The Doorbell Rang (2 page)

At nine o’clock we were back in the office, Lon in the red leather chair and Wolfe and I at our desks, and Fritz was serving coffee and brandy. The hour and a half in the dining room across the hall had been quite sociable, what with the clam cakes with chili sauce, the beef braised in red wine, the squash with sour cream and chopped dill, the avocado with watercress and black walnut kernels, and the Liederkranz. The talk had covered the state of the Union, the state of the feminine mind, whether any cooked oyster can be fit to eat, structural linguistics, and the prices of books. It had got hot only on the feminine mind, and Lon had done that purposely to see how sharp Wolfe could get. Lon took a sip of brandy and looked at his wristwatch. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “let’s get at it. I have to be somewhere at ten o’clock. I know you don’t expect me to pay for my dinner, but I also know that ordinarily, when there’s something you want to get or give, Archie just phones or drops in, so this must besomething special. It will have to be fantastic to be as special as this cognac.”

Wolfe picked up a slip of paper that was there on his desk, frowned at it, and put it down. I had put it there half an hour before. My dinner had been interrupted by a phone call from the city employee with the information I had wanted, and before returning to the dining room I had written “FBI” on a sheet from the scratch pad and put it on Wolfe’s desk. It hadn’t improved my appetite any. If she had been wrong about the tail it could have had great possibilities, including a fat raise for me in the form of a check for me, personally.

Wolfe sipped coffee, put the cup down, and said, “I have fourteen bottles left.”

“My God,” Lon said, and sniffed the brandy. It was funny about him. With his slicked-back hair and his neat little tight-skinned face he looked like nobody in particular, but somehow he always seemed to fit, whatever he was doing-in his room on the twentieth floor in the Gazette building, two doors down from the publisher’s corner room, or dancing with a doll at the Flamingo, or at the table with us in Saul Panzer’s apartment where we played poker. Or sniffing a fifty-year-old cognac.

He took a sip. “Anything you want,” he said. “Barring nothing.”

“Actually,” Wolfe said, “it isn’t very special. Certainly not fantastic. First a question: Do you know of any connection, however remote, between Mrs Lloyd Bruner and the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“Sure I do. Who doesn’t'She sent a million people copies of Fred Cook’s book, including our publisher and editor. It’s the latest status symbol, and damn it, I didn’t get one. Did you?”

“No. I bought mine. Do you know of any action the Bureau has taken in reprisal'This is a private and confidential conversation.”

Lon smiled. “Any action they might take would also be private and confidential. You’ll have to ask J. Edgar Hoover-unless you already know. Do you?”

“Yes.”

Lon’s chin jerked up. “The hell you do. Then the people who pay his salary should know.”

Wolfe nodded. “That would be your view, naturally. You seek information in order to publish it; I seek it for my private interest. At the moment I seek it only to decide where my interest lies. I have no client and no commitment, and I should make it clear that even if I commit myself and go to work I shall probably never be able to give you any publishable information, no matter what the outcome is. If I can, I will, but I doubt it. Are we in your debt?”

“No. On balance, I’m in yours.

“Good. Then I’ll draw on it. Why did Mrs Bruner send those books?”

“I don’t know.” He sipped brandy and moved his lips and cheeks to spread it around before swallowing. “Presumably as a public service. I bought five copies myself and sent them to people who should read them but probably won’t. A man I know gave thirty copies as Christmas presents.”

“Do you know if she had any private reason for animus against the FBI'

“No.”

“Have you heard any suggestion of such an animus'Any surmise?”

“No. But evidently you have. Look, Mr Wolfe. Strictly off the record, who wants to hire you'If I knew that, I might be able to furnish a fact or two.”

Wolfe refilled his cup and put the pot down. “I may not be hired,” he said. “If I am, it’s quite possible that you will never know who hired me. As for facts, I know what I need. I need a list of all the cases on which FBI agents have recently worked, and are now working, in and around New York. Can you supply that?”

“Hell no.” Lon smiled. “I’ll be damned. I was thinking-it was incredible, but I was thinking, or rather I was asking if it was possible that Hoover wanted you to work on Mrs Bruner. That would be an item. But if you- I’ll be damned.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to perform a public service?”

“No. Nor, it may be, a private one. I’m considering it. Do you know how I can get such a list?”

“You can’t. Of course some of their jobs are public knowledge, like the jewel snatch at the Natural History Museum and the bank truck at that church in Jersey-half a million in small bills. But some of them are far from public. You read that book. Of course there’s talk, there’s always talk, not for print. Would that help?”

“It might, especially if it was of something questionable, possibly extralegal. Is it?”

“Certainly. It’s no fun talking about something that isn’t questionable.” He glanced at his watch. “I have twenty minutes. If I may have another small ration of brandy, and if it is understood that this is private, and if you’re headed where you seem to be, I’ll be glad to chip in.” He looked at me. “You’ll need your notebook, Archie.”

Twenty minutes later his brandy glass was empty again, I had filled five pages of my notebook, and he was gone. I won’t report on the contents of the five pages because very little of it was ever used, and also because some of the people named wouldn’t appreciate it. At the time, as I returned to the office after seeing Lon out, my mind was on Wolfe, not the notebook. Was he actually considering it'No. Impossible. He had merely been passing the time, and of course trying to get a rise out of me. The question was how to handle it. He would be expecting me to blow my top. So I walked in and to my desk, grinned at him, said, “That was fun,” yanked the five pages from the notebook, tore them in half, and was going to tear again but he bellowed, “Stop that!”

I raised one eyebrow, something he can’t do. “Sorry,” I said, perfectly friendly. “A souvenir?”

“No. Please sit down.”

I sat. “Have I missed something?”

“I doubt it. You seldom do. A hypothetical question: If I told you that I have decided to keep that hundred thousand dollars, what would you say?”

“What you said. Preposterous.”

“That’s understood. But go on.”

“In full?”

“Yes.”

“I would say that you should sell the house and contents and go live in a nursing home, since you’re obviously cracked. Unless you intend to gyp her, just sit on it.”

“No.”

“Then you’re cracked. You’ve read that book. We couldn’t even get started. The idea would be to work it so you could say to the FBI, ‘Lay off,’ and make it stick. Nuts. Merely raising a stink wouldn’t do it. They would have to be actually cornered, the whole damn outfit. Out on a limb. All right, say we try to start. We pick one of these affairs”-I tapped the torn sheets from the notebook-“and make some kind of a stab at it. From then on, whenever I left the house I’d spend all my time ditching tails, and good ones. Everyone connected with that affair would be pegged. Our phone would be tapped. So would other phones-for instance, Miss Rowan’s, and Saul’s and Fred’s and Orrie’s, whether we got them in or not. And of course Parker’s. They might or might not try a frame, probably they wouldn’t have to, but if they did it would be good. I’d have to sleep here in the office. Windows and doors, even one with a chain bolt, are pie for them. They could monitor our mail. I am not piling it on. How many of those things they would do would depend, but they can do all of them. They have all the gimmicks there are, including some I have never heard of.”

I crossed my legs. “We’d never get to first base. But say we did, say we actually got a wedge started in some kind of a crack, then they would really operate. They have six thousand trained men, some of them as good as they come, and three hundred million dollars a year. I would like to borrow the dictionary to look up a stronger word than ‘preposterous.’ “

I uncrossed my legs. “Also, what about her'I do not believe that she is merely being annoyed. One will get you twenty that she’s scared stiff. She knows there’s some dirt somewhere, if not on her then on her son or daughter or brother, or even on her dead husband, and she’s afraid they’ll find it. She knows they’re not just riding her; they’re after something that would really hurt, and that would take a lot of sting out of the book. As for the hundred grand, for her that’s peanuts, and anyway she’s in a tax bracket that makes it petty cash.”

I crossed my legs. “That’s what I would say.”

Wolfe grunted. “The last part was irrelevant.”

“I’m often irrelevant. It confuses people.”

“You keep waving your legs around.”

“That confuses them too.”

“Pfui. You’re fidgety, and no wonder. I thought I knew you, Archie, but this is a new facet.”

“It’s not new at all. It’s merely horse sense.”

“No. Dog sense. You are moving your legs around because your tail is between them. This is what you said, in effect: I am offered a job with the largest retainer in my experience and no limit on expenses or fee, but I should decline it. I should decline it, not because it would be difficult and perhaps impossible-I have taken many jobs that seemed impossible-but because it would give offense to a certain man and his organization and he would retaliate. I decline it because I dare not take it; I would rather submit to a threat than-“

“I didn’t say that!”

“It was implicit. You are cowed. You are daunted. Not, I concede, without reason; the hands and voices of many highly placed men have been stayed by the same trepidation. Possibly mine would be too if it were merely a matter of declining or accepting a job. But I will not return that check for one hundred thousand dollars because I am afraid of a bully. My self-esteem won’t let me. I suggest that you take a vacation for an indefinite period. With pay; I can afford it.”

I uncrossed my legs. “Beginning now?”

“Yes.” He was grim.

“These notes are in my personal code. Shall I type them?”

“No. That would implicate you. I’ll see Mr Cohen again.”

I clasped my hands behind my head and eyed him. “I still say you’re cracked,” I said, “and I deny that my tail was between my legs, since they were crossed, and it would be a ball to step aside and see how you went at it without me, but after all the years in the swim with you it would be lowdown to let you sink alone. If I get daunted along the way I’ll let you know.” I picked up the torn sheets. “You want this typed?”

“No. For our discussion you will translate as required.”

“Right. A suggestion. The mood you’re in, do you want to declare war by phoning the client'She left her unlisted number, and of course it’s tapped. Shall I get her?”

“Yes.”

I got at the phone and dialed.

Going to the kitchen before going up to bed, around midnight, to check that Fritz had bolted the back door, I was pleased to see that batter for sour-milk buckwheat cakes was there in a bowl on the range. In that situation nice crisp toast or flaky croissants would have been inadequate. So when I descended the two flights a little after nine o’clock Wednesday morning I knew I would be properly fueled. As I entered the kitchen Fritz turned up the flame under the griddle, and I told him good morning and got my orange juice from the refrigerator. Wolfe, who breakfasts in his room from a tray taken up by Fritz, had gone up to the plant rooms on the roof for his two morning hours with the orchids; I had heard the elevator as usual. As I went to the little table by the wall where I eat breakfast I asked Fritz if there was anything stirring.

“Yes,” he said, “and you are to tell me what it is.”

“Oh, didn’t he tell you?”

“No. He said only that the doors are to be bolted and the windows locked at all times, that I am to be-what does ‘circumspect’ mean?”

“It means watch your step. Say nothing to anyone on the phone that you wouldn’t want to see in the paper. When you go out, do nothing that you wouldn’t want to see on TV. For instance, girl friends. Stay away. Swear off. Suspect all strangers.”

Fritz wouldn’t, and didn’t, talk while cakes were getting to just the right shade of brown. When they were before me, the first two, and the sausage, and were being buttered, he said, “I want to know, Archie, and I have a right to know. He said you would explain. Bien. I demand it.”

I picked up the fork. “You know what the FBI is.”

“But certainly. Mr Hoover.”

“That’s what he thinks. On behalf of a client we’re going to push his nose in. Just a routine chore, but he’s touchy and will try to stop us. So futile.” I put a bite of cake where it belonged.

“But he-he’s a great man. Yes?”

“Sure. But I suppose you’ve seen pictures of him.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of his nose?”

“Not good. Not exactly epate, but broad. Not bien fait.”

“Then it should be pushed.” I forked sausage.

So he was at ease when I finished and went to the office. The meals would be okay, at least for today. As I dusted the desks, tore sheets from the calendars, and opened the mail, which was mostly junk, I was considering an experiment. If I dialed a number, any number, say Parker’s, I might be able to tell if we were tapped. It would be interesting to know if they had already reacted to the call to Mrs Bruner. I vetoed it. I intended to keep strictly to my instructions. Doing so, I got my pocket notebook and another item from a drawer of my desk, opened the safe to get the check, went to the kitchen to tell Fritz not to expect me for lunch and to the hall rack for my hat and coat, and departed.

Heading east, I merely walked. It’s a cinch to spot a tail, even a good one, especially on a winter day when a cold, gusty wind is keeping the sidewalk traffic down, but presumably they knew where I was going, so why bother'At the bank, on Lexington Avenue, I had the pleasure of seeing the teller’s eyes widen a little as he gave the check a second glance. The simple pleasures of the rich. Outside again, I turned uptown. I had two miles to go, but it was only twenty after ten, I am a walker, and if I had a tail it would be good for his lungs and legs.

The four-story stone on Seventy-fourth Street between Madison and Park was at least twice as wide as Wolfe’s brownstone, but it wasn’t brown. The door to the vestibule, three steps down, was solid, but the inside one was a metal grille with glass. It was opened by a man in black with no lips who swung it wide only after he had my name. He led me down the hall to an open door on the left and motioned me in.

It was an office, not large-filing cabinets, a safe, two desks, shelves, a cluttered table. On the wall back of the table was a blow-up of the Bruner building. My quick glance around came to rest on a face, a face that rated a glance, belonging to the female seated at one of the desks. Her hazel eyes were meeting the glance.

“I’m Archie Goodwin,” I said.

She nodded. “I’m Sarah Dacos. Have a seat, Mr Goodwin.” She lifted the receiver from a phone and pressed a button, in a moment told someone I was there, hung up, and told me Mrs Bruner would be down soon. Sitting, I asked her, “How long have you been with Mrs Bruner?”

She smiled. “I know you’re a detective, Mr Goodwin, you don’t have to prove it.”

I smiled back. “I have to keep in practice.” She was easy to smile at. “How long?”

“Nearly three years. Do you want it exactly?”

“Later maybe. Shall I wait until Mrs Bruner comes?”

“Not necessarily. She said you would ask me some questions.”

“Then I will. What did you do before?”

“I was a stenographer at the Bruner Corporation, and then Mr Thompson’s secretary, the vice-president.”

“Have you ever worked for the government'For instance, for the FBI?”

She smiled. “No. Never. I was twenty-two years old when I started with the Bruner Corporation. I’m twenty-eight now. You’re not taking notes.”

“In here.” I touched my forehead. “What gave you the idea that the FBI is tailing you?”

“I don’t know it’s the FBI. But it must be, because nobody else would.”

“How sure are you you’re being tailed?”

“Oh, I’m positive. I don’t keep looking behind me, nothing like that, but my hours here are irregular, I leave at different times, but when I go to the bus stop a man always comes and gets on after me, and he gets off where I do. The same man.”

“Madison Avenue bus?”

“No, Fifth Avenue. I live in the Village.”

“When did it start?”

“I’m not sure. The first I noticed him was the Monday after Christmas. He’s there in the morning, too. And in the evening, if I go out. I didn’t know it was done like that. I thought if you followed someone you didn’t want her to know it.”

“It depends. Sometimes you do want her to know. It’s called an open tail. Can you describe the man?”

“I certainly can. He’s six or seven inches taller than me, about thirty years old, maybe a little more, a long face with a square chin, a long thin nose, a small straight mouth. His eyes are a kind of greenish gray. He always has his hat on, so I don’t know about his hair.”

“Have you ever spoken to him?”

“Of course not.”

“Have you reported it to the police?”

“No, the lawyer said not to. Mrs Bruner’s lawyer. He said that if it’s the FBI they can always say it’s a security check.”

“So they can. And do. By the way, did you suggest sending people copies of that book to Mrs Bruner?”

Her brow went up. It was a nice smooth brow. “Why, no. I hadn’t read it. I only read it afterwards.”

“After you got a tail?”

“No, after she decided to send all those copies.”

“Do you know who did suggest it to her?”

“I don’t know if anyone did.” She smiled. “I suppose it’s natural, your asking me that, since you’re a detective, but to me it would seem more natural to ask her. Even if I knew someone suggested it, I don’t think-“

There were footsteps in the hall, approaching, and Mrs Bruner appeared. As she entered I arose, and so did Sarah Dacos. I moved to meet her and take the offered hand and return the greeting, and when she went to sit at the other desk I changed to another chair. She gave a pile of papers under a weight a mere glance and pushed it aside, and said to me, “I suspect that I owe you some thanks, Mr Goodwin. More than just thanks.”

I shook my head. “No, you don’t. Not that it matters, since the check has been deposited, but I was against it. Now that it’s a job I’m for it.” I got from a pocket the item I had taken from my desk drawer and handed it to her. It was a sheet of paper on which I had typed:

Mr Nero Wolfe

914 WeSt 35th Street

New York City 1

January 6, 1965

Dear Sir:

Confirming our conversation of yesterday, I hereby engage you to act in my interest in the matter we discussed. I believe the Federal Bureau of Investigation is responsible for the espionage I and my family and associates are being subjected to, for the reasons I gave you, but whoever is responsible, you are to investigate it and use your best efforts to have it stopped. Whatever the outcome, the $100,000 I have given you as a retainer will not be subject to any claim by me. I will pay any expenses you incur in my behalf, and if you get the result I desire I will pay a fee to be determined by you.

(Mrs Lloyd Bruner)

She read it twice, first skimming and then every word. She looked up. “I’m supposed to sign this?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t. I never sign anything my lawyer hasn’t read.”

“You can call him and read it to him.”

“But my telephone is tapped.”

“I know. It’s barely possible that when they know that you are giving Nero Wolfe a free hand, no limit, they’ll cool off. Tell the lawyer that. Not that they’re in awe of him, they’re not in awe of anybody, but they know a lot about him. As for that last sentence, the fee to be determined by him, there’s a loophole. It says ‘if you get the result I desire.’ Obviously that will be determined by you, so you’re not signing a blank check. The lawyer should agree.”

She read it again, then leveled the brown-black eyes at me. “I can’t do that. My lawyers don’t know I went to Nero Wolfe. They wouldn’t approve. No one knows but Miss Dacos.”

“Then we’re up a stump.” I turned a palm up. “Look, Mrs Bruner. Mr Wolfe couldn’t possibly tackle it without something in writing. What if it got so hot you wanted out, leaving him in'What if you tried to hedge on what you hired him to do and wanted the retainer back?”

“I wouldn’t do that. I’m not a hedger, Mr Goodwin.”

“Good. Then go ahead and sign it.”

She looked at it, at me, back at it, and at Miss Dacos. “Here, Sarah,” she said, “make a copy of it.”

“I have a carbon,” I said, and handed it to her. By gum, she read it through. Well trained by her husband, or by the lawyers after he died. She took a pen from a stand and signed the original, and I reached for it.

“So that’s why Mr Wolfe wanted you to come this morning,” she said.

I nodded. “Partly. He wanted me to ask Miss Dacos a few questions about being tailed, and I have. I saw your tail yesterday. When you left a car followed you, close, with two men in it, and I got the license number. They were FBI. They want you to know. From here on we probably won’t have anything to ask you or tell you unless and until there’s a break, but we might, and there should be an arrangement. Since you have read that book, you know what ‘bugged’ means. Do you know if this room is bugged?”

“No, I don’t. Of course I’ve thought about it, and we have examined it several times. I’m not sure. They have to get in, don’t they'Put something in it?”

“Yes. Unless electronics has come up with something that isn’t being mentioned, and I doubt it. I don’t want to overplay it, Mrs Bruner, but I don’t think any part of this house is a good place to talk. It’s cold out, but a little fresh air will do you good. If you’ll get a coat?”

She nodded. “You see, Mr Goodwin. In my own house. All right.” She got up. “Wait here.” She went.

Sarah Dacos was smiling at me. “You could have gone upstairs,” she said. “I can’t hear through walls or even though keyholes.”

“No?” I looked her up and down, glad to have an excuse. She was very lookable. “You may be wired for sound, and there would be only one way to make sure, and you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

The hazel eyes laughed. “How do you know I wouldn’t?”

“My knowledge of human nature. You’re the squeamish type. You haven’t walked up to your tail and said what’s your name and what do you want.”

“Why, do you think I should?”

“No. But you haven’t. May I ask, do you dance?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’d know more about you if you danced with me. I don’t mean about the possibility that you’re playing with the FBI. If they had you, right here in the house, they wouldn’t be dogging her and the whole family. The only reason I-“

The client showed at the door. I hadn’t heard her footsteps. That was bad. Miss Dacos was attractive, but not enough to keep me from hearing footsteps, even though I was talking. That could only mean that my opinion of the job wouldn’t let me get fully on it, all of me, and that wouldn’t do. As I went and followed the client to the front my jaw was set. The man in black opened the door, and I got the vestibule door, and we were out in the January wind. We headed east, toward Park Avenue, and stopped at the corner.

“We can talk better standing,” I said. “First, our getting you in a hurry if we have to. There’s absolutely no telling what’s going to happen. It’s even possible that Mr Wolfe and I will have to leave his house and hole up somewhere. If you get a message, by phone or otherwise, no matter how, that the pizza is sour, go at once to the Churchill Hotel and find a man named William Coffey. He’s a house dick there-an assistant security officer. You can do that openly. He’ll have something for you, either to tell you or give you. Pizza is sour. Churchill Hotel, William Coffey. Remember it. Don’t write it down.”

“I won’t.” She was frowning. “I suppose you’re sure you can trust him?”

“Yes. If you knew Mr Wolfe better, and me, you wouldn’t ask that. Have you got it?”

“Yes.” She pulled the collar of her coat, not the sable, something else, closer.

“Okay. Now your getting us if you have to, for something not to be spilled. Go to a phone booth and ring Mr Wolfe’s number and tell whoever answers that Fido is sick, just that, and hang up. Wait two hours and go to the Churchill and William Coffey. Of course this is just for something they are not to know. For anything they have done or already know about, just ring us. Fido is sick.”

She was still frowning. “But they’ll know about William Coffey after the first time if I go to him openly.”

“We may use him only once. Leave that to us. Actually, Mrs Bruner, you’re more or less out of it now, the operation. We’ll be working for you, but not on you or about you. We probably won’t need to make contact with you at all. All this is just a precaution in case. But there’s something we ought to know now. You said you came to Mr Wolfe and gave him that six-figure check merely because you’re being annoyed. Of course you’re a very wealthy woman, but that’s hard to believe. It’s a good guess that there’s something buried somewhere-about you or yours-that you don’t want dug up, and you’re afraid they will. If that’s so we ought to know it-not what it is, but how urgent it is. Are they getting close?”