Plot It Yourself (13 page)

Of all the thousands of ways of getting a credit mark from a woman, young or old, high on the list is to take her to lunch at Rusterman's, the restaurant that was owned and operated by Marko Vukcic when he died. Since Wolfe is still the trustee of the estate, there is always a table for me, and when Cora Ballard and I edged through the crowd to the green rope and Felix caught sight of me, he led us to the banquette at the left wall. As we sat and took our napkins Cora Ballard said, 'If you're trying to impress me you're doing fine.'

I'm all for Wolfe's rule not to discuss business at meals, but that time it couldn't be helped because she had to be back at her office by two-thirty for an appointment. So after we had taken a sip of our cocktails I said I supposed she knew a good deal about all of the NAAD members. No, she said, not all of them. Many of them lived in other parts of the country, and of those in the metropolitan area some were active in NAAD affairs and some weren't. How well did she know Alice Porter'Fairly well; she had always come to craft meetings until recently, and in 1954, when Best and Green had decided to publish her book, The Moth That Ate Peanuts, she had visited the NAAD office several times for advice on the contract.

Time out to get started on our ham timbales.

What I was after, I said, was a document that we had reason to believe Alice Porter had left in somebody's care. Did members deposit important documents with the NAAD for safe-keeping'No, the association had no facilities for that kind of service. Did she have any idea with whom or where Alice Porter might leave something very important-for instance, an envelope to be opened if and when she died'

She had started a loaded fork to her mouth but stopped it. 'I see,' she said. 'That might be pretty smart, if- What's in the envelope?'

'I don't know. I don't even know there is one. Detectives spend most of their time looking for things that don't exist. Mr Wolfe thought it was possible she had left it with you.'

'She didn't. If we started doing things like that for members we'd have to have a vault. But I might have some ideas. Let's see& Alice Porter.' She opened her mouth for the forkload.

She had six ideas:

Alice Porter's safe-deposit box. If she had one.

Mr Arnold Green of Best and Green, who had published her book. He was one of the few publishers who liked to do favours for authors, even one whose book had been a flop.

Her father and mother, who lived somewhere on the West Coast, Miss Ballard thought in Oregon.

Her agent, if she still had one. Lyle Bascomb had taken her on after her book had been published, but he might have dropped her by now.

The woman who ran Collander House on West 82nd Street, the hive-home for girls and women who couldn't afford anything fancy, where Alice Porter had lived for several years. Her name was Garvin, Mrs Something Garvin. One of the girls in the NAAD office was living there now. She was the kind of woman anybody would trust with anything.

The lawyer who handled her suit against Ellen Sturdevant. Cora Ballard couldn't remember his name, but I did, from the pile of paper I had waded through at the office.

Over the years I have chased a lot of wild geese, but that was about the wildest, asking a bunch of strangers about something that maybe didn't exist, and if it did maybe they had never heard of it, and if one of them had it why should he tell me'So I spent five hours at it. I tackled Lyle Bascomb, the agent, first, because his office was only a short walk from Rusterman's. He was out to lunch and would be back any minute. So I waited fifty minutes. He returned from lunch at three-thirty-three, and his eyes were having a little trouble focusing. He had to think a minute before he could remember who Alice Porter was. Oh yes, that one. He had taken her on when she had a book published, but had dropped her when she made that plagiarism claim. I gathered from his tone that anyone who made a plagiarism claim was a louse.

At the lawyer's office I had to wait only thirty minutes, which was an improvement. He would be glad to help. When a lawyer says he will be glad to help he means that he will be glad to relieve you of any information you may have that he could ever possibly use, and at the same time will carefully refrain from burdening you with any information that you don't already have. That one wasn't even going to admit that he had ever heard of a woman named Alice Porter until I told him I had read three letters signed by him referring to her as his client. I finally pried it out of him that he hadn't seen her or communicated with her for some time. Two years'Three'He couldn't say definitely, but an extended period. As for the information he relieved me of, I will only say that I put him under no obligation.

It was after five o'clock when I arrived at the office of Best and Green, so it was a tossup whether I would catch him, but I did. The receptionist halted a lipstick operation long enough to tell me that Mr Green was in conference, and I was asking her if she had any idea how long the conference would last, when a man appeared from within and headed for the door, and she called to him, 'Mr Green, someone to see you,' and I went for him, pronouncing my name, and he said, 'I'm making a train,' and loped out. So, as I say, I caught him.

I had used up half of Cora Ballard's ideas. Of those left, two weren't very promising. There are about a thousand banks with safe-deposit vaults in New York, and anyway I didn't have keys to all the boxes, and besides, it was after hours. Taking a plane to the West Coast to look up Alice Porter's parents seemed a little headlong. Finding an empty taxi in midtown Manhattan at that time of day was almost as hopeless, but I finally grabbed one and gave the driver the address on West 82nd Street.

Collander House could have been worse. The girl in the neat little office had a vase of daisies on her desk, and the room across the hall, which she called the lounge, where she sent me to wait for Mrs Garvin, had two vases of daisies, comfortable chairs, and rugs on the floor. Another thirty-minute wait. When Mrs Garvin finally appeared, one straight look from her sharp gray eyes confirmed Cora Ballard's statement that anyone would trust her with anything. Certainly she remembered Alice Porter, who had lived there from August 1951 until May 1956. She had the dates in her head because she had looked them up at the request of a city detective last week, and had recalled them that morning because a woman had come and asked about Alice Porter. She hadn't seen Alice Porter for three years and was keeping nothing for her. Not even some little thing like an envelope'No. Which didn't mean a thing. She was a busy woman, and it was quicker to say no than to explain that it was none of my business and have me trying to persuade her that it was. A lie isn't a lie if it is in reply to a question that the questioner has no right to ask.

All in all, a hell of an afternoon. Not one little crumb. And the immediate future was as bleak as the immediate past: another meatless dinner for Wolfe, after a beerless day. More gloom. He would be there at his desk, glaring into space, wallowing in it. As I climbed out of the taxi in front of the old brownstone I had a notion to go to Bert's diner around the corner and eat hamburgers and slaw and discuss the world situation for an hour or so, but, deciding it wouldn't be fair to deprive him of an audience, I mounted the stoop and used my key on the door; and, with one foot inside and one out, stopped and stared. Wolfe was emerging from the kitchen, carrying a large tray loaded with glasses. He turned in at the office. I brought my other foot in, shut the door, and proceeded.

I stood and looked it over. One of the yellow chairs was at the end of my desk. Six of them were in two rows facing Wolfe's desk. Five more of them were grouped over by the big globe. The table at the far wall was covered with a yellow cloth, and on it was an assortment of bottles. Wolfe was there, transferring the glasses from the tray to the table.

I spoke. 'Can I help?'

'No. It's done.'

'A big party, apparently.'

'Yes. At nine o'clock.'

'Have the guests all been invited?'

'Yes.'

'Am I invited?'

'I was wondering where you were.'

'Working. I found no envelope. Is Fritz disabled?'

'No. He is grilling a steak.'

'The hell he is. Then the party's a celebration?'

'No. I am anticipating events by a few hours. I have a job ahead of me that I prefer not to tackle on an empty stomach.'

'Do I get some of the steak?'

'Yes. There are two.'

'Then I'll go up and comb my hair.'

I went.

Wolfe, at his desk, put down his coffee cup and sent his eyes to the ex-chairman of the Joint Committee on Plagiarism. 'I like my way better, Mr Harvey,' he said curtly. 'You may ask questions when I finish if I haven't already answered them.' His head went right, and left. 'I could merely name the culprit and tell you that I have enough evidence to convict her, but while that would complete my job it wouldn't satisfy your curiosity.'

Mortimer Oshin had the red leather chair ex officio. The committee members and the executive secretary had the six yellow chairs in front of Wolfe's desk. In the front row were Amy Wynn, nearest me, then Philip Harvey, and then Cora Ballard. In the rear were Reuben Imhof, Thomas Dexter, and Gerald Knapp-the three publishers. Grouped over by the big globe were Dol Bonner, Sally Corbett, Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cather. In a spot by herself, at the end of my desk, was Alice Porter, who was sipping root beer from a glass that was prefectly steady in her hand. I had coffee. The others had their choices-gin and tonic, scotch and soda, scotch and water, rye and ginger ale, bourbon on the rocks, and one, Oshin, cognac. Evidently Oshin knew brandy. After he had taken a sip he had asked if he might see the bottle and had studied the label thoroughly, and after another sip he had aslced, 'For God's sake, how much of this have you got?' I had taken the hint and given him a dividend, and he hadn't lit a cigarette for at least five minutes.

Wolfe's head went right and left again. 'I should explain,' he told them, 'the reason for Miss Porter's outburst. It was justified. She is here because I lied to her. I told her on the phone that I was prepared to hand her a paper signed by Mr Imhof and Miss Wynn in exchange for one signed by her. The word 'prepared' was a misrepresentation. When this discussion is ended I am confident that Miss Porter will be in no fear of prosecution by Mr Imhof or Miss Wynn, but I was not actually 'prepared' when I phoned her this afternoon. In fairness to her I must say that her indignation, when she arrived and found a crowd, was warranted. She stayed because I told her I was going to demonstrate to you that she was guilty of a criminal act and I advised her to hear me.'

Alice Porter blurted, 'You just admitted you're a liar!'

Wolfe ignored it. 'I'll give you the essentials first,' he told the committee, 'and the conclusions I reached, and then fill in the details. A week ago yesterday, eight days ago, Mr Goodwin gave you a full report of the brief talks he had had with those four people-Simon Jacobs, Kenneth Rennert, Jane Ogilvy, and Alice Porter. I don't know if any of you noticed that his talk with Miss Porter was quite remarkable-that is, her part of it. He told her that a New York newspaper was considering making her a substantial offer for the first serial rights to her story, and what did she say'That she would think it over. Beyond that, not a word. Not a question. All seven of you know writers better than I do, but I know a little of men and women. Miss Porter was not a famous and successful author; her only book had been a failure; her stories were barely sufficient, in quantity and quality, to preserve her standing as a professional. But she didn't ask Mr Goodwin the name of the newspaper. She asked him nothing. I thought that remarkable. Did none of you?'

'I did,' Cora Ballard said. 'But she was on a spot. I thought she was just scared.'

'Of what'If she doubted Mr Goodwin's bona fides, if she suspected that he might not have such an offer from a newspaper, why didn't she question him'At the very least, why didn't she ask him the name of the newspaper'It seemed to me a fair surmise that she didn't doubt or suspect Mr Goodwin; she knew he was lying. She knew that this committee had hired me, and that he was trying by subterfuge to get a copy of the story on which she had based her claim against Miss Wynn. At the moment-'

'How could she know?' Harvey demanded. 'Who told her?'

Wolfe nodded. 'Of course that was the point. At the moment the surmise was only of minor interest, but the next day, when it was learned that Simon Jacobs had been murdered, it took on weight; and more weight when Jane Ogilvy too was killed; and still more when Kenneth Rennert made it three-and Alice Porter was still alive. Attention was focused on her, but I continued to doubt that she was the target because I could not believe that she had invented a style of composition for 'There Is Only Love' for her claim against Ellen Sturdevant, and imitated it for 'What's Mine Is Yours' for the claim made by Simon Jacobs against Richard Echols, and again imitated it for 'On Earth but Not in Heaven' for the claim made by Jane Ogilvy against Marjorie Lippin, and then abandoned it and used her natural style for 'Opportunity Knocks' for the claim made by her against Amy Wynn. But last evening-'

Mortimer Oshin cut in, 'Wait a minute. What if she knew how that would look?' There was still a little cognac in his glass, and he still hadn't lit a cigarette.

'Just so, Mr Oshin. Last evening Mr Goodwin brought her here, and after an hour with her I asked that question myself. What if she had been shrewd enough to realize in advance, at the time she enlisted Simon Jacobs in the plot against Richard Echols, that the best shield against suspicion would be a modus operandi so fantastic that she would not even be considered'After an hour with her I thought it possible that such superlative cunning was not beyond her; at least it was worth exploring. When she had gone I spent an hour on the telephone, getting five people, highly competent detectives who help me on occasion; and when they came at eight o'clock this morning I gave them assignments. They are present and I wish to introduce them. If you will please turn your heads?'

They twisted around.

'In front at the left,' Wolfe told them, 'is Miss Theodolinda Bonner. Beside her is Miss Sally Corbett. In the rear at the left is Mr Saul Panzer, next to him is Mr Fred Durkin, and at the right is Mr Orrie Cather. I should explain that before they went on their separate errands they were supplied with photographs of Alice Porter, procured by Mr Panzer at a newspaper office. I'm going to ask them to report to you, Mr Cather?'

Orrie got up and went to the corner of Wolfe's desk and stood facing the committee. 'My job,' he said, 'was to find out if she had ever been in contact with Simon Jacobs. Of course the best place to start was with the widow. I went to the apartment on Twenty-first Street and there was no one there. I asked around among the other tenants, and I-'

'Briefly, Orrie. Just the meat.'

'Yes, sir. I finally found her at a friend's house in New Jersey. She didn't want to talk, and I had a time with her. I showed her the photograph, and she recognized it. She had seen the subject twice about three years ago. The subject had come to the apartment to see her husband and had stayed quite a while both times, two hours or more. She didn't know what they had talked about. Her husband had told her it was about some stories for a magazine. I tried to get her more exact on the time, but the closest she could come was that it was in the spring of 1956 and the two visits were about three weeks apart. Her husband hadn't told her the name of the subject.'

Wolfe asked, 'Was her recognition of the photograph at all doubtful?'

'No, she was positive. She recognized it right away. She said she-'

Alice Porter blurted, 'You're a liar! I never went to see Simon Jacobs! I never saw him anywhere!'

'You'll get a turn, Miss Porter,' Wolfe told her. 'As long a turn as you want. That will do, Orrie. Miss Corbett?'

Sally Corbett was one of the two women who, a couple of years back, had made me feel that there might be some flaw in my attitude toward female dicks. The other one was Dol Bonner. Their physical characteristics, including their faces, were quite different, but were both of a description that makes a woman looked at from a personal viewpoint; and they were good operatives. Sally went and took Orrie's place at the corner of Wolfe's desk, turned her head to look at him, got a nod, and faced the audience.

'My job was the same as Mr Cather's,' she said, 'except that it was with Jane Ogilvy instead of Simon Jacobs. I didn't get to see Mrs Ogilvy, Jane's mother, until this afternoon. I showed her the photograph and asked her if she had ever seen the subject. After studying it she said she was pretty sure she had. She said that one day more than two years ago the subject had come to see her daughter, and they had gone to the cloister. If you have read the newspapers you know about the building that Jane called the cloister. In half an hour or so they returned to the house because the electric heater in the cloister was out of order. They went up to Jane's room and were there for three hours or more. Mrs Ogilvy didn't learn the subject's name and never saw her again. By association with other matters she figured that it was in February, 1957 that the subject had come to see her daughter. She didn't make the identification positive, but she said she could, one way or the other, if she saw the subject in person instead of a photograph.'

I turned my head for a look at Alice Porter. She was on the edge of the chair, rigid, her eyes half closed, her head thrust forward, and her lips parted with the tip of her tongue showing. She was looking at Wolfe, oblivious of the eight pairs of eyes, including mine, that were aimed at her. When Sally Corbett returned to her chair and Fred Durkin took her place at the corner of Wolfe's desk, Alice Porter s gaze didn't leave Wolfe, even when Fred spoke.

'I had Kenneth Rennert,' Fred said, 'and the trouble was there wasn't any widow or mother or anyone like that. I saw about twenty people, other tenants in the building and the building superintendent, and friends and acquaintances, but none of them recognized the subject from the photograph. From two or three of them I got a steer to a restaurant on Fifty-second Street, the Pot-au-Feu, where Rennert often ate lunch and sometimes dinner, and that was the only place I got anything at all. One of the waiters, the one that had the table where Rennert usually sat, thought the subject had been there twice with Rennert, once for lunch and once for dinner. He was cagey. Of course he knew Rennert had been murdered. He might have opened up more if I had slipped him a twenty, but of course that was out. He thought it had been in the late winter or spring last year. He thought if he saw the subject he could tell better than from a photograph. He had liked Rennert. The only reason he talked at all was because I told him it might help to get the murderer. I think if he was sure of that and if he saw the subject in person-'

Wolfe stopped him. 'That will serve, Fred. The ifs are ahead of us. Mr Panzer?' As Fred went back to his chair and Saul came forward, Wolfe told the committee, 'I should explain that Mr Panzer's assignment was of a different nature. It was given to him because it required illegal entry to a private dwelling. Yes, Saul?'

The committee had Saul's profile because he was turned to face Alice Porter. 'Yesterday evening,' he said, 'as instructed, I drove to Alice Porter's home near Carmel, arriving at twelve minutes past ten. I opened the door with a key, one of an assortment I had, and entered, and made a search. On a shelf in a cupboard I found some sheets of paper with typewriting, clipped together, twenty-five pages. The first page was headed 'Opportunity Knocks,' and below that it said 'By Alice Porter.' It was an original, not a carbon. I have delivered it to Mr Wolfe.'

He glanced at Wolfe, and Wolfe spoke. 'It's here in a drawer of my desk. I have read it. In plot and characters and action it is identical with the story, 'Opportunity Knocks,' by Alice Porter, the manuscript of which was found in a file in the office of the Victory Press. But that one, the one found in the file, was written in Alice Porter's natural style, the style of her published book, The Moth That Ate Peanuts, whereas this one, the one found by Mr Panzer in Miss Porter's house, was written in her assumed style, the one she had used for the three stories on which the previous claims had been based. Call them A and B. The obvious inference is that in writing the story that was to be the basis for her claim against Amy Wynn she had tried both styles, A and B, and had decided, for whatever reason, to use the one in style B. What else did you find, Saul?'

Saul's eyes were again on Alice Porter. 'That was all in the house,' he said. 'But she had gone to New York with Mr Goodwin in his car, so her car was there, and I searched it. Under the front seat, wrapped in newspaper, I found a knife, a kitchen knife with a black handle. Its blade is seven inches long and an inch wide. I have delivered it to Mr Wolfe. If he has examined it with-'

He sprang forward. Alice Porter had bounced out of her chair and dived for Amy Wynn, her arms stretched and her fingers curved to claws. I was right there, so I had her right arm half a second before Saul got her left one, but she had moved so fast that the fingernails of her left hand got to Amy Wynn's face before we jerked her back. Philip Harvey, on Amy Wynn's right, had lunged forward to intervene, and Reuben Imhof, back of Amy Wynn, was on his feet, bending over her. Alice Porter was trying to wriggle loose, but Saul and I had her back against Wolfe's desk, and she gave it up and started yapping. She glared at Amy Wynn and yapped, 'You dirty sneak, you double-crosser, you dirty sneak, you double-'

'Turn her around,' Wolfe snapped. Saul and I obeyed. He eyed her. 'Are you demented?' he demanded.

No answer. She was panting. 'Why assault Miss Wynn?' he demanded. 'She didn't corner you. I did.'

She spoke. 'I'm not cornered. Tell them to let go of me.'

'Will you control yourself?'

'Yes.'

Saul and I let go but stayed between her and Amy Wynn, and Harvey and Imhof were there too. She moved, back to her chair, and sat. She looked at Wolfe. 'I don't know if you're in it with her,' she said, 'but if you are you'll regret it. She's a liar and a murderer and now she thinks she can frame me for it, but she can't. Neither can you. That's all lies about my seeing those people. I never saw any of them. And if that story was found in my house and that knife was found in my car she put them there. Or you did.'

'Are you saying that Amy Wynn killed Simon Jacobs and Jane Ogilvy and Kenneth Rennert?'