Shattuck’s face twitched. After a moment he gulped. But his voice was clear and firm: “If he did I certainly didn’t know it. The only thing is, his son had been killed. But a well man with a healthy mind can take a thing like that without committing suicide, and Harold Ryder was well and his mind was healthy. I hadn’t seen a great deal of him lately, but I can say that.”
Wolfe nodded. “Then the other alternative — that someone killed him. Since the grenade was used, it had to be procured from the desk drawer, presumably by one of us who saw Colonel Ryder put it there this morning. Six of us. That makes it a bit touchy.”
“It sure does,” Shattuck said grimly. “That’s one reason I’m here. Got it from the drawer and then what?”
“I don’t know. At that point the minutiae enter — entrances and exits, presences and absences. Opened the door, possibly, either door, pulled the pin, and tossed it in.” Wolfe regarded him a moment inquiringly. “I take it, Mr. Shattuck, that this conversation is in confidence?”
“Of course it is. Entirely.”
“Then I may say, tentatively, that a seventh person seems to be involved. Miss Bruce. Colonel Ryder’s secretary.”
“You mean that WAC in his anteroom?”
“Yes. I’m not prepared to give details, but it appears that Colonel Ryder had acquired certain information and had either drawn up a report or was getting ready to, and the result would have been disastrous for her.”
Shattuck was frowning. “I don’t like that.”
“Indeed. You don’t like it?”
“I mean I don’t—” Shattuck stopped. The frown deepened. “I mean this,” he said, in a harsh determined tone. “Since this is in confidence. I suspected, rightly or wrongly, that details regarding Captain Cross’s death were being deliberately concealed and no real investigation was being made. I was satisfied on that score when I learned that you were handling it. You may ask then why am I not satisfied if you are in charge of the inquiry into Ryder’s death? I am. But you may yourself be — misled. With all your talents, you may be off on a false scent. That’s why I say I don’t like that girl being dragged into it. I don’t know her, know nothing about her, but it looks like a trick.”
“Possibly,” Wolfe conceded. “Have you any evidence that it is?”
“No.”
“About those six people? Eliminate those here present, by courtesy. Those three people? Can you tell me anything about them?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid we won’t make any progress tonight.” Wolfe glanced at the clock on the wall. He put his hands on the edge of the desk and pushed his chair back. “It’s midnight. I assure you, sir, if tricks are being played on me I’m apt to find it out and return the compliment.” He got to his feet. “I may have something more concrete for you by tomorrow. Say by tomorrow noon. Would it be convenient for you to drop in here at twelve noon? If I do have anything, I wouldn’t care to announce it on the telephone.”
“I think I can make it,” Shattuck said, also standing. “I will make it. I have a reservation on the three o’clock plane for Washington.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I escorted the visitor to the front and let him out, closed the door and shot the night bolt, and returned to the office. I had supposed Wolfe was prepared to call it a day and go up to bed, but to my surprise he was back in his chair, and apparently, from the arrangement of his face, his mind was working.
I remarked rudely, “So you’re going to use Shattuck too. For what? Is he it?”
“Archie. Be quiet.”
“Yes, sir. Or is he Miss Bruce’s principal and you’re going to close the deal?”
No reply.
I went to the shelf and got the grenade, tossed it in the air, and caught it. I saw him shudder. That was something. “This,” I said, “is Army property. So am I, as you remind me every hour on the hour. I don’t ask where you got it, since you told me to be quiet. But I’ll keep it in my room and return it to the Army in the morning.”
“Confound you! Give me that thing.”
“No, sir. I mean it. If I’ve got allegiances, as you say I have, I take this grenade to General Fife first thing in the morning, and I tell him—”
“Shut up!”
I stood and glared at him.
He glared back, as if something was almost more than he could bear, and he would leave it to me what.
Finally he said, “Archie. I submit to circumstances. So should you. And I’ll make a concession to you. For instance, about that suitcase. Its metal frame is bent outward, in all directions. How could an explosion from anywhere on the outside of the suitcase, at whatever distance, near or far, bend its frame outward? It couldn’t. Therefore the grenade was inside the suitcase when it exploded. The innumerable holes and tears in the leather made by the fragments confirm that. They are from the inside out.”
I put the grenade on his desk.
“Therefore,” he went on, “Colonel Ryder was murdered. The grenade couldn’t possibly have exploded inside the suitcase by accident. Suicide, no. The man was not an idiot. He did not take the grenade from the desk drawer to kill himself with it, put it in the suitcase, and hold the lid open just enough to permit him to insert his hand to pull out the safety pin. That’s the only way he could have done it, because the frame of the lid was bent outward too. Not suicide. Only one conclusion is tenable. It was a booby trap.”
He picked up the grenade and indicated the thick end of the pin. “You see that notch. I put the grenade in the suitcase, attach one end of a piece of string — even a narrow strip torn from a handkerchief would do — under that notch on the pin, pull the lid nearly shut, giving myself just room enough to work, attach the other end of the string to the lining of the lid at a front corner — probably with an office pin right there on the desk, a handy place to work — and close the lid. Two minutes would do it — not more than three. Whenever and wherever Colonel Ryder opened the suitcase, he would die. Since the lid was closed when the grenade exploded, probably he jerked the lid open to put something in and immediately snapped it shut again, without noticing the string. Of course, even if he had noticed it, that wouldn’t have helped matters any.”
I was considering the matter. When he stopped I nodded. “Okay,” I agreed. “I’m right behind you. Next. Did Sergeant Bruce take it because she—”
“No,” he said positively. He put the grenade in a drawer of his desk. “That’s all.”
“It’s not even a start,” I snorted.
“It’s all for tonight.” He stood up. “Come to my room at eight in the morning, when Fritz brings my breakfast. With your notebook. I’ll have some instructions for you. It will be a busy day. We’re going to set a booby trap — somewhat more complicated than that one.”
Chapter 6
At 10:55 Tuesday morning I sat on a corner of my desk in Nero Wolfe’s office, surveying the scene and the props. I had done the arranging myself, following instructions, but I had about as much idea what was going on as if I had been blindfolded at the bottom of a well.
Wolfe had been correct in one respect. At least so far it had been a busy day — for me. After an early breakfast I had gone to his room and been told what to do — not why or what for, just what. Then I had gone to Duncan Street and followed the program, without much time to spare, for General Fife didn’t show up at his office until nearly ten o’clock. Returning home after I got through with him, I had arranged the props.