And Be a Villain (17 page)

Wolfe shook his head. “Impossible. Manifestly impossible. You are not a fool, madam, and I won’t try to treat you as if you were. It is even conceivable that you might have to take the witness stand in a murder trial. I know nothing about it, because I don’t know what you have to tell. Then how could I—”

“All right,” she said, surrendering. “I see I made a mistake. I must be home by seven o’clock. Here’s what I have to tell you: somebody I know was a subscriber to that
What to Expect
that was published by that woman, Beula Poole. I distinctly remember, one day two or three months ago, I saw a little stack of them somewhere—in some house or apartment or office. I’ve been trying to remember where it was, and I simply can’t. I wrote you because I thought you might tell me something that would make me remember, and I’m quite willing to try, but I doubt if it will do any good.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe’s expression was fully as sour as hers. “I said you’re not a fool. I suppose you’re prepared to stick to that under any circum—”

“Yes, I am.”

“Even if Mr. Goodwin gets headstrong again and renews his threat?”

“That!” She was contemptuous.

“It’s very thin, Mrs. Michaels. Even ridiculous. That you would go to the bother of answering that advertisement, and coming down here—”

“I don’t mind being ridiculous.”

“Then I have no alternative.” Wolfe’s lips tightened. He released them. “I accept your conditions. I agree, for myself and for Mr. Goodwin, who is my agent, that we will not disclose the source of our information, and that we will do our utmost to keep anyone from learning it. Should anyone ascertain it, it will be against our will and in spite of our precautions in good faith. We cannot guarantee; we can only promise; and we do so.”

Her eyes had narrowed. “On your solemn word of honor.”

“Good heavens. That ragged old patch? Very well. My solemn word of honor. Archie?”

“My solemn word of honor,” I said gravely.

Her head made an odd ducking movement, reminding me of a fat-cheeked owl I had seen at the zoo getting ready to swoop on a mouse.

“My husband,” she said, “has been a subscriber to that publication,
What to Expect
, for eight months.”

But the owl had swooped because it was hungry, whereas she was swooping just to hurt. It was in her voice, which was still hers but quite different when she said the word husband.

“And that’s ridiculous,” she went on, “if you want something ridiculous. He hasn’t the slightest interest in politics or industry or the stock market or anything like that. He is a successful doctor and all he ever thinks about is his work and his patients, especially his women patients. What would he want with a thing like that
What to Expect
! Why should he pay that Beula Poole money every week, month after month? I have my own money, and for the first few years after we married we lived on my income, but then he began to be successful, and now he doesn’t need my money any more. And he doesn’t—”

Abruptly she stood up. Apparently the habit had got so strong that sometimes she even interrupted herself. She was turning to pick up her coat.

“If you please,” Wolfe said brusquely. “You have my word of honor and I want some details. What has your husband—”

“That’s all,” she snapped. “I don’t intend to answer any silly questions. If I did you’d be sure to give me away, you wouldn’t be smart enough not to, and the details don’t matter. I’ve told you the one thing you need to know, and I only hope—”

She was proceeding with the coat, and I had gone to her to help.

“Yes, madam, what do you hope?”

She looked straight at him. “I hope you’ve got some brains. You don’t look it.”

She turned and made for the hall, and I followed. Over the years I have opened that front door to let many people out of that house, among them thieves, swindlers, murderers, and assorted crooks, but it has never been a greater pleasure than on that occasion. Added to everything else, I had noticed when helping her with her coat that her neck needed washing.

It had not been news to us that her husband was a successful doctor. Between my return to the office and her arrival, there had been time for a look at the phone book, which had him as an M.D. with an office address in the Sixties just off Park Avenue, and for a call to Doc Vollmer. Vollmer had never met him, but knew his standing and reputation, which were up around the top. He had a good high-bracket practice, with the emphasis on gynecology.

Back in the office I remarked to Wolfe, “There goes my pendulum again. Lately I’ve been swinging toward the notion of getting myself a little woman, but good Godalmighty. Brother!”

He nodded, and shivered a little. “Yes. However, we can’t reject it merely because it’s soiled. Unquestionably her fact is a fact; otherwise she would have contrived an elaborate support for it.” He glanced at the clock. “She said she had to be home by seven, so he may still be in his office. Try it.”

I found the number and dialed it. The woman who answered firmly intended to protect her employer from harassment by a stranger, but I finally sold her.

Wolfe took it. “Dr. Michaels? This is Nero Wolfe, a detective. Yes, sir, so far as I know there is only one of that name. I’m in a little difficulty and would appreciate some help from you.”

“I’m just leaving for the day, Mr. Wolfe. I’m afraid I couldn’t undertake to give you medical advice on the phone.” His voice was low, pleasant, and tired.

“It isn’t medical advice I need, doctor. I want to have a talk with you about a publication called
What to Expect
, to which you subscribed. The difficulty is that I find it impractical to leave my house. I could send my assistant or a policeman to see you, or both, but I would prefer to discuss it with you myself, confidentially. I wonder if you could call on me this evening after dinner?”

Evidently the interrupting mania in the Michaels family was confined to the wife. Not only did he not interrupt, he didn’t even take a cue. Wolfe tried again:

“Would that be convenient, sir?”

“If I could have another moment, Mr. Wolfe. I’ve had a hard day and am trying to think.”

“By all means.”

He took ten seconds. His voice came, even tireder:

“I suppose it would be useless to tell you to go to hell. I would prefer not to discuss it on the phone. I’ll be at your office around nine o’clock.”

“Good. Have you a dinner engagement, doctor?”

“An engagement? No. I’m dining at home. Why?”

“It just occurred to me—could I prevail on you to dine with me? You said you were just leaving for the day. I have a good cook. We are having fresh pork tenderloin, with all fiber removed, done in a casserole, with a sharp brown sauce moderately spiced. There will not be time to chambrer a claret properly, but we can have the chill off. We shall of course not approach our little matter until afterward, with the coffee—or even after that. Do you happen to know the brandy labeled Remisier? It is not common. I hope this won’t shock you, but the way to do it is to sip it with bites of Fritz’s apple pie. Fritz is my cook.”

“I’ll be damned. I’ll be there—what’s the address?”

Wolfe gave it to him, and hung up.

“I’ll be damned too,” I declared. “A perfect stranger? He may put horse-radish on oysters.”

Wolfe grunted. “If he had gone home to eat with that creature things might have been said. Even to the point of repudiation by her and defiance by him. I thought it prudent to avoid that risk.”

“Nuts. There’s no such risk and you know it. What you’re trying to avoid is to give anyone an excuse to think you’re human. You were being kind to your fellow man and you’d rather be caught dead. The idea of the poor devil going home to dine with that female hyena was simply too much for your great big warm heart, and you were so damn impetuous you even committed yourself to letting him have some of that brandy of which there are only nineteen bottles in the United States and they’re all in your cellar.”

“Bosh.” He arose. “You would sentimentalize the multiplication table.” He started for the kitchen, to tell Fritz about the guest, and to smell around.

A
FTER DINNER FRITZ BROUGHT us a second pot of coffee in the office, and also the brandy bottle and big-bellied glasses. Most of the two hours had been spent, not on West Thirty-fifth Street in New York, but in Egypt. Wolfe and the guest had both spent some time there in days gone by, and they had settled on that for discussion and a few arguments.

Dr. Michaels, informally comfortable in the red leather chair, put down his coffee cup, ditched a cigarette, and gently patted his midriff. He looked exactly like a successful Park Avenue doctor, middle-aged, well-built and well-dressed, worried but self-assured. After the first hour at the table the tired and worried look had gone, but now, as he cocked an eye at Wolfe after disposing of the cigarette, his forehead was wrinkled again.

“This has been a delightful recess,” he declared. “It has done me a world of good. I have dozens of patients for whom I would like to prescribe a dinner with you, but I’m afraid I’d have to advise you not to fill the prescription.” He belched, and was well-mannered enough not to try to cheat on it. “Well. Now I’ll stop masquerading as a guest and take my proper role. The human sacrifice.”

Wolfe disallowed it. “I have no desire or intention to gut you, sir.”

Michaels smiled. “A surgeon might say that too, as he slits the skin. No, let’s get it done. Did my wife phone you, or write you, or come to see you?”

“Your wife?” Wolfe’s eyes opened innocently. “Has there been any mention of your wife?”

“Only by me, this moment. Let it pass. I suppose your solemn word of honor has been invoked—a fine old phrase, really, solemn word of honor—” He shrugged. “I wasn’t actually surprised when you asked me about that blackmail business on the phone, merely momentarily confused. I had been expecting something of the sort, because it didn’t seem likely that such an opportunity to cause me embarrassment—or perhaps worse—would be missed. Only I would have guessed it would be the police. This is much better, much.”

Wolfe’s head dipped forward, visibly, to acknowledge that compliment. “It may eventually reach the police, doctor. There may be no help for it.”

“Of course, I realize that. I can only hope not. Did she give you the anonymous letters, or just show them to you?”

“Neither. But that ‘she’ is your pronoun, not mine. With the understood—I have no documentary evidence, and have seen none. If there is some, no doubt I could get it.” Wolfe sighed, leaned back, and half closed his eyes. “Wouldn’t it be simpler if you assume that I know nothing at all, and tell me about it?”

“I suppose so, damn it.” Michaels sipped some brandy, used his tongue to give all the membranes a chance at it, swallowed, and put the glass down. “From the beginning?”

“If you please.”

“Well … it was last summer, nine months ago, that I first learned about the anonymous letters. One of my colleagues showed me one that he had received by mail. It strongly hinted that I was chronically guilty of—uh, unethical conduct—with women patients. Not long after that I became aware of a decided change in the attitude of one of my oldest and most valued patients. I appealed to her to tell me frankly what had caused it. She had received two similar letters. It was the next day—naturally my memory is quite vivid on this—that my wife showed me two letters, again similar, that had come to her.”

The wrinkles on his forehead had taken command again. “I don’t have to explain what that sort of thing could do to a doctor if it kept up. Of course I thought of the police, but the risk of possible publicity, or even spreading of rumor, through a police inquiry, was too great. There was the same objection, or at least I thought there was, to hiring a private investigator. Then, the day after my wife showed me the letters—no, two days after—I had a phone call at my home in the evening. I presume my wife listened to it on the extension in her room—but you’re not interested in that. I wish to God you were—” Michaels abruptly jerked his head up as if he had heard a noise somewhere. “Now what did I mean by that?”

“I have no idea,” Wolfe murmured. “The phone call?”

“It was a woman’s voice. She didn’t waste any words. She said she understood that people had been getting letters about me, and if it annoyed me and I wanted to stop it I could easily do so. If I would subscribe for one year to a publication called
What to Expect
—she gave me the address—there would be no more letters. The cost would be ten dollars a week, and I could pay as I pleased, weekly, monthly, or the year in advance. She assured me emphatically that there would be no request for renewal, that nothing beyond the one year’s subscription would be required, that the letters would stop as soon as I subscribed, and that there would be no more.”

Michaels turned a hand to show a palm. “That’s all. I subscribed. I sent ten dollars a week for a while—eight weeks—and then I sent a check for four hundred and forty dollars. So far as I know there have been no more letters—and I think I would know.”

“Interesting,” Wolfe murmured. “Extremely.”

“Yes,” Michaels agreed. “I can understand your saying that. It’s what a doctor says when he runs across something rare like a lung grown to a rib. But if he’s tactful he doesn’t say it in the hearing of the patient.”

“You’re quite right, sir. I apologize. But this is indeed a rarity—truly remarkable! If the execution graded as high as the conception … what were the letters like, typed?”

“Yes. Plain envelopes and plain cheap paper, but the typing was perfect.”

“You said you sent a check. That was acceptable?”

Michaels nodded. “She made that clear. Either check or money order. Cash would be accepted, but was thought inadvisable on account of the risk in the mails.”

“You see? Admirable. What about her voice?”

“It was medium in pitch, clear and precise, educated—I mean good diction and grammar—and matter-of-fact. One day I called the number of the publication—as you probably know, it’s listed—and asked for Miss Poole. It was Miss Poole talking, she said. I discussed a paragraph in the latest issue, and she was intelligent and informed about it. But her voice was soprano, jerky and nervous, nothing like the voice that had told me how to get the letters stopped.”