I will if you prefer.”
“Phone for a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have to?”
“Certainly.”
She went to a chair and sat. “This is the way it goes,”
she said. “It always has. When I want to think I can’t.
But you can, Buster, that’s your business. You ought to
be able to think of something better than calling a cop.”
The Homicide Trinity 163
“I’m afraid I can’t, Hattie.” I stopped. I hadn’t real-
ized she had become Hattie to me until I heard it come
out. I went on, “But first a couple of questions, in case
some thinking is called for later. When you came back
here this morning to sew on the button did you see
Tammy?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“The car that came up on the sidewalk and hit you.
Did you see the driver?”
“No, how could I? It came from behind.”
“The man and woman who helped you up, and the
other man. Did they see the driver?”
“No, I asked them. They said they didn’t. I can’t think
about that, I’m thinking about this. We’ll go up to my
room. Ray and Martha don’t know we came in here.
We’ll go up to my room and you’ll think of something.”
“I can’t think her alive and I can’t think her body
somewhere else. If you mean we forget we came in and
saw it, then what? You said nobody comes in here much.
Do you phone or do I?”
Her mouth worked. “You’re no good, Buster. I wish I
hadn’t sewed that button on.” She got to her feet, none
too steady. “I’m going upstairs, and I’m not going to see
any cops.” She moved, but not toward the door. She
stood and looked down at the corpse, and said, “It’s not
your fault, Tammy. Your name won’t ever be on a
marquee now.” She moved again, stopped at the door to
say, “The phone’s in the hall,” and went.
I looked around. There was no sign of a struggle.
There was nothing to be seen that might not have
belonged to the room—Tammy’s handbag, for instance.
I went and squatted by her for a look at the knife
handle; it was plain black wood, four inches long,
the kind for a large kitchen knife. It was clear in to the
handle and there was no blood. I got erect and went to
the hall, where I had noticed the phone on a stand under
the stairs. Voices were coming from the kitchen. That it
wasn’t a coin phone, out in the open in that house, was
164 Rex Stout
worthy of remark; either Hattie’s roomers could be
trusted not to take liberties, or she could afford not to
care if they did. Only now, evidently, one of them had
taken the liberty of sticking a knife in Tammy Baxter. I
dialed the number I knew best.
“Yes?”
I have tried to persuade Wolfe that that is no way to
answer the phone, with no success. “Me,” I said. “Call-
ing from Miss Annis’s house to report a complication.
We went in the parlor to look at the bookshelf and found
Tammy Baxter on the floor with a knife in her chest.
The girl that came this morning to ask if Miss Annis had
been there and that the T-man asked about. Miss Annis
won’t call the police, so I have to. I am keeping my
voice low because this phone is in the hall and there are
people in the kitchen with the door open. I have my eye
on it. I need instructions. You told Miss Annis you
would return her property to her, and you like to
do what you say you’ll do. So when I answer questions
what do I save?”
“Again,” he growled.
“Again what?”
“Again you. Your talent for dancing merrily into a
bog is extraordinary. Why the deuce should you save
anything? Save for what?”
“I’m not dancing and I’m not merry. You sent me
here. In one minute, possibly two, it would occur to you
as it has to me that it would be a nuisance to have to
explain why we postponed reporting that counterfeit
money. I could omit the detail that I inspected it and
found it was counterfeit. If and when the question is put
I could deny it.”
“Pfui. That woman.”
“It would be two against one, if it came to that, but I
don’t think it will. She says she’s not going to see any
cops and has gone to her room. Of course she’ll see
them, or they’ll see her, but I doubt if they’ll hear much.
Her attitude toward cops is drastic. One will get you
ten that she won’t even tell them where she went this
morning. But if you would prefer to open the bag—”
The Homicide Trinity 165
“I would prefer to obliterate the entire episode. Con-
found it. Very well. Omit that detail.”
“Right. I’ll be home when I get there.”
I cradled the phone and stood and frowned at it. A
citizen finding a dead body is supposed to report it at
once, and in addition to being a citizen I was a licensed
private detective, but another five minutes wouldn’t
hang me. Raymond Dell’s boom was still coming from
the kitchen. Hattie had said her room was the second
floor front. I went to the stairs, mounted a flight, turned
right in the upper hall, and tapped on a door.
Her voice came. “Who is it?”
“Goodwin. Buster to you.”
“What do you want? Are you alone?”
“I’m alone and I want to ask you something.”
The sound of footsteps, then of a sliding bolt that
needed oiling, and the door opened. I entered and she
closed the door and bolted it. “They haven’t come yet,”
I said. “I phoned Mr. Wolfe to suggest that it would
simplify matters if we leave out one item, that we knew
the bills were counterfeit. Including you. That hadn’t
occurred to us. If you admit you knew or suspected they
were phony, it will be a lot more unpleasant. So I
thought I’d—”
“Who would I admit it to?”
“The cops. Naturally.”
“I’m not going to admit anything to the cops. I’m not
going to see any cops.”
“Good for you.” There was no point in telling her how
wrong she was. “If you change your mind, remember
that we didn’t know the money was counterfeit. I’m
sorry I’m no good.”
I went, shutting the door, and as I headed for the
stairs I heard the bolt slide home. In the lower hall
voices still came from the kitchen. I went to the phone,
dialed Watkins 9-8241, got it, gave my name, asked for
Sergeant Stebbins, and after a short wait had him.
“Goodwin? I’m busy.”
“You’re going to be busier. I thought it would save
time to bypass headquarters. I’m calling from the house
166 Rex Stout
of Miss Hattie Annis, Six-twenty-eight West Forty-
seventh Street. There’s a dead body here in the
parlor—a woman with a knife in her chest. DOA—that
is, my arrival. I’m leaving to get a bite of lunch.”
“You are like hell. You again. I needed this. This was
all I needed.” He pronounced a word which it is a
misdemeanor to use on the telephone. “You’re staying
there, and you’re keeping your hands off. Of course you
discovered it.”
“Not of course. Just I discovered it.”
He pronounced another contraband word. “Repeat
that address.”
I repeated it. The connection went. As I hung up a
notion struck me. Hattie wasn’t there to call me a
bootlicker and flunky and toady, and it wouldn’t hurt to
be polite; and besides, it would be interesting and in-
structive to see how Stebbins would react to outside
authority sticking a finger in his pie. So I got the phone
book from the stand, found the number, and dialed it.
A man’s voice answered. “Rector two, nine one hun-
dred.”
Being discreet. Liking it plain, I asked, “Secret Ser-
vice Division?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to speak to Mr. Albert Leach.”
“Mr. Leach isn’t in at the moment. Who is this,
please?”
My reply was delayed because my attention was
diverted. The front door had opened and a man had
entered; and, hearing my voice, he had approached for a
look. I looked back. He was young and handsome—
Broadway handsome. The phone repeated, “Who is
this, please?”
“My name is Archie Goodwin. I have a message for
Mr. Leach. He asked me this morning about a woman
named Tammy Baxter. Tell him that Miss Baxter is
dead. Murdered. Her body was discovered in the parlor
of the house where she lived on Forty-seventh Street. I
have just notified the police. I thought Mr. Leach—”
The Homicide Trinity 167
I dropped the phone on the cradle, moved, and called,
“Hey you! Hold it!”
The handsome young man, halfway to the parlor