Not Quite Dead Enough (The Rex Stout Library)

Sorry, I’ll have to change the arrangement. Don’t come to Nero Wolfe’s place at seven. Instead, I’ll come for you around 5:30.

Archie

I tore out the sheet and folded it and crinkled it a little, then leaned closer to the mirror to see better, separated a lock of my hair from the mop I wore, maybe eight or ten hairs, twisted them around my finger, and yanked them out. Returning to the living-room, I squatted in front of the body, shoved the folded paper down the front of the dress, next to the skin, and tucked the lock of hair behind the scarf around the throat, under the right jaw. The scarf was so tight it took force to do it. I patted her on the shoulder and murmured at her, “All right, Ann, we’ll get the bastard. Or bitch, as the case may be.” Then I straightened up and proceeded to make fingerprints. Three sets would be enough, I thought, one on the arm of a chair, one on the edge of the table, and one on the cover of a magazine on the table. My watch said 6:37. If Mrs. Chack happened to return early from squirrel-feeding, she might come any minute, and it would be a crime to spoil it now.

I went over to Roy. “How are you? Can you walk?”

“Walk?” He had quit trembling. “Where is there to walk to? We’ve got to get-”

“Look here,” I said. “Ann’s dead. Somebody killed her. We want to find out who did it. Don’t we?”

“Yes.” He showed his teeth. It was like a dog snarling in its sleep. “I do.”

“Then come along.” I took hold of his arm. “We’re going somewhere.”

“But we can’t-just leave her-”

“We can’t help her any. We’ll notify the police, but not from here. I tell you I know something about this. Come on, let’s get going.”

I hefted his arm, and he got to his feet, and I headed him for the door. I had decided against fingerprints there, so I used my handkerchief for wiping the knob and turning it, and the same on the outside. The hall was deserted and there was no sound of life. I hustled Roy along, got him out to the street, and turned toward Christopher, taking a normal pedestrian gait. My heart was pumping. I admit it. It looked as if I was going to put it over, with only one item left, to dispose of Roy for 24 hours.

I took him into a bar on Seventh Avenue, got him onto a chair at a table, ordered two double Scotches, told him I’d be back in a minute, and went to the phone booth and dialed a number.

“Lily? Me. Are you packing?”

“Yes, damn you. What-”

“Me talking. No time for explanations. All for now is, don’t leave till I phone you again. Okay?”

“Did you go-”