Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 39 by Trio for Blunt Instruments

Author:Trio for Blunt Instruments [Instruments, Trio for Blunt]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Private Investigators, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators - New York (State) - New York, New York (N.Y.), Political, Fiction, Wolfe; Nero (Fictitious Character), General, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction
ISBN: 9789997409003
Publisher: Viking Press
Published: 1964-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

4

At five minutes past nine that evening the three men whose names had had checkmarks in front of them in Kenneth Faber’s little notebook were in the office, waiting for Wolfe to show. They hadn’t come together; Carl Heydt had arrived first, ten minutes early, then Peter Jay, on the dot at nine, and then Max Maslow. I had put Heydt in the red leather chair, and Jay and Maslow on two of the yellow ones facing Wolfe’s desk. Nearest me was Maslow.

I had seen Heydt before, of course, but you take a new look at a man when he becomes a homicide candidate. He looked the same as ever—medium height with a slight bulge in the middle, round face with a wide mouth, quick dark eyes that kept on the move. Peter Jay, the something important in the big advertising agency, tall as me but not as broad, with more than his share of chin and a thick dark mane that needed a comb, looked as if he had the regulation ulcer, but it could have been just the current difficulty. Max Maslow, the fashion photographer, was a surprise. With the twisted smile he must have practiced in front of a mirror, the trick haircut, the string tie dangling, and the jacket with four buttons buttoned, he was a screwball if I ever saw one, and I wouldn’t have supposed that Sue McLeod would let such a specimen hang on. I admit it could have been just that his ideas were different from mine, but I like mine.

Wolfe came. When there is to be a gathering he stays in the kitchen until I buzz on the house phone, and then he doesn’t enter, he makes an entrance. Nothing showy, but it’s an entrance. A line from the door to the corner of his desk just misses the red leather chair, so with Heydt in the chair he would have had to circle around his feet and also pass between Heydt and the other two; and he detoured to his right, between the chair and the wall, to his side of the desk, stood, and shot me a glance. I pronounced their names, indicating who was which, and he gave them a nod, sat, moved his eyes from left to right and back again, and spoke.

“This can be fairly brief,” he said, “or it can go on for hours. I think, gentlemen, you would prefer brevity, and so would I. I assume you have all been questioned by the police and by the district attorney or one of his assistants?”

Heydt and Maslow nodded, and Jay said yes. Maslow had his twisted smile on.

“Then you’re on record, but I’m not privy to that record. Since you came here to oblige Miss McLeod, you should know our position, Mr. Goodwin’s and mine, regarding her. She is not our client; we are under no commitment to her; we are acting solely in our own interest. But as it now stands we are satisfied that she didn’t kill Kenneth Faber.

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