The Missing Chapter

“With that personality of his, anybody who ever came within half a mile of him. No — scratch that last comment,” Ott said sharply, twisting in his chair. “It was gratuitous, and I had no business coming out with it. Mr. Goodwin, let’s just say Charles was an egotistical, moderately talented, immoderately unpleasant young man. I’d be a hypocrite if I told you his death deeply saddened me. But I didn’t rejoice when I heard about it, either. Do I think he was murdered? Oh... probably not. Based on what I had seen of him over the last four years or so — and I hope that this doesn’t sound callous — suicide seems consistent with his overall behavior. The man was a nut case. Sorry, but there it is.”

“Did you know that he kept a gun in his apartment?”

“No, but I can’t say I’m surprised. I was only in his place once, several months back, while I was still his agent and we were on relatively good terms. I belong to a small club down on Gramercy Park, and I’d been having lunch there with a friend. Because I was nearby, I stopped by to see Charles after lunch and dropped off copies of the German edition of one of his Barnstable books which had just come in. He was all wrought up about one of the apartments in his building having been burgled or vandalized, or both, and he told me he was going to buy a ‘piece’ — that’s the word he used, ‘piece.’ Ever the crime writer.”

“Do you know if he had drawn up a will?”

Ott spread his arms. “I have no idea, but I really doubt it. Charles was weird about money. On the one hand, he seemed obsessed with making it as fast as he could. On the other, he didn’t seem to care about what happened to it once he got it. Possessions didn’t seem to be a high priority with him. And his apartment — well, as I said, I was only there once, but the furnishings looked like they came from a resale shop.”

I nodded, then paused a beat. “Mr. Ott, where were you a week ago Tuesday from, say, late morning to late afternoon?”

“That was really quite well done.” He nodded and smiled. “I wondered how long you’d wait to spring it. You did a damn nice job of pulling information out of me before you got to the part that figured to make the atmosphere tense, and which might cause me to ask you to leave. Except that I won’t do that. Your question is legitimate.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out his date book. “Let’s see, on Tuesday, I was at my barber’s at ten-thirty, meaning I probably left him at eleven or a little past. You can check with him. Wallace Berkeley on Forty-sixth Street. Then let’s see, I took a cab down to Gramercy Park, where I was having lunch with one of my writers at that club I mentioned. I got there early and walked around the park, which always makes me think of London. It relaxes me.”

“How long did you walk?”

“Probably half an hour or more. Not much of an alibi, is it?”

“Certainly not if nobody can vouch for you. As you said yourself, Gramercy Park isn’t all that far from Childress’s place.”

“You’re nothing if not direct, Mr. Goodwin.” Ott wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning, either.

“Direct is my middle name. One more question,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “Any idea what this key opens?”

Ott took it between his thumb and forefinger and frowned. “You know, it looks like it might be to my apartment.” He pulled out his key ring and took one off, holding it up next to the key I had produced.

“Nope, not the same, see?” he said, giving me an up-close look at both of them.

I nodded as he handed me the key. “I’ve taken a lot of your time,” I told him, getting up.

“Wait,” he said, looking stern and holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “Do you keep a bottle of rye in your lower right-hand desk drawer?”

That stopped me. “No. But I always know where to find some.”

“Not the same thing. No rye in your desk, no hard-boiled tag. Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Mr. Goodwin, but you are terminally urbane.”

“A bitter pill,” I admitted, donning my most somber expression. “I suppose I can’t change your mind with my Bogart impression and my British trench coat?”

Ott actually cracked a smile. “It’s far too late for that. You are what you are.”

I tried to think of something hard-boiled to say, other than “Same to you, fella.” Nothing came to mind, so I gave him my most urbane smile and sauntered out.

Seven

When I got back to the brownstone, it was eight minutes after six, which meant Wolfe was down from the plant rooms. I was not surprised to find him seated behind his desk with beer and book.

“Home is the hunter, home from the sea,” I said as I dropped into my desk chair.

He set the book down and sighed — not softly. “Archie, if you must quote Stevenson, make at least a minimal effort to get it correct: It is ‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter, home from the hill.’“

“I’ll work on it, thanks. Ready for a report on my meeting with Mr. Ott?”