Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 19 (21 page)

Wolfe’s brows were up. “None, Mr. Briggs.”

Briggs blinked furiously. “That is not acceptable. I insist—we insist—on an answer.”

“Then I’ll give you one.” Wolfe was not aroused. “As you say, the notation was in Mr. Corrigan’s hand. There are three possible explanations of how it was made. One, by Mr. Corrigan himself some time ago. Two, by me recently. Three, by any one of you, including Mr. Corrigan, either before or after I asked to see the letter. The letter was easily accessible, there in your office files. You, sir, can’t possibly know which explanation is correct, unless you made the notation yourself. Questioned by the police, all of you have denied making it. I deny making it.” Wolfe flipped a hand. “Surely you don’t credit me with a monopoly in mendacity?”

“That’s evasive. I insist—”

“Forget it, Fred,” Kustin cut in irritably. His sleepy eyes were awake. “I told you, you won’t get anywhere with that, and there’s no jury to work on even if you knew how to do it. Get to the point.”

“He won’t.” Phelps, the indifferent scholar, was irritated too. “Let Con do it.”

O’Malley shook his head. His mouth kept its twist even when he spoke. “Thanks, Emmett, but I’m disbarred. You forget?”

“Go on, Fred,” Corrigan told his junior—not in years.

“In my opinion,” Briggs maintained, “we should demand an answer on that, but I defer under protest.” He blinked at Wolfe. “To proceed. All five of us, including Mr. O’Malley, have a mutual and common interest,
to protect the reputation and welfare of our firm. In that interest we are indissolubly joined. Your position, openly stated, has been that a major factor in the death of Leonard Dykes was the manuscript of a novel, presumably written by him under an assumed name; that the manuscript was also a major factor in the deaths of two women; and that one or more members of this firm have guilty knowledge of the manuscript and therefore, inferentially, of the deaths. Is that correct?”

Wolfe nodded. “It’s badly put, but I’ll pass it.”

“Tell your man to take his notebook, and I’ll restate it.”

“Damn it, Fred,” Kustin objected, “he accepted it. What more do you want? Get on.”

Briggs blinked at him. “I want to proceed as agreed, without unnecessary interruptions.” He went to Wolfe. “Very well, you accept it. Then the contents of that manuscript are a vital element in your investigation. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“And therefore the contents of the manuscript are of vital importance to us, the members of the firm, and Mr. O’Malley. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“And therefore, if we were presented with an opportunity to learn the contents of the manuscript it would be natural and proper for us to make every effort to take advantage of it. Is that true?”

Wolfe rubbed his nose. “I don’t want to quibble, but though it would indeed be natural, its propriety might be questioned. If to protect legitimate interests, yes. If to shield a criminal, no.”

“There is no question of shielding a criminal.”

Wolfe shrugged. “If that is stipulated, what you said is true.”

“Very well. It was in furtherance of that effort that Mr. Corrigan went to California. It is in furtherance of that effort that we are here now. We don’t know how you managed to anticipate Mr. Corrigan’s effort, but you did. Your man not only got there but got inside of him. Since he succeeded in preventing Mr. Corrigan from seeing the manuscript, it may fairly be assumed that he himself did see it, and that therefore you and he are now acquainted with its contents. It was you who involved our firm in this affair. It was you who persuaded the police that we were involved. It was you who forged a notation on a letter we sent you—”

“Withdraw that,” Wolfe snapped.

“That won’t help, Fred,” O’Malley advised him. “Don’t drag it in.”

Briggs blinked at him and then at Wolfe. “On consideration I withdraw that remark pro tempore, without prejudice. But that doesn’t affect my conclusion, that our demand is justified, to be told the substance of that manuscript. You involved us. We demand that you warrant that involvement.”

Briggs blinked around. “Well?” he challenged. “Is that clear and cogent?”

They agreed that it was.

Wolfe grunted. “Clear enough,” he assented, “but it took you long enough to say it. You gentlemen are making an extraordinary pother, coming here in a body like this. Why the devil didn’t one of you merely phone me and ask me to tell you what’s in that manuscript? It would have taken you five seconds to ask it and me two seconds to answer it.”

“What would you have answered?” Kustin demanded.

“That I’m not quite ready.”

“Not quite ready for what?”

“To act.”

To appreciate the full effect of those two little words you would have had to hear Wolfe pronounce them. He didn’t snarl them or snap them, his voice kept its normal pitch, but if anyone present had anything to fear the full menace of it was in those two calm, precise syllables. They looked at one another.

Briggs asked indignantly, “Do you mean you refuse to tell us anything about it?”

Wolfe nodded. “At the moment, yes. I’m not quite ready. As practicing attorneys, you gentlemen know that the potency of knowledge depends on how and when it is used. I went to some trouble to get this and I intend to get full value from it.”

Emmett Phelps stood up. “I told you fellows, didn’t I? We’re wasting time on him.”

“Mr. Phelps is bored,” Wolfe said dryly.

“Buy it from him,” O’Malley suggested. “Make him an offer. It can be deducted as a legitimate expense, can’t it, Emmett?” He left his chair. “Only don’t expect me to contribute. I’m broke.”

Wolfe spoke up. “I would like to anticipate any future charge of willful malevolence. I take no pleasure in prolonging suspense, either my own or another’s. I’m being completely candid when I say that I still need a fact or two before I can act. To move not fully prepared, to disclose myself prematurely, would be folly, and I’m not a fool.”

Kustin got to his feet, stepped to the desk, put his hands on it, and leaned forward at Wolfe. “I’ll tell you what I think: I think it’s a ten-cent bluff. I don’t think you know any more about that manuscript than we do. I think you’re exactly where you were when we came here a week ago yesterday.” He straightened up. “Come on, fellows. He’s a goddam fourflusher.” He whirled to
me. “You too, Goodwin. I wish I’d gone to California instead of Jim Corrigan. You’d have been called.”

He marched out. Phelps and O’Malley were at his heels. Corrigan, who had said practically nothing, thought he would speak now, took a step toward the desk, but changed his mind and, with a glance at me, headed for the door. Briggs lifted himself out of the red leather chair, blinked at Wolfe, said, “My appraisal of your methods and tactics has certainly been reinforced here today,” and turned and went.

I moseyed to the door to the hall, stood on the sill, and watched them wriggling into their coats. I was perfectly willing to go and let them out, but Phelps got the door open before I moved, and held it for them, so I was saved the trouble. He banged it hard enough to leave no doubt of its closing, and I wheeled, returned to my desk, and permitted myself an all-out yawn. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut.

“Will there be more movement?” I inquired. “Or is it time for a contrivance?”

No reply. I yawned again. “Once in a while,” I observed, “you go right to the heart of things and tell a plain unvarnished truth. Like when you said that you still need a fact or two before you can act. It might be objected that you need more than one or two, but that isn’t so. The one fact that Phelps, the scholar, is a lover of literature and bumped them off because it was a lousy novel and he couldn’t bear it, would do the trick.”

No word or sign. Suddenly I blew up. I sprang to my feet and roared, “Goddam it, go to work! Think of something! Do something!”

Without opening his eyes, he muttered, “And I said it was satisfactory to have you back.”

T
hat was an afternoon I wouldn’t care to live through again, not even if I knew what the evening was going to bring. To begin with, Wolfe was totally unbearable. After lunch he got behind his desk with a book, and after a dozen assorted attempts to get a conversation started I quit. Then Saul Panzer phoned in, and he growled at me to get off the line. I had already suspected that he had Saul on a trail, since a check of the cash box and book had informed me that he had given Saul three hundred bucks, and that confirmed it. I always resent it when he sees fit to give one of the boys a chore that he thinks I don’t need to know about, and that time it was more offensive than usual, since I couldn’t very well blab anything, sitting there on my tail, yawning.

Worse than him, though, was me. He had told me twice to take a nap, so naturally I wasn’t going to. I wanted to be there if the phone rang. I wanted to be there if Mrs. Adams came to confess to the three murders. But I did not want to make out checks or work on the germination records or go through catalogues. My problem was to stay awake without having anything to keep my eyes open, and it was even tougher after Wolfe
went up to the plant rooms at four o’clock. For two solid hours only one notion occurred to me that had any attraction at all, to phone Mrs. Potter in Glendale and tell her I had got home safely, and I vetoed that because it might prove to be habit-forming. But by gum I stayed awake, if you can call it that.

There was another call from Saul just before dinner, and again I was told to get off the line. Wolfe’s end of the chat was nothing but grunts. After dinner he told me to go to bed, and God knows I would have liked to, but I got stubborn and went for a walk instead. I dropped in at a movie, found myself getting fascinated with the idea of resting my head on the soft fat female shoulder next to me, jerked away, and got up and went home. It was a little after ten.

Wolfe was at his desk, going through the stack of germination slips that had accumulated while I was away. I asked him, “Any more movement?”

“No.”

I gave up. “I might as well go up and lie down a while.” I went and twirled the knob of the safe. “I put the bolt on in front and I’ll check the back. Good night.”

“Good night.”

The phone rang. I stepped to my desk and got it.

“Nero Wolfe’s residence, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“I want to speak to Wolfe.”

“Who is it, please?”

“James A. Corrigan.”

I covered the transmitter and told Wolfe, “Corrigan. He sounds hoarse and harassed. Do you care to speak to him?”

Wolfe took his instrument, and I put mine back at my ear.

“This is Nero Wolfe. Mr. Corrigan?”

“Yes. I’ve mailed you a letter, but you’re responsible for this, so I think you ought to hear it. I hope you’ll hear it in your dreams the rest of your life. This is it. Are you listening?”

“Yes, but—”

“Here it goes.”

It busted my eardrum, or felt like it. It was a combination of a roar and a smack. By reflex my wrist moved the receiver away, then I moved it back. There was a confused clatter and a sort of thump, then nothing. I told the transmitter, “Hello, hello!”

Nothing. I cradled it and turned. Wolfe was sitting with the instrument dangling from his hand, scowling at me.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Well yourself. How do I know? I suppose he shot himself.”

“Where was he?”

I sneered. “Do you think I staged it?”

“There was a radio going.”

“I heard it. ‘The Life of Riley.’ WNBC.”

He replaced the phone, slow motion, and regarded me. “This is preposterous. I don’t believe it. Get Mr. Cramer.”

I swiveled and dialed and got a voice. I asked for Cramer, and he wasn’t there. Neither was Stebbins. I got a sergeant named Auerbach, informed Wolfe, and he took it.

“Mr. Auerbach? This is Nero Wolfe. Are you familiar with the Dykes-Wellman-Abrams case?”

“Yes.”

“And with the name James A. Corrigan?”

“Yes, I know the name.”

“I just had a phone call. The voice said it was James A. Corrigan, but it was husky and agitated and I can’t
vouch for it. It said—I think you should put this down. Have you pencil and paper?”

“In a second—okay, shoot.”

“He said it was Corrigan, and then, quote, ‘You’re responsible for this, so I think you ought to hear it. I hope you’ll hear it in your dreams the rest of your life. This is it. Are you listening? Here it goes.’ Unquote. There came immediately the sound of an explosion, resembling a gunshot, and other confused noises, followed by silence except for the sound of a radio, which had been audible throughout. That’s all.”

“Did he say where he was phoning from?”

“I’ve told you all I know. As I said, that’s all.”

“Where are you now?”

“At my home.”

“You’ll be there if we want you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He hung up. So did Wolfe. So did I.

“So your memory’s failing,” I observed. “You forgot that he said he had mailed you a letter.”

“I like to see my mail first, without interference. Where does Mr. Corrigan live?”

I got the Manhattan phone book, turned the pages, and found it. Then, to check, I went and unlocked the filing cabinet, got out the Wellman folder, and fingered through the papers. I announced, “Corrigan lives at One-forty-five East Thirty-sixth Street. Phelps lives at Three-seventeen Central Park West. Kustin lives at Nine-sixty-six Park Avenue. Briggs lives at Larchmont. O’Malley lives at Two-oh-two East Eighty-eighth.”