Plot It Yourself

“Not you,” I said.

“This is just too goddam pat,” he said. He sounded a little hoarse. He whirled to Shirt-sleeves, who was in the doorway. Take a look at this man. Have you seen him hanging around?”

“No, Sergeant, I haven’t.” The building superintendent looked a little sick. “I never saw him before. Excuse me, I’ve got to-”

“Don’t touch anything in there!”

“Then I’ve got to-” He dashed to the stairs and was gone.

“I wish I had been hanging around,” I said. “I might have seen the murderer enter or leave, or both. How long has Rennert been dead?”

“How do you know he’s dead?”

“Now come. Not only you here and the mood you’re in, but also him looking for somewhere to puke. Was it today? Was he stabbed like the others?”

He advanced a step, to arm’s length. “I want to know exactly why you came here at exactly this time.” He was hoarser. “I had been at that Jacobs place five minutes, and there you came. I’ve been here three minutes, and here you come. You didn’t come to see Rennert. You’d ring his number first to see if he was here. You knew damn well it wasn’t him that asked you who it is. You knew it was me. You’re good on voices. And you’re good at lies, and I’ve had enough of ’em. You puke. Puke a little truth.”

“You would too,” I said.

“I would too what?”

“Ring his number first. And when you ring a number and get no answer, do you always assume that the ringee is dead and go to see? I should hope not. Why did you come here at exactly this time?”

His jaw worked. “Okay, I’ll tell you. The janitor got a phone call Friday from the people where Rennert was supposed to go for the weekend, and another one yesterday. He thought Rennert had just decided to go somewhere else, and he didn’t want to enter the apartment, but he phoned the Missing Persons Bureau. They thought it was just another false alarm, but this morning someone at the bureau remembered he had seen Rennert’s name on a report and called us. Now it’s your turn, and by God, I want it straight! And fast!”

I was frowning thoughtfully. “It’s too bad,” I said, “that I always seem to rub you the wrong way. As sore as you are, the best thing you could do would be to take me down and book me, but I don’t know what for. It’s not even a misdemeanor to ring a man’s doorbell. What I would like to do is help, since I’m here. If you’ve only been here three minutes you haven’t had time to try all the tests, and maybe he’s not dead. I’d be glad to-”

“Get going!” His hands were fists, and a muscle at the side of his neck was working. “Get!”

I didn’t take the elevator. Purley knew that the natural thing would be for me to find the janitor and pump him, so I took the stairs. He had made it all the way to the basement. I found him there, pale and upset. He was too sick to talk, or too scared, or he may have thought I was the murderer. I told him the best thing was strong hot tea, no sugar, found my way to the sidewalk, and headed for home. I walked, taking my time. There was no point in disturbing Wolfe in the plant rooms, since there was no emergency. Rennert’s belly had already turned green, and another half an hour wouldn’t matter.

I had returned the keys and rubber gloves to the drawers, and fixed myself a gin and tonic because I wanted to swallow something and the idea of milk or water didn’t seem to appeal to my stomach, and was looking at the sports section of the Times when Wolfe came down. We exchanged good mornings, and he went to the only chair in the world he really approved of, sat, rang for beer, and said I might as well go for a walk. He has some sort of an idea that my going for a walk is good for him.

“I already have,” I told him. “I found another corpse, this time in an advanced condition. Kenneth Rennert.”

“I’m in no mood for flummery. Take a walk.”

“No flummery.” I put the paper down. “I dialed Rennert’s number and got no answer. I walked to his address and rang the bell and got no answer. Happening to have keys and rubber gloves with me, and thinking I might find something interesting, I went in and up to his apartment. For three or four days he has been lying on a couch with a knife in his chest, and is still there. So is the knife. He was probably fed a dose in a drink before-”

I stopped because he was having a fit. He had closed his right hand to make a fist and was hitting the desk with it, and he was bellowing. He was roaring something in a language that was probably the one he had used as a boy in Montenegro, the one that he and Marko Vukcic had sometimes talked. He had roared like that when he heard that Marko had been killed, and on three other occasions over the years. Fritz, entering with beer, stopped and looked at me reproachfully. Wolfe quit bellowing as abruptly as he had started, glared at Fritz, and said coldly, “Take that back. I don’t want it.”

“But it will do-”

“Take it back. I shall drink no beer until I get my fingers around the creature’s throat. And I shall eat no meat.”

“But impossible! The squabs are marinating!”

“Throw them out.”

“Wait a minute,” I objected. “What about Fritz and Theodore and me? Okay, Fritz. We’ve had a shock. I shall eat no boiled cucumbers.”

Fritz opened his mouth, closed it again, turned, and went. Wolfe, his fists on the desk, commanded me, “Report.”

Six minutes would have been enough for it, but I thought it would be well to give him time to calm