Not Quite Dead Enough (The Rex Stout Library)

“To you, perhaps.” Carpenter was smiling. “But I had suggested it to her. I told her to try you out if an opportunity came. With the interests and the sums involved, I was even keeping an eye on myself. And while I was aware of your talents-”

Wolfe grimaced. “Bah.” He waved it away, from the wrist. “You might at least have shown a little ingenuity in concealing the noose. As for Shattuck, he couldn’t help himself. Probably he had already had a hint that Ryder was about to crumple up.”

“I still don’t understand Ryder. I would have sworn he was as sound as they come, but he had a rotten spot.”

“Not necessarily,” Wolfe disagreed. “Possibly only a vulnerable one. No telling what. They were old friends, and who is so apt to know the secret word, the hidden threat, that will paralyze a man into helplessness, as an old friend? But Ryder got two shocks, simultaneously, that caused the threat, whatever it was, to lose its power. His beloved only son got killed in battle, and one of his men, Captain Cross, was murdered. The first altered all his values; and connivance at murder was not in his contract. He decided to go to you and let it out, and he informed Shattuck of his decision, not privately-he didn’t want to discuss it or argue about it-but publicly, irrevocably, before witnesses. That’s what it amounted to.”

“What a fix for a man,” Carpenter muttered.

“Yes. Also a fix for Shattuck. He was done for too. After that he really had no choice, and circumstances made it, if not easy for him, at least not too difficult. Returning after lunching with General Fife, all he had to do was get three or four minutes alone in Ryder’s office, and doubtless he didn’t find that very hard to manage. Then, I suppose, he left for some appointment. Men of his prominence always have appointments. You asked me before dinner if he killed Captain Cross too. As a conjecture, yes. If you’re going to complete the file on it, find out if he was in New York last Wednesday evening, and follow the trial.” Wolfe shrugged. “He’s dead.”

Carpenter nodded. He was gazing at Wolfe with a certain expression, an expression I had often seen on the faces of people sitting in that chair looking at Wolfe. It reminded me of what so many out-of-town folks say about New York: that they love to visit the place, but you couldn’t pay them to live there. Me, I live there.

Carpenter said, “What put you onto him?”