Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 45 (17 page)

a
mory Browning did something Monday morning that had never been done before. He walked down the aisles of the three plant rooms, clear to the potting room, without seeing an orchid. I didn’t actually see him, since he was behind me, but I’m sure he did. With that blaze of color, right and left and overhead, you’d think he would have to be blind. In a way he was.

It was twenty past ten and I had just returned from a walk crosstown to the bank and back, to deposit the check from the client, when the ring of the doorbell took me to the hall, and there was the next president of CAN. When I went and opened the door, he crossed the sill and went on by and headed for the office, and when I got there he was standing at the end of Wolfe’s desk.

“Where is he?” he demanded.

“Where he always is at this hour, up on the roof. He’ll be down at eleven. You can wait, or maybe I can help.”

“Get him down here. Now.”

The man at the top speaking, but he didn’t look it. I had formerly estimated that he had been pudgy for about five years, but now I would have made it ten.

“It can’t be done,” I said. “With him a rule is a rule. He’s part mule. If it’s really urgent he might talk on the phone.”

“Get him.”

“I’ll try.” I went to the kitchen, sat at the little table where I eat breakfast, reached for the house phone, and pushed the “P” button.

After a two-minute wait, about par, the usual “Yes?”

“Me in the kitchen. Amory Browning is in the office. I once saw a picture somewhere of a dragon snorting fire. That’s him. He ordered me to get you down here now. I told him you might talk on the phone.”

Silence for eight seconds, then: “Bring him.”

“Okay, but have something ready to throw.”

The elevator will take up to 600 pounds, but I thought a little deep breathing would be good for him, so I took him to the stairs, and he surprised me by not stopping to catch up on oxygen at the landings. He wasn’t panting even at the top. As I said, he was behind me down the aisles, but when I opened the door to the potting room I let him by. Wolfe, in his long-sleeved, yellow smock, was at the side bench opening a bale of tree fern. He turned part way and said, “You don’t like to be interrupted at work. Neither do I.”

Browning was standing with his feet apart. “You goddam cheap bully!”

“Not ‘cheap.’ I haven’t earned that reproach. What do you want?”

“Nothing. Calling my secretary a liar. Getting her here on a Saturday morning just to butter your ego by insulting her. I came to tell you that you can tell Mrs. Odell that there will be no more cooperation from anyone at CAN. Tell her if she wants to know why, to call me. Is that plain enough?”

“Yes indeed. Is that what you came for, to tell me that?”

“Yes!”

“Very well, you’ve told me.” Wolfe turned back to the bale of tree fern.

Browning was stuck. Of course with the “Is that plain enough?” he should have whirled and headed for the door. Now what could he do for an exit? He could only just go, and I admit he had sense enough to realize it. He just went, and I followed, and again he didn’t see an orchid. I supposed that on the way down the three flights he would decide on an exit line to use on me, but evidently he was too mad to bother, though I passed him down in the hall and opened the door for him. Not a word. I went to the office and sat to ask myself why I had bothered to deposit the check.

And in three minutes the doorbell rang and I went to the hall and there was Saul Panzer.

It’s moments like that that make life worth living, seeing Saul there on the stoop. If he had just wanted to make a routine report or ask a question or ask for help, he would have phoned. If he had wanted to consult Wolfe, he would have waited until eleven o’clock. And if he had bad news, he would have let his face show it as I came down the hall. So he had something good. I opened the door wide and said, “My god, are you welcome. How good is it?”

“I guess I’m awful obvious,” he said, and stepped in. “I
think
it’s satisfactory.”

I slammed the door shut. “For a nickel I’d kiss you.” I looked at my wrist: 10:47. “You’d rather tell him, but I don’t want to wait thirteen minutes. Neither do you or you wouldn’t be here yet. We’ll go up.”

It took us about half as long as it had taken Browning and me. I won’t say that we didn’t see an orchid as we passed through the rooms, but we didn’t stop to admire one. Wolfe, still in the yellow smock, was at the sink washing his hands, and Theodore stood there with a paper towel ready for him. Theodore babies him, which is one of the reasons he is not my favorite fellow being.

Wolfe, turning and seeing Saul, was on as quick as I had been. He said, “Indeed,” and ignored the dripping water from his hands. “What?”

“Yes, sir,” Saul said. “Once in a while I do something exactly right and am lucky along with it, and that’s a pleasure. I would enjoy leading up to it, but it’s been a long time since we’ve brought you anything. Dennis Copes’s twin sister, Diana, is the wife of Lieutenant J. M. Rowcliff. They have two children, a boy and a girl. Dennis and Diana see each other quite often—as I said, twins.”

Wolfe took the towel from Theodore, patted with it, dropped it in the bin, took another, rubbed with it, missed the bin. It fluttered to the floor and Theodore picked it up. Wolfe flattened his right palm against his left and made slow circles.

“Are Mr. Rowcliff and Mr. Copes on good terms?”

“No. They see each other very seldom. Apparently never would suit them fine.”

“Mr. Rowcliff and his wife?”

“Three people say they’re happy. I know it’s hard to believe that anybody could stand Rowcliff, but off duty he may be different.”

“Have you caused a stir?”

“No.”

That was Saul. Not “I hope not” or “I don’t think so.” Just “No.”

“More than satisfactory.” Wolfe took the smock off and hung it on a wall hook, got his vest and jacket from a hanger, and put them on. He looked at the clock on the bench: two minutes to eleven. “I want a word with Theodore and I’ll consider this on the way down. Put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator, Archie—and Saul, we’ll probably need you.”

Saul and I went.

I suppose I shouldn’t include what happened next; it’s just too pat. Who will believe it? But Fred deserves to have it in, and it happened. Saul and I had just got to the office, having stopped at the kitchen on the way, and were discussing how it should be handled, when the doorbell rang and I went. It was Fred. I opened the door, and as he entered he blurted, “Is he down yet?” I said he was on the way and he said, “If I hold it in any longer I’ll bust. Copes’s twin sister is married to that sonofabitch Rowcliff.”

All right, it happened. In nineteen days they had got exactly nothing, and here came two of them, practically simultaneous, with the same beautiful slab of bacon. Saul, who had come to the hall and heard him, said, “So we need
two
bottles of champagne,” and went to the kitchen. I was telling Fred that Saul had beat him by just sixteen minutes, when the elevator door opened and Wolfe was there, and when he saw the look on Fred’s face, he knew what had happened, so I didn’t have to tell him, but I did. He led the way to the office, and Saul came and he and Fred moved yellow chairs up.

Wolfe sat and said, “Get Mr. Cramer.”

He has been known to rush it, and it had been a long dry spell. “You once made a remark,” I said, “about impetuosity. I could quote it verbatim.”

“So could I. If we discussed it all day there would still be only one way to learn if we have it or not. Get him.”

“If he’s not there do you want Rowcliff?”

“No. Only Mr. Cramer.”

I pulled the phone around and dialed, and got first the switchboard, then a sergeant I knew only by name, Molloy, and then Inspector Cramer, and Wolfe took his phone. I stayed on.

Wolfe: “Good morning.”

“Is it?”

“I think so. I have a problem. I must discuss a matter with Mr. Rowcliff as soon as possible, and it will go better if you are present. It relates to the death of Peter Odell. Could you come now?”

“No. I’ll get Rowcliff on another phone.”

“That wouldn’t do. I have a tape recording both of you should hear.”

“A recording of what?”

“You’ll know when you hear it. You won’t like it, but it may give you a useful hint. It has given me one.”

“I can’t—wait. Maybe I can. Hold it.”

We held it for about two minutes, and then: “Does it have to be Rowcliff?”

“Yes. That’s requisite.”

“I never expected to hear this, you wanting to see Rowcliff. We’ll leave in about ten minutes.”

Click.

We hung up. I asked Wolfe, “The Copes tape?”

He said yes, and I went to the safe for the key to the locked cabinet where we keep various items that would be in the safe if there was room. Wolfe started in on Saul and Fred, asking questions that I thought should have been asked before calling Cramer, but he got nothing that tangled it. Fred had nothing but the bare fact that Copes’s sister was Rowcliff’s wife. Saul, knowing we would need more, had proceeded to get it, but he hadn’t seen Diana herself, only neighbors and a woman who cleaned the Rowcliff apartment once a week, and two men who knew Copes. Almost certainly nothing had got to Rowcliff. However, one problem arose that had to be dealt with; Wolfe rang for beer and had the cap off of the bottle before he remembered that we were probably going to open champagne. He called Fritz in for consultation, and they decided it would be interesting to try eel stewed in stale beer, and Fritz thought he knew where he could get eel the next day. Wolfe told him Saul and Fred would join us for lunch, and it should be a little early if possible—one o’clock.

Lieutenant Rowcliff has it in for all private detectives, but I admit he has a special reason for thinking the world would be better off without me. When he gets hot he stutters, and with me it must be catching, because when he’s working on me and I see that he is getting close to that point,
I
start to stutter, especially on words that begin with
g
or
t
. It’s a misdemeanor to interfere with a police officer in the performance of his duty, but how could he handle that? Wolfe knows about it, and when the doorbell rang at a quarter to twelve and he told Saul to get it, I believe he actually thought I might greet them with “Gu-gu-gu-good morning.”

I was at my desk. Fred was in one of the three yellow chairs facing Wolfe’s desk, the one nearest me. Cramer, leading the way, of course went to the red leather chair, and Rowcliff took the yellow one nearest him, which left the middle one for Saul. As Cramer sat, he said, “Make it snappy. Rowcliff has someone waiting. What’s this about a recording?”

“I’ll have to introduce it,” Wolfe said. “You probably know the name, Dennis Copes.”

“I’ve heard it. One of the CAN bunch.”

“I know him,” Rowcliff said. “He wants Meer’s job.”

Wolfe nodded. “So it is said. As you know, Mrs. Odell’s advertisement appeared last Tuesday, six days ago. Mr. Copes came here Thursday evening and said he had to admit something and that he had information to give me under the conditions stated in the advertisement. He did so. The recording is that conversation.—Archie?”

All I had to do was reach to the far corner of my desk to flip a switch. The playback, which was a honey and had cost $922.50, was on the desk at the back. We knew it was a good tape, since we had listened to it three times.

Copes’s voice came. “That was a good ad. ‘Any person who communicates as a result of this advertisement thereby agrees to the above conditions.’ Very neat. What agency?”

“Agency?”

“Who wrote it?”

“Mr. Goodwin.”

Naturally I watched their faces. The first few minutes they looked at each other a couple of times, but then their eyes stayed mostly on Wolfe. Then Cramer set his jaw and his face got even redder than usual, and Rowcliff started to lick his lips. It has been said that Rowcliff is handsome, and I’ll concede that his six feet of meat is distributed well enough, but his face reminds me of a camel with a built-in sneer. All right, I don’t like him, so allow for it. Of course licking his lips didn’t improve it any.

It got to the end. Wolfe: “You may have to. I can’t tell you how I’ll proceed, Mr. Copes, because I don’t know. If I need you, I’ll know where to find you.” I reached to the switch and flipped it.

“By god,” Cramer said. He was so mad his voice was weak. “Four days ago. Four whole days. And you even told him not to tell anybody anything. And
now
you get us here and—How in hell you expect—”

“Pfui,” Wolfe said. “You’re not a witling and you know I’m not. If I had believed he was telling the truth, I might or might not have informed you immediately, but I certainly would not have risked telling him not to. I had good reason to suspect that he wasn’t. How could Kenneth Meer possibly have known that Odell intended to put LSD in the whisky? I don’t know how much of an effort you have made to learn if anyone knew, and if so who, but I know how much
I
have. I thought it extremely doubtful that Meer could have known. But if he didn’t, if Copes was lying, how did Copes know even now? Apparently it had been kept an official secret; it had not been disclosed by you or the District Attorney. And I had to know. I had to know if Copes could possibly have learned about the LSD from any other source. Unless such a source could be found, it would be impossible to challenge his account, and I would have to advise him to tell you without further delay. At ten o’clock Friday morning, five of us gathered here to consider it, and Mr. Panzer, Mr. Durkin, and Mr. Cather were given instructions and proceeded to inquire. The obvious possibil—”

“Three days you kept it. By God, three days and three nights.” Cramer’s voice was not weak.

“The weekend intervened. Anyway I would have kept it as long as there was any hope of finding a probable source. Three weeks or three months. Fortunately a competent performance by Mr. Panzer—and Mr. Durkin—made it
only
three days. Mr. Panzer brought it a little more than an hour ago, and I telephoned you almost immediately. Copes lied. I know how he learned about the LSD.”