5. Therefore Yeager had been killed inside Number 156, some time, any time, after 7:30 p.m. Sunday, and later that night, when there was no audience, the body had been carried to the hole, only fifteen yards, and dropped in. That didn't account for the tarp, but no theory would. At least the tarp didn't hurt it. It could have been to postpone discovery of the body until the workmen came.
In detective work it's a great convenience to have a sagacity that can come up with conclusions like that; it saves wear and tear on the brain. I backed away from the barrier and walked the fifteen yards to Number 156.
Some of the houses had a sign, VACANCY, displayed at the entrance, but 156 didn't. But it did have a sign, hand-printed on a piece of cardboard fastened to the pillar at the foot of the steps going up to the stoop. It said SUPER-ENTENDANT, with an arrow pointing to the right. So I went right and down three steps, then left and through an open doorway into a little vestibule, and there in front of my eyes was evidence that there was something special about that house. The door had a Rabson lock. You have a Rabson installed on a door only if you insist on being absolutely certain that anyone who enters must have either the right key or a sledgehammer, and you are able and willing to shell out $61.50.
I pushed the bell button. In a moment the door opened, and there facing me was one of the three most beautiful females I have ever seen.
I must have gaped or gasped, from the way she smiled, the smile of a queen at a commoner. She spoke. "You want something?" Her voice was low and soft, without breath.
The only thing to say was "Certainly, I want you," but I managed to hold it in. She was eighteen, tall and straight, with skin the color of the wild thyme honey that Wolfe gets from Greece, and she was extremely proud of something, not her looks. When a woman is proud of her looks it's just a smirk. I don't think I stammered, but if I didn't I should have. I said, "I'd like to see the superintendent.
"Are you a policeman?"
If she liked policemen the only thing to say was "Yes." But probably she didn't. "No," I said, "I'm a newspaperman."
"That's nice." She turned and called, "Father, a newspaperman!" and her voice raised was even more wonderful than her voice low. She turned back to me, graceful as a big cat, and stood there straight and proud, not quite smiling, her warm dark eyes as curious as if she had never seen a man before. I knew damn well I ought to say something, but what? The only thing to say was "Will you marry me?" but that wouldn't do because the idea of her washing dishes or darning socks was preposterous. Then I became aware of something, that I had moved my foot inside the sill so the door couldn't close, and that spoiled it. I was just a private detective trying to dig up a client.
Footsteps sounded, and as they approached she moved aside. It was a man, a chunky broad-shouldered guy two inches shorter than her, with a pug nose and bushy eyebrows. I stepped inside and greeted him. "My name's Goodwin. From the Gazette. I want to rent a room, a front room."
He said to his daughter, "Go, Maria," and she turned and went, down the dark hall. He turned to me. "No rooms."
"A hundred dollars a week," I said. "I'm going to do an article on the scene of a murder after the murder. I want to take pictures of the people who come to look at it. A window on your second floor would be just the right angle."
"I said no rooms." His voice was deep and rough.
"You can shift someone around. Two hundred dollars."
"No."
"Three hundred."
"No."
"Five hundred."
"You're crazy. No."
"I'm not crazy. You are. Snooting five hundred bucks. What's your name?"
"It's my name."
"Oh for God's sake. I can get it next door or from the cop out front. What's wrong with it?"
He half closed one eye. "Nothing is wrong with it. My name is Cesar Perez. I am a citizen of the United States of America."
"So am I. Will you rent me a room for one week for five hundred dollars in advance in cash?"
"But what I said." He gestured with both hands and both shoulders. "No room. That man out there dead, this is a bad thing. To take pictures of the people from this house, no. Even if there was a room."
I decided to be impetuous. Delay could actually be dangerous, since Homicide or the DA might uncover a connection between Yeager and this house any moment. Getting my case from my pocket and taking an item from it, I handed it to him. "Can you see in this light?" I asked.
He didn't try. "What is it?"
"My license. I'm not a newspaperman, I'm a private detective, and I'm investigating the murder of Thomas G. Yeager."
He half closed an eye again. He poked the license at me, and I took it. His chest swelled with an intake of air. "You're not a policeman?"
"No."
"Then get out of here. Get out of this house. I have told three different policemen I don't know anything about that man in the hole, and one of them insulted me. You get out."
"All right," I said, "it's your house." I returned the license to the case and the case to my pocket. "But I'll tell you what will happen if you bounce me. Within half an hour a dozen policemen will take the house over, with a search warrant. They'll go over every inch of it. They'll round up everybody here, beginning with you and your daughter, and they'll nab everyone who enters. The reason they'll do that is that I'll tell them I can prove that Thomas G. Yeager came to this house Sunday evening and he was killed here."
"That's a lie. Like that policeman. That's insult."
"Okay. First I call to the cop out front to come in and stand by so you can't warn anyone." I turned. I had hit it. With the cops of course he had been set, but I had been unexpected and had caught him off balance. And he wasn't a moron. He knew that even if I couldn't prove it I must have enough to sick the law on him and the house.
As I turned he reached and got my sleeve. I turned back, and he stood there, his jaw working. I asked, not hostile, just wanting to know, "Did you kill him?"
"You're a policeman," he said.
"I am not. My name is Archie Goodwin and I work for a private detective named Nero Wolfe. We expect to get paid for investigating this case, that's how we make a living. So I'll be honest; we would rather find out for ourselves why Yeager came here instead of having the police do it, but if you won't cooperate I'll have to call that cop in. Did you kill him?''
He wheeled and started down the hall. I moved, got his shoulder, and yanked him around. "Did you kill him?"
"I've got a knife," he said. "In this house I've got a right to have it."
"Sure. I've got this." I pulled the Marley from the holster. "And a permit for it. Did you kill him?"
"No. I want to see my wife. She thinks better than I do. My wife and daughter. I want - "
A door ten feet down the hall swung open, and a woman's voice said, "We're here, Cesar," and there they were. The one coming was a tall grim-faced woman with an air of command. Maria stayed at the door. Perez started reeling off Spanish at his wife, but she broke in.
"Stop it! He'll think it's secrets. With an American talk American." She focused sharp black eyes on me. "We heard you. I knew this would come, only I thought it would be the police. My husband is an honest man. He did not kill Mr. Yeager. We call him Mr. House because it's his house. How do you know?"
I returned the Marley to the holster. "Since I do know, Mrs. Perez, does it matter how?"
"No, I am a fool to ask. All right, ask questions."
"I'd rather have your husband answer them. It may take a while. If there's a room with chairs?"
"I'll answer them. We sit down with friends. You after my husband with a gun."
"I was only showing off. Okay, if your legs can stand it mine can. What time did Mr. Yeager come here Sunday?"
"I thought you knew."
"I do. I'm finding out how you answer questions. If you answer too many of them wrong I'll try your husband, or the police will."