Over My Dead Body Read online

  “I do.” Wolfe grimaced. “From my own funds, earned at my trade. I have contributed to the Loyalists in Spain. I send money occasionally to the—translated, it is the League of Yugoslavian Youth. Prince Stefan Donevitch assuredly has no connexion with that.”

  “I wouldn’t know. What about your wife? Weren’t you married?”

  “No. Married? No. That was what—” Wolfe stirred, as under restraint, in his chair. “It strikes me, sir, that you are nearing the point where even a grateful American might tell you to go to the devil.”

  I put in emphatically, “I know damn well I would, and I’m only a sixty-fourth Indian.”

  The G-man smiled and uncrossed his legs. “I suppose,” he said amiably, “you’d have no objection to putting this in the form of a signed document. What you’ve told me.”

  “On a proper occasion, none at all.”

  “Good. You represent no foreign principal, directly or indirectly?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, that’s all we wanted to know.” He got up. “At present. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Good-day, sir.”

  I followed him out, to open the front door for America and make sure he was on the proper side of it when it was closed again. Wolfe could get sentimental about it if he wanted to, but I don’t like any stranger nosing around my private affairs, let alone a nation of 130 million people. When I returned to the office he was sitting back with his eyes closed.

  “You see what happens,” I told him bitterly. “Just because you rake in two fat fees and the bank account is momentarily bloated, in the space of three weeks you refuse nine cases. Not counting the poor little immigrant girl with a friend who likes diamonds. You refuse to investigate anything for anybody. Then what happens? America gets suspicious because it’s un-American not to make all the money you can, and sticks a senior G-man on you, and now, by God, you’re going to have to investigate yourself! You don’t need—”

  “Archie. Shut up.” His eyes opened. “You’re a liar. Since when have you been a sixty-fourth Indian?”

  Before I could parry his counter-attack, Fritz appeared to announce lunch. I knew it was to be warmed-over duck scraps, so I was off at the gun.

  Chapter Two

  During meals Wolfe ordinarily excludes business not only from his conversation but also from his mind. But that day it appeared that his thoughts were straying from the food, though I didn’t see how they could have been on business, since there was none on hand. He did his share of demolition to the remains of three ducks—his old friend Marko Vukcic had dined with us the day before—but there was an air of absent-mindedness in his ardour as he tore the backbones apart and scraped the juicy shreds off with his gleaming white teeth. It somewhat prolonged the operations, so that it was after two o’clock when we finished with the coffee and waddled back to the office. That is, he waddled, I strode.

  Then, instead of resuming with the catalogues or playing with some other of his toys, he leaned back and clasped his hands over the duck repository and shut his eyes. It wasn’t a coma, for several times during the hour he sat there I saw his lips push in and out, so I knew he was hard at work on something.

  Suddenly he spoke.

  “Archie. What made you say that girl wanted to borrow a book?”

  So he hadn’t been able to get his mind off the Montenegrin females. I waved a hand. “Persiflage. Chaff.”

  “No. You said she asked if I had read it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if I study it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And are you reading it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nearly opened his eyes. “Did it occur to you that she was finding out if either of us would be apt to look at that book in the immediate future?”

  “No, sir. My mind was occupied. I was sitting down and she was standing in front of me and I was thinking about her curves.”

  “That is not thought. Those nerves are in the spinal column, not the brain. You said it was United Yugoslavia by Henderson.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where was it when you returned to the office?”

  “On the shelf where it belongs. She had put it back herself. For a Monteneg—”

  “Get it, please.”

  I crossed the room and got it down and took it to him. He rubbed the cover caressingly with his palm, as he always did with a book, and then turned it with its front edge facing him, squeezed it tight shut and held it for a moment, and suddenly released the pressure. Then he opened it around the middle and took out a piece of paper that was there between the leaves. The paper was folded, and he unfolded it and started reading it. I sat down and set my teeth on my lip to hold in what might otherwise have come out. I set them hard.

  “Indeed,” Wolfe said. “Shall I read it to you?”

  “Oh, please do, yes, sir.”

  He began an incoherent jabber and splutter that didn’t even sound human. I knew he expected me to butt in with an outcry, so I set my teeth again. When he had finished I grinned at him.

  “Okay,” I said, “but why couldn’t she tell me to my face how handsome and seductive I was and so on instead of writing it down and sticking it in that book. Especially that last—”

  “And especially writing it in Serbo-Croat. Do you speak Serbo-Croat, Archie?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll translate. It’s dated at Zagreb, 20th August, 1938, and bears the Donevitch crest. It says, roughly, ‘The bearer of these presents, my wife, the Princess Vladanka Donevitch, is hereby empowered without reservation to talk and act in my name, and attach my name and honour by her signature, which appears herewith below my own, in all financial and political matters and claims pertaining to me and to the Donevitch dynasty, with particular reference to Bosnian forest concessions and to the disposal of certain credits at present in the care of Barrett & De Russy, bankers of New York. I bespeak for her loyalty from those who owe it, and co-operation from those whose interests ride with mine.’ ”

  Wolfe folded the paper and imprisoned it under his palm. “It is signed Stefan Donevitch and Vladanka Donevitch. The signatures are attested.”

  “Good.” I glared at him. “He even spent two bits on a notary. Let’s take one thing at a time. How did you know that thing was in that book?”

  “I didn’t know it. But her questioning you—”

  “Sure. Your curiosity got aroused. Check that off. Do you mean to say that that girl is a Balkan princess?”

  “I don’t know. Stefan married only three years ago. I got that from this book. Don’t badger me, Archie. I don’t like this.”

  “What don’t you like about it?”

  “I like nothing about it. Of all the activities of man, international intrigue is the dirtiest. The Balkan mess, as it is today, I know only superficially, but even on the surface the maggots of corruption may be seen writhing. The regent who rules Yugoslavia deviously courts the friendship of certain nations. He is a Karageorgevitch. Prince Stefan, the head of the Donevitch clan, now that old Peter is dying, is being used by certain other nations, and he is using them for his own ambition. And now look at this!” He slapped the paper with his palm. “They bring this to America! If it could be used to destroy them all, I would use it!”

  He puffed. “Bah!” He made a gesture of spitting, which I had seen him do only once before in the years I had lived under his roof. “Pfui! Bosnian forest concessions from a Donevitch! As soon as I saw that girl and heard her voice I knew the devil was around. Confound them for crossing the ocean and stepping on this shore—confound her for coming here, here to my office, and soiling one of my books with this—this nauseous—”

  “Hold it,” I cautioned him. “Breathe deep three times. How do you know she put it there? It’s been months since you’ve had that book down, and maybe somebody—”

  “Who? When?”

  “Lord, I don’t know. Vukcic is a Montenegrin—”
r />   “Gibberish.”

  I waved a hand. “All right, then the immigrant girl did it, and she’s either an obnoxious Balkan princess or she’s not, and so what and why? Is she in cahoots with evil forces in America, and will Mr Stahl come back with a search warrant and find it and throw you in the coop? Is it a plant? Or did she swipe it from the princess and come here to cache it—?”

  “Archie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Address an envelope to Miss Carla Lovchen in care of the Nikola Miltan Studio—get the address from the phone book. Put this thing in it and mail it at once. I don’t want it here. I’ll have nothing to do with it. I don’t want— I send money to those young people over there because I know it’s hard for even a Montenegrin to be brave on an empty stomach, but it’s their stable now, not mine, and they’ll have to clean it out. This is the first time— Well, Fritz?”

  Fritz Brenner, entering, advanced his three paces and announced:

  “A young lady to see you, sir. Miss Carla Lovchen.”

  I made a noise. Wolfe blinked at him.

  Fritz held to his formal stance, waiting. He had to wait a full two minutes, for Wolfe sat motionless, his lips puckered up, his forehead creased with a frown. Finally:

  “Where is she?”

  “In the front room, sir. I always think—”

  “Shut that door and come here.”

  Fritz obeyed and was standing by the desk. Wolfe turned to me: “Address an envelope to Saul Panzer at his home and put a stamp on it.”

  I elevated the typewriter and followed instructions. As I put the stamp in the corner I inquired, “Registered or special?”

  “No. Neither. That’s another point for America, mail gets delivered intact and promptly. Let me have it.” He inserted the folded paper in the envelope, licked the flap and pressed it down. “Here, Fritz, go to the box at the corner and drop it in—immediately.”

  “The young lady—”

  “We’ll attend to her.”

  Fritz departed. Wolfe cocked an ear and waited until the sound of the street door opening and closing reached us, and then told me, “Remember to phone Saul and tell him to expect that envelope and to take care of it.” He slid United Yugoslavia across the desk. “Put this away before you bring her in.”

  I returned the book to its place on the shelf and then went to the front room for her. “This way, please. Sorry you had to wait.” As I stood back to let her precede me into the office, I inspected her build and swing and the set of her head from the fresh viewpoint of the princess theory, but the first strong impression I had had of her was the way she said “pliz,” and to me she was still an immigrant girl, and in my opinion always would be. Anyway, judging from various pictures of princesses I had seen, from brats on up, I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she had swiped that paper from the rightful owner.

  She thanked me for the chair and I returned to my own. I had a notion to warn her to lay off of the hvala Bogu stuff, but decided that Wolfe was in no mood for the light touch. He was upright in his chair with his eyes narrowed at her.

  “I sent you a message this morning. Miss Lovchen,” he said dryly, “by Mr Goodwill, that I would be unable to help you out in your trouble—your friend’s trouble.”

  She nodded. “I got it. I was disappointed, very much, because we’re from Yugoslavia and we know you have been there, and we’re strangers and there was no one else to go to.” She kept the lashes up, her dark eyes at him straight. “I told Neya—my friend—and she was disappointed too. It is a very extremely serious trouble. We talked it over, and there is only one thing to do, and that is you must get her out of it.”

  “No.” Wolfe was still dry, and positive. “I can’t engage to do that. But I would like to ask—”

  “Pliz!” She snapped it out. “It must be done quick now, because they will all be there at five o’clock to settle it, and that man is not only an American fool, he is the kind of man who would simply make trouble anywhere. And somehow there is a terrible mistake. There is no one we can go to but you. So we talked it over and I saw the only thing to do is to tell you the very good reason why you must help her, and she agreed to it because she had to. The reason is that my friend. Neya Tormic, is your daughter.”

  Wolfe’s eyes popped open to a new record. Not liking the sight of that, I transferred my astonished stare to the girl.

  Wolfe exploded. “My daughter? What’s this flummery?”

  “She is your daughter.”

  “My daugh—” Wolfe was speechless. He found a piece of his voice:

  “You said her name is Tormic.”

  “I told you her name in America is Neya Tormic, just as mine is Carla Lovchen.”

  Wolfe, erect, was glaring at her. She glared back. They stayed that way.

  Wolfe blurted, “I don’t believe it. It’s flummery. My daughter disappeared. I have no daughter.”

  “You haven’t seen her since she was three years old. Have you?”

  “No.”

  “You should. Now you will. She’s very good-looking.” She opened her handbag and fished in it. “I suspected you wouldn’t want to believe me, so I got this from Neya and brought it along. Here.” She reached to hand him a paper. “There is your name where you signed it . . .”

  She went on talking. Wolfe was scowling at the paper. He went over it slowly and carefully, holding it at an angle for better light from the window. His jaw was clamped. I watched him and listened to her. What with the paper hid in his book and now this, it began to look as if the Montenegrin female situation held great promise.

  He finished inspecting the thing, folded it with deliberation, and stuck it in his pocket.

  Miss Lovchen extended a hand. “No, you must give it back. I must return it to Neya. Unless you take it to her yourself?”

  Wolfe regarded her. He grunted. “I don’t know anything about this. The paper’s all right. That is my signature. It belonged to that girl. It still does, if she lives. How do I know it wasn’t stolen?”

  “For what?” She shrugged. “You’re suspicious beyond anything to be expected. Stolen to be brought across the ocean for what? To have an effect on you, here in America? No, you are famous, but not as famous as all that. It was not stolen from her. She sent me to show it to you and to tell you. She is in trouble!” Her eyes flashed at him. “What are you in your opinion—a rock on Durmitor for a goat to stand on? You will see your grown daughter for the first time perhaps in a jail?”

  “I don’t know. I am not in my opinion a rock. Neither am I a gull. I couldn’t find that girl when I went back to Yugoslavia to look for her. I don’t know her.”

  “But your America will know her! The daughter of Nero Wolfe! In jail for stealing! Only she didn’t steal! She is no thief!” She sprang up and put her hands on his desk and leaned across at him: “Pfui!” She sat down again and flashed her eyes at me to let me know she was making no exceptions. I winked at her. Admitting the princess theory and counting me as a peasant, I suppose it was out of character.

  Wolfe sighed, long and deep. There was a silence during which I could hear both of them breathing. At length he muttered:

  “It’s preposterous. Grotesque. No matter how many tricks you learn, life knows a better one. I’ve put many people in jail, and kept many out. Now this. Archie, your notebook. Miss Lovchen, please give Mr Goodwin the details of this trouble your friend has got into.” He leaned back and shut his eyes.

  She told it and I put it down. It looked to me, as it unfolded, as if somebody’s confidence in someone’s daughter might turn out to be misplaced. The two girls taught both dancing and fencing at Nikola Miltan’s Studio on East 48th Street. It was an exclusive joint with a pedigreed clientèle and appropriate prices for lessons. They had got their jobs through an introduction from Donald Barrett, son of John P. Barrett of Barrett & De Russy, the bankers. Dancing lessons were given in private rooms. The salle d’armes, on the floor above, consisted of a large
room and two smaller ones, and there were two locker rooms, one for men and one for women, where clients exchanged street clothes for fencing costumes.

  One of the fencing pupils was a man named Nat Driscoll. She pronounced it Nawht. He was middle-aged or more and fat and rich. Yesterday afternoon he had informed Nikola Miltan that upon going to the locker-room after completing his fencing lesson, which had been given by Carla Lovchen, he had seen the other female fencing instructor, namely Neya Tormic, standing by the open door of the locker, in the act of returning the coat of his street suit, on its hanger, to its hook within the locker; and that she had then closed the locker door and departed by the door to the hall. Upon inspection, to which he had proceeded as soon as possible, he had found that his gold cigarette-case and wallet, the contents intact, were in the pockets where they belonged, and it was not until after he got dressed that he remembered about the diamonds, in a pillbox, which should be there too. They were gone. He had carefully explored each and every pocket. They were not there. He demanded their immediate recovery.

  Miss Tormic, summoned by Nikola Miltan, denied any knowledge of the diamonds, and further denied that she had opened Mr Driscoll’s locker or touched his clothing. The accusation, she said, was outrageous, infamous, and false. She had not been in the locker-room. Had she been in the locker-room for any conceivable purpose, it would not have been to go through men’s clothes. Had she gone through a man’s clothes, it would not have been Mr Driscoll’s clothes; it was beyond the bounds of possibility that she should have the faintest interest in the contents of Mr Driscoll’s pockets. She had been justly and somewhat violently indignant.

  She had submitted to a search of her person, performed by Jeanne Miltan, Nikola’s wife. Everybody at that time in the studio, on both floors, employees and clients alike, had been questioned by Miltan, and a search of the premises conducted. Driscoll stated positively he had seen Neya Tormic’s face, from the side, as she stood by the locker, and furthermore that she was wearing her fencing costume. Neya and Carla had both insisted that they be searched again before leaving the studio to go home. Miltan was half frantic at the threat of disgrace to the reputation of his place, and had successfully resisted Driscoll’s demand that the police be called. In the morning—this day—he had spent two hours pleading with Neya to tell where the diamonds were, what she had done with them, to whom she had given them, who was her accomplice, and had met with the disdain which his assumption deserved. In a desperate effort to solve the affair without police or publicity, he had arranged for everyone concerned, all who had been on the premises yesterday afternoon, to meet in his office at five o’clock to-day. In Neya Tormic’s presence he had told his wife that he would engage the services of Nero Wolfe; and Neya, knowing Nero Wolfe to be her father, had promptly stated that he would be present in her behalf. But Neya had a strong disinclination to reveal her identity to her father, for reasons understandable to him, and therefore Carla, hotfooting it for Wolfe’s office, had been instructed not to divulge it.