Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 19 (20 page)

I arose and spoke. “No, this is it. Come on in.”

He stood, frozen.

“Shut the door and come on in,” I insisted. “You might as well. I was expecting you. Did you think Finch would be fool enough to run off to Glendale and leave the manuscript here in a drawer unguarded?” He moved, and I added quickly, “If you dash off I won’t chase you. I’ll call downstairs, and if necessary I’ll call the cops, and we’ll not only find you but also find out how you got that key. I don’t think it’s breaking and entering, but by God it’s something, and I’ll hang it on you.”

He hooked his elbow on the edge of the door and
swung it. It didn’t quite close, and he backed against it until it did. Then he walked on in and stopped at arm’s length.

“So you followed me here,” he stated. He was a little hoarse. With his jockey’s physique and prizefighter’s jaw and hungry eyes, he was certainly not imposing. The top of his head was a good inch below my eye level.

He repeated it, this time as a question. “You followed me here?”

I shook my head. “I can’t think of a single question you could ask that I would feel like answering. Nor do I want to ask any, except maybe one: why don’t you call Nero Wolfe and talk it over with him? Reverse the charge. There’s a phone.”

He sat down, not to be sociable. It was probably his knees.

“This is persecution,” he said.

“Not in the statutes,” I objected. “But what you just did is, getting a key to another man’s hotel room, whether by bribery or just asking for it. Have you anything to say?”

“No.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“No.”

“Are you going to call Mr. Wolfe?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll use the phone myself. Excuse me.” I got the phone book, looked up a number, lifted the receiver, and asked for it. A female voice answered, and I gave my name and asked to speak to Mr. Dolman. In a moment he was on.

“Dolman? Archie Goodwin. I’m in Room Twelve-sixteen at the South Seas Hotel. A man named James A. Corrigan is here with me, but will soon be leaving, and I want him tailed right. Send me three good men at
once, and have three more ready to take over as required. He’ll prob—”

“What the hell, is he there hearing you?”

“Yes, so don’t send Gibson. He’ll probably be moving around, so they should have a car. Step on it, will you?”

I hung up, because I was through and also because Corrigan had already started to move around. He was heading for the door. I got to him, gripped a shoulder and hauled him back, and faced him.

He didn’t lose his head. “This is assault,” he stated.

“Persecution
and
assault,” I agreed. “How can I prove you entered this room illegally if I let you leave it? Shall I get the house dick up here?”

He stood, breathing, his hungry eyes on me. I was between him and the door. He turned, went to a chair, and sat. I stayed on my feet.

“They can’t get here in less than a quarter of an hour,” I told him. “Why not say something?”

Not a word. His big jaw was clamped. I leaned against the closet door and contemplated him.

It was nearer half an hour than a quarter before there was a knock on the door. I went and opened it and invited them to enter, and they filed in past me, and I’ll be damned if the third of the trio wasn’t Gibson. He grinned at me as he went by. Leaving the door open, I detoured around them and took a look. One of them, a wiry little guy with a crooked nose, spoke.

“I’m Phil Buratti. I’m in charge.”

“Good,” I told him. “It’s a straight tailing job.” I jerked a thumb. “This is James A. Corrigan, a lawyer from New York. He’ll be leaving any minute. Since he knows you, keep as close as you like. Report direct to me, here.”

Buratti stared at me. “He’s the subject?”

“Right. Don’t lose him.”

Gibson let out a guffaw that rattled the windows. Corrigan got up and marched. His direct route to the door was between the trio and me, and he took it. He went on out. The trio didn’t move.

“Are you,” I demanded, “waiting for the hounds?”

“Loony,” Buratti said. “Come on, boys.”

He led the way, and they followed.

I shut the door and went to the armchair and sat. Before I phoned Wolfe I wanted to make up my mind how thick I had been to sit there and let Corrigan walk in on me. I looked at my watch and saw 12:20, which meant 3:20 in New York. I decided that I had probably not been brilliant but there was no point in advertising it, and put in a call. The circuits were busy. Of course it was the worst time of day for it, with Los Angeles and Hollywood wanting to get New York before lunch and New York wanting to get the coast on returning from lunch. I sat, walked back and forth, and sat some more. Every ten or fifteen minutes the operator called to say the circuits were still busy. One o’clock came, and a quarter after. Finally my call got through, and I had Wolfe’s voice.

I reported with details. I told him about Corrigan’s visit with Mrs. Potter, his call on Finch at the hotel ending in a little mild violence, his second trip to Glendale, finding Finch there ahead of him, and Finch’s phone call to me. I continued, “When Finch phoned me that Corrigan had left, licked, naturally I figured him to come back to the hotel to get into Finch’s room to look for the manuscript. Covering the door of the room from the outside wasn’t feasible, since he knew me. I decided to sit tight and welcome him if he came. He did so, with a key. His seeing me here jolted him, as expected. I invited him to talk, but he wanted to be alone, and
nothing was said that would help you any. I phoned Dolman, and he sent two men and an ape with a sense of humor, and when Corrigan left, an hour and ten minutes ago, the three were on his tail. That’s the status quo.”

“There’s a man with Mrs. Potter?”

“Yes, I thought I said so. Finch.”

“Then there are no new instructions. Stay there.”

“I would like to stick another pin in him.”

“You have none to stick. How is the albacore?”

“Marvelous.”

“It should be. Call me as necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up. That shows that everything is relative. If I had admitted that Corrigan’s walking in on me had been a surprise he might have made remarks. Going to the window for a look at the rain, I was reflecting on that point when the phone rang.

It was Buratti. “We’re at the airport,” he reported. “He came straight here. You said we could keep close, so I was standing right by him when he asked for a seat on the first plane to New York. The best he could do was the TWA that leaves at five o’clock, and he bought a ticket. He’s in a phone booth now, making a call. Do we go to New York with him?”

“No, I guess not. I’d like to take Gibson along, but he’s probably needed here. Get me a seat on the same plane and wait there for me. I have some errands to do, so don’t get impatient. There’s a faint chance he’s pulling something, so keep an eye on him.”

I hung up and then called the Glendale number. Apparently I wouldn’t get to see Mrs. Potter again, but at least I could chat with her on the phone.

S
omewhere over New Mexico, or maybe Oklahoma, I decided it hadn’t been too brainy to take the same plane as Corrigan. A later one would have done just as well. As it was, with me in Seat Five and him back of me in Fourteen, I would get no sleep. In such a situation logic is not enough. It certainly wouldn’t have been logical for him to wander by in that crowded plane and jab a knife in me, especially as I had no briefcase or other receptacle big enough to hold the manuscript of a novel, but I wasn’t going to sleep, and I didn’t like his being at my rear. I had a notion to ask him to trade seats but voted it down.

It was a long and weary night.

At La Guardia Airport, where we landed in the morning on schedule, he was in a bigger hurry than me. He grabbed his bag and trotted out to a taxi. Before getting my suitcase I went to a booth and phoned Fritz to expect me for breakfast in thirty minutes and mix plenty of batter. As my taxi crossed Queensboro Bridge I saw the sun for the first time in four days.

Wolfe never came downstairs in the morning until after he finished in the plant rooms at eleven o’clock, but Fritz welcomed me home as if I had been gone a
year. He met me at the front door, took my suitcase, hung up my hat and coat, escorted me to the kitchen, and put the griddle on. I was perched on a stool drinking orange juice when I heard the elevator, and a moment later Wolfe entered. He was actually breaking a rule. I thought it deserved some recognition and accepted his offer of a handshake. We made appropriate remarks. He sat. The kitchen is the only place on earth where he doesn’t mind a chair that lets his fanny lap over the sides. I went to my seat at my breakfast table as Fritz flapped the first cake onto my hot plate.

“He looks skinny,” Fritz told Wolfe. Fritz is convinced that without him we would both starve to death in a week.

Wolfe nodded in agreement and told me, “Two flowers are open on a Cypripedium Minos.”

“Wonderful,” I said with my mouth full. When the bite was down, “I assume you want a report. There’s—”

“Eat your breakfast.”

“I am. Unlike you, I don’t mind business with meals. There’s nothing but fill-in to add to what you already know, except that I came on the same plane as Corrigan, as arranged. At the airport he took his bag and scooted. I presume that with what you’ve collected here we’re about ready to jump?”

He snorted. “Where? On whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. When Mr. Wellman first came to see me, eighteen days ago, I assumed that Dykes had written that novel, that he and two women were killed on account of their knowledge of it, and that someone in that law office was involved. We have validated that assumption, and that’s all. We know nothing new.”

I swallowed food. “Then my trip to rainy California was a washout.”

“By no means. All we could do was force him or them to become visible by movement. All we can do now is continue the process. We’ll contrive it.”

“Right after breakfast? I’ve had no sleep.”

“We’ll see. Movement once started is hard to stop.” He glanced at the wall clock. “I’m late. We’ll see. It is satisfactory to have you back.” He got up and went.

I finished breakfast and looked through the morning paper, and went to the office. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a stack of unopened mail, but apparently he had worked his head off during my absence. Bills and other items, out of their envelopes, were neatly arranged on my desk, and the exposed sheet of my desk calendar said March ninth, today. I was touched. I looked over things a little and then took my suitcase and mounted to my room. It was glad to see me back. When I’m up there I always turn the phone extension on, but that time I forgot to. I had unpacked and stripped and showered, and was using my electric shaver, when Fritz appeared at the bathroom door, panting.

“The phone,” he said. “Mr. Corrigan wants to speak to Mr. Wolfe.”

“Okay. I forgot to turn it on. I’ll get it.”

I went and flipped the switch and lifted the receiver. “This is Archie Goodwin.”

I expected Mrs. Adams, but it was Corrigan himself. He said curtly that he wished to speak to Wolfe, and I told him Wolfe wouldn’t be available until eleven. He said they wanted an appointment with him, and I asked who wanted it.

“I and my associates.”

“Would eleven o’clock suit you? Or it could be eleven-thirty.”

“We would prefer eleven o’clock. We’ll be there.”

Before I went to finish shaving I buzzed Wolfe on
the house phone and told him, “Right you were. Movement once started is hard to stop. The law firm will be here at eleven.”

“Ah,” he said. “Contrivance may not be needed.”

It was only ten-thirty, and I took my time completing my personal chores. I can dress fast, but I don’t like to have to. When I went downstairs I was ready for anything, including a two-hour nap, but that would have to wait.

They were ten minutes late, so Wolfe was in the office when they arrived. Before any conversation got started I noticed an interesting little item. Off the end of Wolfe’s desk, facing it, the big red leather chair is the most convenient spot for a visitor, and when there are two or more visitors that is obviously the seat for whoever has priority. When that group had been there before, Corrigan, the senior partner, had occupied it, but this time who should pop into it but the white-haired blinking Briggs, Helen Troy’s Uncle Fred. Apparently no one remarked it but me, and that was equally interesting. As they sat, Emmett Phelps, the long-armed six-foot encyclopedia, was nearest me; Corrigan was next; then the sleepy-eyed slumpy Louis Kustin, successor to Conroy O’Malley as the firm’s trial man; and then the disbarred O’Malley with a bitter twist to his mouth.

Wolfe’s eyes went from left to right and back again. “Well, gentlemen?”

Three of them spoke at once.

“I can’t converse with bedlam,” Wolfe said testily.

Frederick Briggs, in the red leather chair, blinking, took the ball. “At our previous visit,” he said slowly and distinctly, “I came with my associates under protest. On that occasion you were invited to question us. This time we have questions to ask you. You may remember
that I characterized your methods as unethical and reprehensible, and you justified that criticism when you fabricated a notation on Dykes’s letter of resignation, imitating the handwriting of one of us, and gave it to the police. What defense do you offer for that action?”