Too Many Clients by Rex Stout Read Free Book Online Page A

Duncan wasn’t the only one who had keys to the door and elevator. There was another drawer of slippers, again assorted colors and sizes, and two drawers of nighties, a mighty fine collection. It was after I unfolded eight of them and spread them on the bed for comparison, and found that they also covered a wide range in sizes, that I went to the phone and dialed a number. There was a possibility that it was tapped or there was an extension, but it was very slim, and I preferred the slight risk to going out to a booth.
    Saul Panzer, whose number I dialed, was the free-lance operative we called on when only the best would do. But what I got was the answering-service girl, who said that Mr. Panzer was out and couldn’t be reached and would I leave a message. I said no and dialed another number, Fred Durkin’s, the next best, and got him. He said he had nothing on for the day.
    “You have now,” I told him. “Pack a bag for a week. It will probably be less but could be more. Come as you are, no costumes required, but have a gun. You probably won’t use it, but have it. Come to One-fifty-six West Eighty-second Street, the basement entrance, superintendent, and push the button at the door. It will be a man or woman, either Cuban or Puerto Rican, I’m not sure which. They speak American. Tell him or her your name and ask for me, and you’ll have the pleasure and honor of being brought to my presence. Don’t hurry. Take three minutes to pack if you want to.”
    “Eighty-second Street,” he said. “Murder. What was his name'Yeager.”
    “You read too much and you’re morbid and you jump to conclusions. Pack your bag and button your lip.” I hung up.
    Folding flimsy nighties properly is no job for a man and it takes time, but I gritted my teeth and stuck to it, because a detective is supposed to leave a place the way he found it. Them back in the drawer, I brought the elevator up, took it down, and went to an open door, the first one on the left in the hall. The Perez family was having a conference in the kitchen. Father and mother were sitting, and Maria was standing. There was more light than there had been in the front of the hall, and with that rare specimen, the more light the better. Looking at her, any man alive would have the thought, What the hell, I could wash the dishes and darn the socks myself. The beige nightie with lace around the top, medium-sized, would have fitted her fine. I made my eyes go to her parents and spoke.
    “A man will come pretty soon, tall and thick in all directions. He’ll give his name, Fred Durkin, and ask for me. Send him up.”
    I got the expected reaction from Mrs. Perez. I had no right to tell anybody about that place, they were going to pay me, and so forth. Wishing to keep on speaking terms with our clients, I took four minutes to explain why I had to leave Fred there when I went, got her calmed down, permitted my eyes to dart another glance at Maria, took the elevator back up, and resumed on the drawers where I had left off. I won’t take time and space to list an inventory, but will merely say that everything that could be needed for such an establishment was there. I’ll only mention two details: one, that there was only one drawer of male items, and the six suits of pajamas were all the same size; and two, the drawer in which I found Meg Duncan’s cigarette case was obviously a catchall. There were three women’s handkerchiefs, used, an anonymous compact, a lady’s umbrella, a matchbook from Terry’s Pub, and other such miscellany. I had just put it all back in and was closing the drawer when I heard the click from the elevator.
    Presumably it was Fred, but possibly not, so I got the Marley out and went to the wall by the elevator door. I could hear no voices from below; the place was so thoroughly soundproofed that you could hear nothing but a faint suggestion of noise from the street traffic, and that was more felt than heard. Soon the click came again, the door