Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 24 by Three Men Out Page B

the way it was described to me—it was quite horrible.”
    “Who described it?”
    “Miss Marcy, and Mrs. O’Shea some.”
    Wolfe’s eyes moved. “You saw it then, Miss Marcy?”
    “Yes, I did.” She was not cooing. “To say that one of us poisoned her, that’s terrible.”
    “I agree. What did you see?”
    “I was sleeping on the floor above this, and so was Mrs. Huck. She came and got me up; she was in great pain and didn’t want to disturb her husband. I got her back to bed and called a doctor—it was after midnight—and I got Mrs. O’Shea, but there wasn’t much we could do until the doctor came. It was a question about telling Mr. Huck—he couldn’t even go in the room where she was, because the door was too narrow for his chair, but of course we had to tell him. She died about eight o’clock.”
    Wolfe went to Huck. “Naturally there was some inquiry—a death under those circumstances.”
    “Certainly.” Huck was curt.
    “Was there an autopsy?”
    “Yes. It was ptomaine.”
    “Was the source identified?”
    “Not by analysis.” A spasm ran over Huck’s face. He was having a little trouble with the controls. “Before dinner there had been a large assortment of hors d’oeuvres, and among them was a kind of pickled artichoke which my wife was very fond of. No one else had taken any of them, and apparently she had eaten them all, since there were none left. Since no one else was ill, it was assumed that the ptomaines, which were definitely present, had been in the artichokes.”
    Wolfe grunted. “I’m not a ptomaine scholar, but this afternoon I looked them up a little. Do you know how thoroughly the possibility of the presence of a true alkaloid was excluded?”
    “No. I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Isn’t ptomaine an alkaloid?” Dorothy Riff asked.
    “Yes,” Wolfe conceded, “but cadaveric. However, for that there is the record. You were here the night of Mrs. Huck’s death, Miss Riff?”
    “I was here for the party. I left around eleven o’clock.”
    “Did you know that she was fond of pickled artichokes?”
    “We all did. It was a kind of standing joke.”
    “How did you know that ptomaines are alkaloids?”
    She flushed a little. “When Mrs. Huck died I read up about them.”
    “Why? Was there something about her death or about the artichokes that made you suspect something?”
    “No! Of course not!”
    Wolfe’s head went right and left. “Did any of you suspect that Mrs. Huck’s death was not accidental?”
    He got a unanimous negative with no abstentions, but he insisted, “Have any of you felt, at any time, that the possibility of foul play was insufficiently explored?”
    Unanimous again. Mrs. O’Shea snapped, “Why should we feel that if we didn’t suspect anything?”
    Wolfe nodded. “Why indeed?” He leaned back, cleared his throat, and looked judicious. “I am impressed, naturally, by the total absence of any currents of mistrust among you. Three women like you—young, smart, alive to opportunity, inevitably competitive in a household like this—are ideal soil for the seeds of suspicion if there are any around, but evidently none have sprouted in you. That is more than indicative, it is almost conclusive, and I could not expect, here in an hour or so, to reach the haven of certainty. It would be unreasonable to challenge you to convince me utterly; the law itself assumes innocence until guilt is demonstrated; and that leaves us only with the question, how much is it worth to you to have me employ my talent and energy to persuade Mr. Lewent that his suspicions are unfounded, and to keep him persuaded? Shall we say one hundred thousand dollars?”
    They were unanimous again, this time with gasps. Miss Riff, quickest to find words, cried, “I told you it was blackmail!”
    Wolfe showed them his palms. “If you please. I am indifferent to what you call it, blackmail or brigandage, butit would be childish for you to suppose I would perform so great