Rex stout nero wolfe 2.., p.1
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 23 - The Black Mountain, page 1
part #23 of Nero Wolfe Series
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IN THE BEST FAMILIES
BENEATH THE SHADOW OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN
Suddenly, Danilo stood up and left Wolfe and me sitting at the table.
In five minutes he was back with a wad of crumpled paper that he threw down next to his coffee cup. Wolfe asked him something in a polite tone.
Danilo picked up the paper, unfolded it, and showed us the contents.
It was a human finger.
Bantam Books offers the finest in classic and modern American murder mysteries. Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed.
Rex Stout
Broken Vase
Death of a Dude
Death Times Three
Fer-de-Lance
The Final Deduction
Gambit
The Rubber Band
Too Many Cooks
The Black Mountain
Max Allan Collins
The Dark City
A. E. Maxwell
Just Another Day in Paradise
Gatsby’s Vineyard
The Frog and the Scorpion
Joseph Louis
Madelaine
The Trouble with Stephanie
M. J. Adamson
Not Till a Hot January
A February Face
Remember March
Conrad Haynes
Bishop’s Gambit, Declined
Perpetual Check
Barbara Paul
First Gravedigger
But He Was Already Dead When I Got There
P. M. Carlson
Murder Unrenovated
Rehearsal for Murder
Ross Macdonald
The Goodbye Look
Sleeping Beauty
The Name Is Archer
The Drowning Pool
The Underground Man
The Zebra-Striped Hearse
The Ivory Grin
Margaret Maron
The Right Jack
Baby Doll Games
One Coffee With
William Murray
When The Fat Man Sings
Robert Goldsborough
Murder in E Minor
Death on Deadline
The Bloodied Ivy
Sue Grafton
“A” Is for Alibi
“B” Is for Burglar
“C” Is for Corpse
“D” Is for Deadbeat
Joseph Telushkin
The Unorthodox Murder of Rabbi Wahl
The Final Analysis of Doctor Stark
Richard Hilary
Snake in the Grasses
Pieces of Cream
Pillow of the Community
Carolyn G. Hart
Design for Murder
Death on Demand
Something Wicked
coming soon: Honeymoon With Murder
Lia Matera
Where Lawyers Fear to Tread
A Radical Departure
The Smart Money
coming soon: Hidden Agenda
Robert Crais
The Monkey’s Raincoat
Keith Peterson
The Trapdoor
There Fell a Shadow
coming soon: The Rain
David Handler
The Man Who Died Laughing
Carolyn Wheat
Where Nobody Dies
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
THE BLACK MOUNTAIN
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with The Viking Press, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Viking edition published October 1954
Dollar Mystery Guild edition published January 1953
Bantam edition / November 1953
2nd printing November 1955
3rd printing May 1967
4th printing February 1970
5th printing March 1970
6th printing November 1970
7th printing April 1976
7th printing May 1976
7th printing August 1983
7th printing August 1988
All rights reserved.
Copyright, 1954, by Rex Stout.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: The Viking Press, Division of Viking Penguin Inc., 40 W. 23rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10010.
eISBN: 978-0-307-76822-3
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Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
About the Author
WARNING
In a way this is a phony. A lot of the talk I report was in languages I am not on speaking terms with, so even with the training I’ve had there is no use pretending that here it is, word for word. But this is what happened, and since I had to know what was going on to earn my keep, Nero Wolfe put it in English for me every chance he got. For the times when it had to be on the fly, and pretty sketchy, I have filled it in as well as I could. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to tell it at all, but I hated to skip it.
ARCHIE GOODWIN
I
That was the one and only time Nero Wolfe had ever seen the inside of the morgue.
That Thursday evening in March I barely caught the phone call. With a ticket for a basketball game at the Garden in my pocket, I had dined in the kitchen, because I would have to leave the house at ten to eight, and Wolfe refuses to sit at table with one who has to pack it in and run. And that time I couldn’t eat early because Fritz was braising a wild turkey and had to convey it to the dining room on a platter for Wolfe to see whole before wielding the knife. Sometimes when I have a date for a game or a show I get things from the refrigerator around six-thirty and take my time, but I wanted some of that hot turkey, not to mention Fritz’s celery sauce and corn fritters.
I was six minutes behind schedule when, as I pushed my chair back and got erect, the phone rang. After asking Fritz to get it on the kitchen extension and proceeding to the hall, I had got my topcoat from the rack and was putting it on when Fritz called to me, “Archie! Sergeant Stebbins wants you!”
I muttered something appropriate for muttering but not for printing, made it to the office and across to my desk, lifted the receiver, and told it, “Shoot. You may have eight seconds.”
It took more like eight times eighty, not because Purley Stebbins insisted on it, but I did after he had given me the main fact. When I had hung up I stood a while, frowning at Wolfe’s desk. Many times through the years I have had the job of reporting something to Wolfe that I knew he wouldn’t enjoy hearing, but this was different. This was tough. I even found myself wishing I had got away two minutes sooner, and then, realizing that that would have been tougher—for him, at least—I went to the hall, crossed it to the dining room, entered and spoke.
“That was Purley Stebbins. Half an hour ago a man came out of a house on East Fifty-fourth Street and was shot and killed by a man waiting there in a parked car. Papers found—”
Wolfe cut me off. “Must I remind you that business shall not intrude on meals?”
“You don’t need to. This isn’t business. Papers found on the body indicate that it was Marko Vukcic. Purley says there’s no doubt about it, two of the dicks knew him by sight, but he wants me to come down and give positive identification. If you have no objection I’m going. It won’t be as pleasant a way to spend an evening as going to a ball game, but I’m sure he would have done as much …”
I would have preferred to go on talking, but had to stop to clear my throat. Wolfe had put down his knife and fork, quietly and properly, on his plate. His eyes were leveled at me, but he wasn’t scowling. A corner of his mouth twitched, and after a moment twitched again. To stop it he compressed his lips.
He nodded at me. “Go. Phone.”
“Have you any—”
“No. Phone.”
I whirled and went.
After going a block south on Tenth Avenue and flagging a taxi on Thirty-fourth Street, it didn’t take long to roll cross-town to the city mortuary on East Twenty-ninth; and, since I was not a stranger there and was expected, I was passed through the railing and on in with no questions asked. I have never cared for the smell of that place. An assistant medical examiner named Faber tried once to sell me the idea tha
The Homicide dick who escorted me down the corridor was one I knew only well enough to nod to, and the assistant ME in the room we entered was one I hadn’t run across before. He was working on an object that was stretched out on a long table under a strong light, with a helper standing by. The dick and I stood and watched a minute. A detailed description of the performance would help only if you expect to be faced with the job of probing a corpse for a bullet that entered at an angle between the fifth and sixth ribs, so I won’t go into it.
“Well?” the dick demanded.
“Yes,” I told him. “I identify it as the body of Marko Vukcic, owner of Rusterman’s Restaurant. If you want that signed, get it ready while I go use the phone.”
I went out and down the corridor to the phone booth and dialed a number. Ordinarily when I am out of the house and phone in Fritz will answer after two or three signals or Wolfe will answer after five or six, but that time Wolfe’s voice came before the first whirr was done.
“Yes?”
“Archie. It’s Marko. Shot twice in the chest and once in the belly. I suppose Stebbins is up at Fifty-fourth Street, at the scene, and maybe Cramer too. Shall I go up there?”
“No. Stay where you are. I’m coming to look at him. Where is it?”
He had been making a living as a private detective in Manhattan for more than twenty years, and majoring in murder, and he didn’t know where the morgue was. I told him; and, thinking that a little esprit de corps wouldn’t be out of place in the circumstances, and knowing how he hated moving vehicles, I was going to suggest that I go get the sedan from the garage and drive him myself, but he hung up. I went out front to the sergeant at the desk, whose name was Donovan, and told him I had identified the body but Mr. Wolfe was coming to take a look and I would stick around.
Donovan shook his head. “I only got orders about you.”
“Nuts. You don’t need orders. Any citizen and taxpayer can enter here to look for the remains of a relative or friend or enemy. Mr. Wolfe is a citizen and taxpayer. I make out his tax returns.”
“I thought you was a private eye.”
“I don’t like the way you say it, but I am. Also I am an accountant, an amanuensis, and a cocklebur. Eight to five you never heard the word amanuensis and you never saw a cocklebur.”
He didn’t rile. “Yeah, I know, you’re an educated wit. For Nero Wolfe I need orders. I know too much about him. Maybe he can get away with his tricks with Homicide and the DA, but not with me or none of my guests.”
I didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, I knew Donovan had a lot to put up with. When the door opened to admit a customer it might be anything from a pair of hoodlums wanting to collect data for a fake identification, to a hysterical female wanting to find out if she was a widow. That must have got on his nerves. So I merely explained it to him. I told him a few things about Marko Vukcic. That he was one of the only ten men I knew of that Nero Wolfe called by their first names. That for years he had dined once a month at Wolfe’s table, and Wolfe and I had dined once a month at his restaurant. That he and Wolfe had been boys together in Montenegro, which was now a part of Yugoslavia. Donovan seemed to be listening, but he wasn’t impressed. When I thought I had made the situation perfectly plain and stopped for breath, he turned to his phone, called Homicide, told them Wolfe was coming, and asked for instructions.
He hung up. “They’ll call back,” he informed me.
No bones got broken. His instructions came a minute before the door opened to admit Wolfe. I went and opened the gate in the railing, and Wolfe stepped through. “This way,” I said and steered him to the corridor and along to the room.
The doctor had got the slug that had entered between the fifth and sixth ribs, and was going for the one lower down. I saw that from three paces off, where I stopped. Wolfe went on until the part of him that is farthest front, his middle, was touching the edge of the table. The doctor recognized him and spoke.
“I understand he was a friend of yours, Mr. Wolfe.”
“He was,” Wolfe said a little louder than necessary. He moved sidewise, reached a hand, put fingertips under Marko’s chin, and pushed the jaw up so that the mouth closed; but when he took his hand away the lips parted again. He turned his head to frown at the doctor.
“That’ll be arranged,” the doctor assured him.
Wolfe nodded. He put fingers and a thumb into his vest pocket, withdrew them, and showed the doctor two small coins. “These are old dinars. I would like to fulfill a pledge made many years ago.” The scientist said sure, go ahead, and Wolfe reached to Marko’s face again, this time to place the coins on the eyes. The head was twisted a little, and he had to level it so the coins would stay put.
He turned away. “That’s all. I have no further commitment to the clay. Come, Archie.”
I followed him out and along the corridor to the front. The dick who had been my escort, there chinning with the sergeant, told me I didn’t need to sign a statement and asked Wolfe if he verified the identification. Wolfe said he did and added, “Where’s Mr. Cramer?”
“Sony, I couldn’t tell you.”
Wolfe turned to me. “I told the driver to wait. You said East Fifty-fourth Street. Marko’s address?”
“Right.”
“We’ll go there.” He went, and I followed.
That taxi ride uptown broke a precedent. Wolfe’s distrust of machinery is such that he is never in a condition to talk when he is being conveyed in something on wheels, even when I am driving, but that time he mastered it. He asked me questions about Marko Vukcic. I reminded him that he had known Marko a lot longer and better than I had, but he said there were some subjects which Marko had never discussed with him but might have with me—for example, his relations with women. I agreed that was logical, but said that as far as I knew Marko hadn’t wasted time discussing his relations with women; he just went ahead and enjoyed them. I gave an instance. When, a couple of years previously, I had taken one named Sue Dondero to Rusterman’s for dinner, Marko had cast an eye on her and contributed a bottle of one of his best clarets, and the next day had phoned to ask if I would care to give him her address and phone number, and I had done so and crossed her off. Wolfe asked why. I said to give her a break. Marko, sole owner of Rusterman’s, was a wealthy man and a widower, and Sue might hook him. But she hadn’t, Wolfe said. No, I agreed, as far as I knew there had been something wrong with the ignition.
“What the hell,” the hackie grumbled, braking.
Having turned off Park Avenue into Fifty-fourth Street, he had made to cross Lexington, and a cop had waved him down. The cab stopped with a jerk that justified Wolfe’s attitude toward machinery, and the hackie stuck his head out and objected.
“My fare’s number is in that block, officer.”
“Can’t help it. Closed. Up or down.”
He yanked the wheel, and we swung to the curb. I paid him, got out, and held the door, and Wolfe emerged. He stood a moment to take a deep breath, and we headed east. Ten paces along there was another cop, and a little farther on still another. Ahead, in the middle of the block, was a convention: police cars, spotlights, men working, and a gathering of citizens on the sidewalk across the street. On our side a stretch of the sidewalk was included in a roped-off area. As we approached it a cop got in the way and commanded, “Cross over and keep moving.”
“I came here to look at this,” Wolfe told him.
“I know. You and ten thousand more. Cross over.”
“I am a friend of the man who was killed. My name is Nero Wolfe.”
“Yeah, and mine’s General MacArthur. Keep moving.”
It might have developed into an interesting conversation if I hadn’t caught sight, in one of the spotlights, of a familiar face and figure. I sang out, “Rowcliff!”
He turned and peered, stepped out of the glare and peered some more, and then approached. “Well?” he demanded.
Among all the array of Homicide personnel that Wolfe and I have had dealings with, high and low, Lieutenant Rowcliff is the only one of whom I am dead sure that our feelings are absolutely reciprocal. He would like to see me exactly where I would like to see him. So, having summoned him, I left it to Wolfe, who spoke.
