had been there on a table, and on the floor by the couch she had died on there had been a glass with enough left in it to identify the cyanide. The picture of her was as she had been formerly when I had got my impression that I was infatuated. I asked Fritz if he had ever seen Sarah Yare, and he asked what movies she had been in, and I said none, that she was much too good for a movie.

  I didn't get to suggest phoning Lon Cohen to Wolfe because when he came down to the office at eleven O'clock, I wasn't there. As I was finishing my second cup of coffee a phone call came from the district attorney's office inviting me to drop in for a chat, and I went, and spent a couple of hours at Leonard Street with an assistant D.A. named Brill. When we got through, I knew slightly more than I had when we started, but he didn't. He had a copy of our statement on his desk, and what could I add to that? He had a lot of fun, though. He would pop a question at me and then spend nine minutes studying the statement to see if I had tripped.

  Getting home a little before noon, I was prepared to find Wolfe having a fresh attack of grump. He likes me to be there when he comes down from the plant rooms to the office, and while he can't very well complain when the D.A. calls me on business that concerns us, this wasn't our affair. We had no client and no case and no fee in prospect. But I got a surprise. Instead of being grumpy, he was busy, with the phone book open before him on his desk. He had actually gone clear

  around to my desk, stooped to get the book, lifted it and carried it back to his chair. Unheard of.

  "Good morning," I said. "What's the emergency?" "No emergency. I needed to know a number." "Did you find it?"

  "Yes."

  I sat. He wants you at his level because it's too much trouble to tilt his head back. "Nothing new," I said, "at the D.A.'s office. Do you want a report?"

  "No. I have an errand for you. I have formed a conjecture that I think is worth testing. You will go to Alec Gallant's place on Fifty-fourth Street and speak with Mr. Gallant, his sister, Miss Prince, Miss Thorne, and Mr. Drew. Separately if possible. You will tell each of them-- You read the paper this morning as usual?"

  "Certainly."

  "You will tell each of them that I have engaged to make certain inquiries about Miss Sarah Yare, and that I shall be grateful for any information they may be able and willing to furnish. Specifically, I would like to see any communications they may have received from her, say in the past month. Don't raise one brow like that. You know it disconcerts me."

  "I've never seen you disconcerted yet." I let the brow down a little. "What's the conjecture?"

  "It may be baseless. You don't need it to perform the errand."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. Without delay."

  "If they ask me who engaged you, what do I say?" "That you don't know. You are merely following instructions."

  "If I ask you who engaged you, what do you say?"

  "I tell you the truth. No one. Or more accurately, I

  have engaged myself. I think I may have been hood

  winked and I intend to find out. You may be fishing where there are no fish. They may all say they have never had any association with Sarah Yare, and they may be telling the truth or they may not. You will have that in mind and form your conclusions regarding it. If any of them acknowledge association with her, pursue it enough to learn the degree of intimacy, but don't labor it. That can wait until we bait a hook. You are only to discover if there are any fish."

  I stood up. "It may take a while if the cops and the D.A. are working on them, and they probably are. How urgent is it? Do you want progress reports by phone?"

  "Not unless you think it necessary. You must get all five of them."

  "Right. Don't wait dinner for me." I went.

  On the way uptown in the taxi I was exercising my brain. I will not explain at this point why W
olfe wanted to know if any of the subjects had known Sarah Yare and if so, how well, for two reasons: first, you have certainly spotted it yourself; and second, since I am not so smart as you are, I had not yet come up with the answer. Anyway, that was underneath. On top, what I was using my brain for was the phone book. Unquestionably it was connected with his being hoodwinked, since that was what was biting him, and therefore it probably had some bearing on the call that had been made from his office to Bianca Voss, but what could he accomplish by consulting the phone book? For that I had no decent guess, let alone an answer, by the time I paid the hackie at 54th and Fifth Avenue.

  Alec Gallant, Incorporated, on the north side of the street near Madison Avenue, was no palace, outside or in. The front was maybe thirty feet, and five feet of

  that was taken up by the separate entrance to the side hall. The show window, all dark green, had just one exhibit: a couple of yards of plain black fabric--silk or rayon or nylon or cottonon or linenon--draped on a little rack. Inside, nothing whatever was in sight--that is, nothing to buy. The wall-to-wall carpet was the same dark green as the show window. There were mirrors and screens and tables and ash trays, and a dozen or more chairs, not fancy, more to sit in than to look at. I had taken three steps on the carpet when a woman standing with a man by a table left him to come to meet me. I told her my name and told her I would like to see Mr. Gallant.

  The man, approaching, spoke, "Mr. Gallant is not available. What do you want?"

  That didn't strike me as a very tactful greeting to a man who, for all he knew, might be set to pay $800 for an afternoon frock, but of course with a murder on the premises, he had had a tough twenty-four hours, so I kept it pleasant.

  "I'm not a reporter," I assured him, "or a cop, or a lawyer drumming up trade. I'm a private detective named Archie Goodwin, sent by a private detective named Nero Wolfe to ask Mr. Gallant a couple of harmless questions. Not connected with the death of Bianca Voss."

  "Mr. Gallant is not available."

  I hadn't heard his voice in person before, only on the phone, but I recognized it. Also he looked like a business manager, with his neat, well-arranged face, his neat well-made dark suit, and his neat shadow-stripe four-in-hand. His cheeks wanted to sag and he was a little puffy around the eyes, but the city and county employees had probably kept him from getting much sleep.

  "May I ask," I said, "if you are Mr. Carl Drew?" "I am, yes."

  "Then I'm in luck. I was instructed to see five different people here--Mr. Gallant, Miss Gallant, Miss Prince, Miss Thorne, and Mr. Carl Drew. Perhaps we could sit down?"

  He ignored that. "See us about what?"

  The woman had left us, but she was in earshot if her hearing was good, and Wolfe had said to see them separately, if possible. "If you don't mind," I said, "I'd rather see you one at a time because I have to report to Mr. Wolfe and I'm apt to get confused talking with two people at once. So if that lady is Miss Prince or Miss Thorne "

  "She isn't. And I'm busy. What do you want?

  "I want information, if you have any, about a woman who died yesterday. Not Bianca Voss. Miss Sarah Yare."

  He blinked. "Sarah Yare? What about her?" "She is dead. She killed herself. Yesterday."

  "I know she did. That was tragic. But I can't give

  you any information about it. I haven't any."

  "I'm not after information about her death. That's up to the police. What I'm after-- Someone has engaged Mr. Wolfe to make inquiries about her, and he sent me to ask you people if you had any messages or letters from her in the past month or so, and if so, will you let him see them?"

  "Messages or letters?"

  "Right."

  "But what--who engaged him?"

  "I don't know." I was not permitting my face or voice to show that I had caught sight of a fish. "If you have had messages or letters, and would like to know

  who wants to see them before you produce them, I suppose Mr. Wolfe would tell you. He would have to." "I have no messages or letters."

  I was disappointed. "None at all? I said the past month or so, but before that would help. Any time."

  He shook his head. "I have never had any. I doubt if she ever wrote a letter--that is, to anyone here--or any messages, except phone messages. She always did everything by telephone. And for the past month or so

  longer than that, more than a year--she hasn't been uh--hasn't been around."

  "I know." I was sympathetic, and I meant it, though not for him. "Anyway, I don't think Mr. Wolfe would be interested in letters about clothes. I think it's personal letters he wants, and he thought you might have known her well enough personally to have some."

  "Well, I haven't. I can't say I didn't know her personally; she was a very fine customer here for two years, and she was a very personal person. But I never had a personal letter from her."

  I had to resist temptation. I had him talking, and there was no telling if or when I would get at the others. But Wolfe had said not to labor it, and I disobey instructions only when I have reason to think I know more about it than he does, and at the moment I didn't even know why he had been consulting the phone book. So I didn't press. I thanked him, and said I'd appreciate it if he would tell me when Mr. Gallant would be available.

  He said he would find out, and left me, going to the rear and disappearing around the end of a screen, and soon I heard his voice, but too faint to get any words. There was no other voice, so, being a detective, I figured it out that he was on a phone. That accomplished, I decided to detect whether the woman, who was seated at a table going through a portfolio, had been listening. If so, and if my bringing up Sarah Yare had more significance for her than it had for me, she was keeping it to herself.

  Drew reappeared, and I met him in the middle of the room. He said that Mr. Gallant was in his office with Miss Prince and could let me have five minutes. Another fish. Certainly Drew had told Gallant what my line was, and why did I rate even five seconds? As Drew led me to an elevator and entered with me, and pushed the button marked 2, I had to remember to look hopeful instead of smug.

  The second floor hall was narrow, with bare walls, and not carpeted. As I said, not a palace. Following Drew down six paces and through a door, I found myself in a pinup paradise. All available space on all four walls was covered with women, drawings and prints and photographs, both black and white and color, all sizes, and in one respect they were all alike: none of them had a stitch on. It hadn't occurred to me that a designer of women's clothes should understand female anatomy, but I admit it might help. The effect was so striking that it took me four or five seconds to focus on the man and woman seated at a table. By that time Drew had pronounced my name and gone.

  Though the man and the woman were fully clothed, they were striking too. He reminded me of someone, but I didn't remember who until later. Lord Byron. A picture of Lord Byron in a book in my father's library that had impressed me at an early age. It was chiefly Gallant's dark, curly hair backing up a wide, sweeping forehead, but the nose and chin were in it too. The necktie was all wrong; instead of Byron's choker, he was sporting a narrow ribbon tied in a bow with long ends hanging.

  The woman didn't go with him. She was strictly modern, small and trim, in a tailored suit that had been cut and fitted by an expert, and while her face was perfectly acceptable, the main thing was her eyes. They were as close to black as eyes ever get, and they ran the show. In spite of Alec Gallant's lordly presence, as I approached the table I found myself aiming at Anita Prince's eyes.

  Gallant was speaking. "What's this about Sarah Yare?"

  "Just a couple of questions." He had eyes, too, when you looked at them. "It shouldn't take even five minutes. I suppose Mr. Drew told you?"

  "He said Nero Wolfe is making an inquiry and sent you. What kind of an inquiry? What about?"

  "I don't really know." I was apologetic. "The fact is, Mr. Gallant, on this I'm just an errand boy. My instructions were to ask if you got any messages or letters from her in the pa
st month or so, and if so, will you let Mr. Wolfe see them?"

  "My heaven!" He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and shook it--a lion pestered by a fly. He looked at the woman. "This is too much. Too much!" He looked at me. "You must know a woman was assassinated here yesterday. Of course you do!" He pointed at the door. "There!" His hand dropped to the desk like a dead bird. "And after that calamity, now this, the death of my old and valued friend. Miss Yare was not only my friend; in mold and frame she was perfection, in movement she was music, as a mannequin she would have been divine. My delight in her was completely pure. I never had a letter from her." His head jerked to Anita Prince. "Send him away," he muttered.