“Shall I go?” Saul asked.
“No. When Archie exhausts inanity he may have a suggestion. I won’t. It’s hopeless. Whatever Vaughn saw or heard there yesterday is buried beyond recovery. One of those six people either killed him or knows who did, but that key to his identity is undiscoverable. There’s another one somewhere, but a hundred men might not find it in a hundred days. Saul?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Archie?”
“Sorry and sad.”
He glared. “Two highly trained and highly skilled men, and what good are you? Go somewhere. Do something. Am I to sit here another evening, and go up to bed, contemplating frustration? Reflecting, in desperation, as I did day before yesterday, on a diphthong?”
Saul and I exchanged glances. Our genius was going potty on us. To humor him I inquired, “A diphthong?”
“Yes. Tenuous almost to nullity, it was unworthy of consideration. It still is. But I’m bereft, and it’s a fact. Get Mr. Vaughn.”
For half a second I thought he was worse than potty; then, realizing that there was a Mr. Vaughn who was still alive, and that diphthongs might be his hobby, I got at the phone. With his son not yet buried, Samuel Vaughn probably wouldn’t be at Heron Manhattan, Inc., but I tried it on the chance, was told that he wasn’t in today, and dialed his home number. He wasn’t accessible until I made it clear that Nero Wolfe wanted to ask him a question — I didn’t say about a diphthong — and in a couple of minutes I had him, and Wolfe took his phone.
“I presume to disturb you, Mr. Vaughn, only because I am concerned with the death of your son in connection with my investigation of the death of Susan Brooke, and I need a bit of information you may be able to supply. According to the published accounts, your son graduated from Harvard in nineteen fifty-nine. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“To lead to the next question. I’d rather not elucidate now, but it’s possible that this will be helpful in identifying a murderer. Do you know if your son was acquainted with a fellow student named Richard Ault? A-U-L-T. Perhaps a classmate?”
“I’m afraid I don’t— Wait a minute... yes, I do. That was the name of the boy that committed suicide that summer, after they graduated. My son told me about it. Yes, he knew him rather well; they took the same courses. But I don’t understand... what possible connection...”
“There may be none. If I find one, you’ll understand then. Do you know if your son ever visited Richard Ault at his home — perhaps at vacation time?”
“Where was his home?”
“Evansville, Indiana.”
“Then he didn’t. I’m sure he didn’t. Have you any reason to think he did?”
“No. I’m obliged to you, Mr. Vaughn, for indulging me. If this leads to anything, the obligation will be canceled.”
As I cradled the receiver my eyes were narrowed at it. I was considering diphthongs. Ch? Gh? Au? Wh? Br? I’d have to look it up. Too many years had passed since the fourth grade, or maybe fifth. I was interrupted by Wolfe saying, “Get Mr. Drucker.”
Again it took me half a second to catch up; it had been ten days since I had eaten roast beef and apple pie with Otto Drucker, the distinguished citizen, in my hotel room in Racine. I got his number from the file and put in the call, and when I got him I took time for a few sociable remarks before passing him to Wolfe. He told Wolfe it was a pleasure to speak with a man whose career he had followed with interest and admiration.
Wolfe grunted. “I may forfeit the admiration by the job I’m on now. You may be able to supply some needed information. I suppose you remember your conversation with Mr. Goodwin?”
“Certainly. Susan Brooke. Are you still on that?”
“I am. I’m floundering. What can you tell me of the young man who shot himself on the porch of the Brooke house?”
“Not much. I told Goodwin all I know. I didn’t even remember his name.”
“His name was Richard Ault. Do you know if any member of his family came to Racine? Or any representative of the family?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. As far as I recollect, they held the body here only a day or two and shipped it. I don’t remember that anyone came to get it. I can find out.”
“It isn’t worth the trouble. I believe Mr. Goodwin has told you to command us if at any time you need information from here.”
“He didn’t say ‘command,’ but he said you’d reciprocate and I appreciate it. I like that ‘command.’ If you need more on this let me know.”
Wolfe said he would, hung up, pushed the phone away as if he resented it, which he does, pushed his chair back, left it, walked over to the globe, twirled it, and focused on a spot near the center of the United States of America.
In a minute he demanded, not turning, “Where the devil is Evansville?”
“If you’ve got Indiana, at the bottom, on the Ohio River.”
Another ten seconds, and he turned. “How do you get there?”
“Probably the quickest would be a plane to Louisville.”
“I’d have to be back Monday morning for a little job,” Saul said.
“No, Archie will go. You’re needed here. Archie, find—”
He stopped because I had turned to the phone and started dialing.
Chapter 14
At ten minutes past two Friday morning I sat on a wooden chair at the end of a glass-topped desk in a room with two windows, being sized up by a cop. I wasn’t exactly in the pink, after the day in New York, the plane ride to Louisville, and the three-hour drive in a rented car to Evansville, but since I now knew which diphthong it was, and I would sleep better after I got the answers to a few questions, and police headquarters is open all night, I had stopped at the hotel only long enough to sign in. I admit that as I sat I had to tell myself to keep my shoulders up.
The cop’s name was Sievers, Lieutenant Sievers, an old pro with very little hair but plenty of jaw. He gave my New York State detective license a thorough look, handed it back, and frowned at me. “Archie Goodwin,” he said. “Haven’t I seen that name somewhere?”
“I hope not on a hot dodger. You may have seen the name of the man I work for, Nero Wolfe.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “That one. Yeah. How do you stand him?”
“I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times, and damned if I can answer it.”
“Don’t expect me to. What’s your problem here?”
“Just a little information we need, about a man named Richard Ault, or I should say his family. He’s dead. He committed suicide in Racine, Wisconsin, on August fourteenth, nineteen fifty-nine.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“This was his home town, wasn’t it?”
“It was. He was born here.”
“Did you know him?”
“I knew him by sight. I don’t know if I ever spoke to him. He wasn’t the kind we have to speak to much. Why are you interested in him now?”
“We’re not, in him. A point has come up in a case we’re on that his family might know about. I’ll see them tomorrow — I mean today — but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out what they’re like first. How do they stand locally?”
“They don’t stand. You won’t see them tomorrow. There’s no one to see.”
“No one at all?”
“No. If you want details, Richard Ault’s father, Benjamin Ault, Junior, has a furniture factory, a big one. He inherited it from his father, Benjamin Senior. Benjamin Junior died about ten years ago. Let’s see...” He shut his eyes and lowered his head. He looked up. “That’s right, nineteen fifty-three. You don’t believe in making notes, huh? Out here we always make notes.”
“So do I when they may be needed. What about brothers or sisters?”