“Had you any evidence that Mr. Bagby made that phone call?”
“No, Your Honor. All I had, besides my assumptions from known facts and my own observations, was what Miss Weltz had told me. One thing she had told me was that Marie Willis had become an imminent threat to the whole conspiracy. She had been ordered by both Unger and Bagby to accept Ashe’s proposal to eavesdrop on his line, and not to tell Mrs. Ashe, whom Miss Willis idolized; and she had refused and announced that she was going to quit. Of course that made her an intolerable peril to everyone concerned. The success and security of the operation hinged on the fact that no victim ever had any reason to suspect that Bagby Answers, Incorporated, was responsible for his distress.
“It was Bagby who got the information, but it was Unger who used it, and the tormented under the screw could not know where the tormentor had got the screw. So Miss Willis’ rebellion and decision to quit — combined, according to Miss Weltz, with an implied threat to expose the whole business — were a mortal menace to any and all of them, ample provocation for murder to one willing to risk that extreme. I told Mr. Ashe that all this certainly established a reasonable doubt of his guilt, but I also went beyond that and considered briefly the most likely candidate to replace him. Do you wish that too?”
The judge was intent on him. “Yes. Proceed.”
“I told Mr. Ashe that I greatly preferred Mr. Bagby. The mutual alibi of Miss Hart and Miss Velardi might be successfully impeached, but they have it, and besides I have seen and talked with them and was not impressed. I exclude Miss Weltz because when she came to me last evening she had been jolted by consternation into utter candor, or I am a witless gull; and that excludes Mr. Unger too, because Miss Weltz claims certain knowledge that he was on his boat in the Sound all that evening.
“As for Mr. Bagby, he had most at stake. He admits that he went to his apartment around the time of the murder, and his apartment is on Seventieth Street, not far from where the murder occurred. I leave the timetable to the police; they are extremely efficient with timetables. Regarding the telephone call, Mr. Ashe said it could have been his voice.”
Wolfe pursed his lips. “I think that’s all — no, I also told Mr. Ashe that this morning I sent a man, Saul Panzer, to keep an eye on Mr. Bagby’s office in Forty-seventh Street, to see that no records are removed or destroyed. I believe that covers it adequately, Your Honor. I would now like to plead to the charge of contempt, both on behalf of Mr. Goodwin and of myself. If I may—”
“No.” Judge Corbett was curt. “You know quite well you have made that charge frivolous by the situation you have created. The charge is dismissed. Are you through with the witness, Mr. Donovan?”
“Yes, Your Honor. No more questions.”
“Mr. Mandelbaum?”
The Assistant District Attorney got up and approached the bench. “Your Honor will appreciate that I find myself in an extraordinary predicament.” He sounded like a man with a major grievance. “I feel that I am entitled to ask for a recess until the afternoon session, to consider the situation and consult with my colleagues. If my request is granted, I also ask that I be given time, before the recess is called, to arrange for five persons in the room to be taken into custody as material witnesses — Alice Hart, Bella Velardi, Helen Weltz, Guy Unger, and Clyde Bagby.”
“Very well.” The judge raised his eyes and his voice. “The five persons just named will come forward. The rest of you will keep your seats and preserve order.”
All of them obeyed but two. Nero Wolfe left the witness chair and stepped down to the floor, and as he did so Robina Keane sprang up from her place on the front bench, ran to him, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed her cheek against his. As I said before, actresses always act, but I admit that was unrehearsed and may have been artless. In any case, I thoroughly approved, since it indicated that the Ashe family would prove to be properly grateful, which after all was the main point.
The thought may have occurred to you, that’s all very nice, and no doubt Ashe sent a handsome check, but after all one reason Wolfe walked out was because he hated to sit against a perfumed woman on a wooden bench waiting for his turn to testify, and he had to do it all over again when the State was ready with its case against the real murderer. It did look for a while as if he might have to face up to that, but a week before the trial opened he was informed that he wouldn’t be needed, and he wasn’t. They had plenty without him to persuade a jury to bring in a verdict of guilty against Clyde Bagby.
Dr. Temple Is Dead
by William Bankier
© 1979 by William Bankier.
“In a minute, when she felt better, she would call the police”...
Gloria Temple poured some whiskey into her glass without spilling a drop. This was progress; twenty minutes ago she had knocked over the glass with the neck of the bottle and had spent the time since cleaning up her father’s desk. It was the fine walnut desk with inlaid green leather and gold embossed top, the one he sat behind when he saw his patients. Once she was started with the sponge and cloth, she went ahead and polished the front and side panels, even the round feet half buried in the pile of the bottle-green broadloom.
Gloria knew she was compulsive when it came to cleaning up a mess. Her session in the bathroom earlier was another example; starting with her father’s straight razor, she had gone on to wash and polish the comb, brush, and shaving mug, even though he would never use them again. Still, there were worse habits and it made her feel better to get things organized.
Now Gloria drew the telephone toward her and dialed, checking after each digit to make sure she was getting the number exactly as it was written on the patient’s card in her father’s neat hand. The patient was Mr. Kamen, S. J., and his appointment was for nine o’clock in the morning — the first on tomorrow’s schedule.
As the telephone rang, Gloria sipped whiskey. It was essential that she get through to these people. It would be chaos if they began showing up and found no Dr. Temple.
“Hello?” — a sluggish, middle-aged voice.
“Mr. Kamen?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Gloria Temple, Dr. Temple’s daughter.”
“Yes?” A defensive note crept in.
“I’m sorry but I have bad news. My father is dead. I thought I should tell you right away because I know you were expecting to see him tomorrow.”
“Dead? What happened?”
“He took a nap late this afternoon. I went in to call him and found him lying there. He was — he was all right. I mean there was no suffering. He died very suddenly and very peacefully in his sleep.”
There was silence on the line. Then: “But what am I going to do? Who will I see? Dr. Temple is the only one who understands my—”
“I know. This is going to be difficult for you and all the other patients until you can get re-established with another analyst. But I’m sure my father’s colleagues will help and you’ll be hearing from one of them soon. If you need help in the next few days, I suggest you call Mt. Hope Hospital. They can advise you.”