Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 46 Read Online Free PDF Page B

course I didn’t.”
    “Had he been like that Saturday? Distraught?”
    “I don’t—” Philip frowned. “No, sir, he hadn’t.”
    “I suggest that when opportunity offers you sit and close your eyes and try to recall everything he said yesterday. If you do that, make a real effort, you maysurprise yourself. People frequently do. Will you do that?”
    “Yes, sir, but not here. I couldn’t, here. I will later.”
    “And tell me or Mr. Goodwin.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Good. We’ll hope to hear from you.” Wolfe cocked his head. “Now. Another important question. If he was killed by someone who works here, who was it? Who might have had reason to want him dead? Who feared him or hated him or might have profited by his death?”
    Philip was shaking his head. “Nobody. Nobody here. Nobody anywhere.”
    “Pfui. You can’t know that. Obviously you can’t, since someone killed him.”
    He was still shaking his head. “No, sir. I mean yes, sir. Of course. But I can’t believe it. That’s what I thought when I heard it—who could have killed him? Why would anybody kill Pierre? He never hurt anybody, he wouldn’t. Nobody hated him. Nobody was afraid of him. He was a fine man, an honest man. He wasn’t perfect, he had that one fault, he bet too much on horse races, but he knew he did and he tried to stop. He didn’t want to talk about it, but sometimes he did. I was his best friend, but he never tried to borrow from me.”
    “Did he borrow from anyone?”
    “I don’t think so. I don’t think he would. I’m sure he didn’t from anybody here. If he had, there would have been talk. You can ask Felix.”
    Apparently the idea was that Felix knew everything.
    “Did he bet large amounts?”
    “I don’t really know. He didn’t like to talk about it. Once he told me he won two hundred and thirty dollars, and another time a hundred and something, I forget exactly, but he never spoke about losing.”
    “How did he bet? Bookmakers?”
    “I think he used to, but I’m not sure. Then OTB. He told me when he started at OTB.”
    “OTB?”
    “Yes, sir. Off-Track Betting.”
    Wolfe looked at me. I nodded. The things he doesn’t know, and he reads newspapers. He went back to Philip. “Of course you saw him elsewhere, not only here. Have you ever been in his home?”
    “Yes, sir. Many times. His apartment on West Fifty-fourth Street.”
    “With his wife?”
    “She died eight years ago. With his daughter and his father. His father had a little bistro in Paris, but he sold it and came over to live with Pierre when he was seventy years old. He’s nearly eighty now.”
    Wolfe closed his eyes, opened them, looked at me and then at the wall, but there was no clock. He got the tips of his vest between thumb and finger, both hands, and pulled down. He didn’t know he did that, and I never mentioned it. It was a sign that his insides had decided that it was time to eat. He looked at me. “Questions? About betting?”
    “Not about the betting. One question.” I looked at Philip. “The number on Fifty-fourth Street?”
    He nodded. “Three-eighteen. Between Ninth Avenue and Tenth.”
    “There will probably be more questions,” Wolfe said, “but they can wait. You have been helpful, Philip, and I am obliged. You will be here for dinner?”
    “Yes, sir, of course. Until ten o’clock.”
    “Mr. Goodwin may come. Felix knows about lunch for us. Please tell him we are ready.”
    “Yes, sir.” Philip was up. “You will tell me what youfind out.” He looked at me and back at Wolfe. “I want to know. I want to know everything about it.”
    Well, well. You might have thought he was Inspector Cramer. Wolfe merely said, “So do I. Tell Felix to send our lunch.” And Philip turned and walked out without saying yes, sir, and I said, “The question is, was it you or me? He probably thinks me.”
    Whenever he eats at Rusterman’s, Wolfe has a problem. There’s a conflict. On the one hand, Fritz is the best cook in the