Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 25 (12 page)

Perhaps I should have confined my reading to the contest part, since we hadn’t been hired for the murder, but only Fritz was in the kitchen with me and he wouldn’t blab. There were a lot of facts that Cramer hadn’t furnished—that Dahlmann was wearing a dark blue suit; that he had taken a taxi from the Churchill to his apartment and arrived a little before 11:30; that the woman who found him when she came to get his breakfast was named Elga Johnson; that his apartment was two rooms and bath; that the bullet had hit a rib after passing through the heart; and many other details equally helpful. The name of the murderer wasn’t given.

Having got an early start, I was through with breakfast and the papers and was in the office at the typewriter when Saul Panzer came. Saul is not a natural for Mr. America. His nose is twice as big as he needs, he never looks as if he had just shaved, one
shoulder is half an inch higher than the other and they both slope, and his coat sleeves are too short. But if and when I find myself up a tree with a circle of man-eating tigers crouching on the ground below, and a squad of beavers starting to gnaw at the trunk of the tree, the sight of Saul approaching would be absolutely beautiful. I have never seen him fazed.

He came at eight sharp and went right upstairs, and I went back to the typewriter. At five to nine he came back down but I didn’t hear him until he called to me from the door to the hall. “Want to come and bolt me out?”

I swiveled. “With pleasure. That’s what the bolt’s for, such as you.” I arose. “Have a good breakfast?”

“You know I did.”

I was with him. “Need any professional coaching?”

“I sure do.” He was at the rack getting his things. “I’ll start at the bottom and work down.”

“That’s the spirit.” I opened the door. “If you get your throat cut or something just give me a ring.”

“Glad to, Archie. You’d be the one all right.”

“Okay. Keep your gloves on.”

He went, and I shut the door and went back to work. There had been a day when I got a little peeved if Wolfe gave Saul a chore without telling me what it was, and also told him not to tell me, but that was long past. It didn’t peeve me any more; it merely bit me because I couldn’t guess it. I sat at my desk a good ten minutes trying to figure it, then realized that was about as useful as reading a novel in verse, and hit the typewriter.

My speed at typing notes of interviews depends on the circumstances. Once in a real pinch I did ten pages an hour for three hours, but my average is around six or seven, and I have been known to mosey along at
four or five. That morning I stepped on it, to get as much done as possible before Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven o’clock, since he would certainly have some errands ready for me. I was interrupted by phone calls—one from Rudolph Hansen, wanting a progress report, one from Oliver Buff, wanting the same, one from Philip Younger, wanting me to arrange an appointment for him with the LBA crowd and getting sore when I stalled him, and one from Lon Cohen of the
Gazette
, wanting to know if I felt like giving him something hot on the Dahlmann murder. Being busy, I didn’t start an argument by saying we weren’t working on the murder; I just told him he’d have to stand in line, and didn’t bother to ask him how he knew we were in the play. Probably Miss Frazee. In spite of the interruptions, I had finished Wheelock and Younger and Tescher by eleven o’clock, and started on Rollins.

The sound of Wolfe’s elevator came, and he appeared, told me good morning, crossed to his chair and got his poundage adjusted, and spoke. “I left my papers in my room. May I have yours?”

I should have put them on his desk, since I knew he had had company for breakfast. I took them to him and then resumed at the typewriter. He glanced through the morning mail, which was mostly circulars and requests from worthy causes, then settled back with the news. That was okay, since there could have been an item that might affect the program for the day. He is not a fast reader, and I pounded along in high so as to be finished by the time he was ready. It was still before noon by ten minutes when I rolled the last page of Rollins from the machine, and after collating the originals and carbons I turned for a glance at him.

He had put the papers down and was deep in
Beauty for Ashes
.

No commonplace crack would fit the situation. It was serious and could be critical. I stapled the reports, labeled a folder “Lippert, Buff and Assa” and put them in it, went and put the folder in the cabinet, came back to my desk and put things away, turned to him and announced, “I’m all set. Hansen and Buff phoned to ask how we’re coming, and I told them there was no use crowding. Philip Younger wants you to get him a conference with LBA, and I said maybe later. Lon Cohen wants the murderer’s name with a picture by five o’clock. That’s the crop. I’m ready for instructions.”

He finished a paragraph—no, it was verse. He finished something, then his eyes came at me over the top of the book. “I haven’t any,” he stated.

“Oh. Tomorrow, maybe? Or some day next week?”

“I don’t know. I gave it some thought last night, and I don’t know.”

I stared at him. “This is your finest hour,” I said emphatically. “This is the rawest you have ever pulled. You took the case just twenty-four hours ago. Why didn’t you turn it down? That you have the gall to sit there on your fanny and read poetry is bad enough, but that you tell me to do likewise …” I stood up. “I quit.”

“I haven’t told you to read poetry.”

“You might as well. I’m quitting, and I’m going to the ball game.”

He shook his head. “You can’t quit in the middle of a case, and you can’t go to the ball game because I couldn’t get you if you were suddenly needed.”

“Needed for what? Bring you beer?”

“No.” He put the book down, drew a long deep
sigh, and leaned back. “I suppose this has to be. You’re enraged because I haven’t devised a list of sallies and exploits for you. You have of course pondered the situation, as I have. I sympathize with your eagerness to do something. What would you suggest?”

“It’s not up to me. If I did the suggesting around here, that would be my desk and this would be yours.”

“Nevertheless, I put it to you. Please sit down so I can look at you without stretching my neck. Thank you. There is nothing you can do about any of these people that the police have not already done, and are doing, with incomparably greater resources and numbers. Keeping them under surveillance, investigating their past, learning if any of them had a gun, checking their alibis, harassing them by prolonged and repetitive inquisition—do you want to compete with the police on any of those?”

“You know damn well I don’t. I want you to go to work and come up with instructions for me. Unless Saul is handling it?”

“Saul has been given a little task I didn’t want to spare you for. You will accept my decision that at the moment there is nothing to be done by either you or me. That condition may continue for a week, until after the deadline has come and gone. Messrs. Hansen and Buff and O’Garro and Assa—and Mr. Heery too—are quite wrong in thinking that the culprit must be exposed before the deadline; on the contrary, it will be much more feasible after the deadline, unless—”

“That won’t do us any good. You can’t stall them that long. They’ll bounce you.”

“I doubt it. I’d have something to say about it. And anyway, I was saying that it will be more feasible after the deadline unless something happens, and I rather think that something will. The tension is extremely
severe, not only for the culprit, but also for the others, in one way or another. That’s why you can’t go to the ball game; you must be at hand. Also for the phone calls. They’ll get increasingly exigent and must be handled discreetly but firmly. I could help some with them, but it would be best for me to be so deeply engaged with the problem that I am unavailable. Of course they are not to be told that I think the solution may have to wait until after the deadline.”

“Say by the Fourth of July,” I suggested bitterly.

“Sooner than that or not at all.” He was tolerant. “Commonly I take your badgering as a necessary evil; it has on occasion served a purpose; but this may go on for a while and I wish to be spared. I assure you, Archie—”

The phone rang. I answered it, and a trained female voice told me that Mr. O’Garro wanted to speak with Mr. Wolfe. Evidently they were reverting to type up at LBA. I told her Mr. Wolfe was engaged, but Mr. O’Garro could speak with Mr. Goodwin if he cared to. She said he wanted Mr. Wolfe, and I said I was sorry he couldn’t have him. She told me to hold on, and after a wait resumed by asking me to put Mr. Goodwin on, and I said he was on. Then I got a male voice: “Hello, Goodwin? This is Pat O’Garro. I want to speak to Wolfe!”

“So I understand, but I have strict instructions not to disturb him, and I don’t dare to. When he’s buried in a case, as he is right now in yours, it’s not only bad for me if I interrupt him, it’s bad for the case. You’ve given him a tough one to crack, and you’d better leave him alone with it.”

“My God, we’ve got to know what he’s doing!”

“No, sir. Excuse me, but you’re dead wrong. You
either rely on him to get it or you don’t. When he’s working as hard as he is on this he never tells anybody what he’s doing, and it’s a big mistake to ask him. As soon as there’s anything you’d like to know or need to know or can help with, you’ll hear without delay. I told Mr. Hansen, and also Mr. Buff, about Inspector Cramer calling on us last night.”

“I know you did. What time this afternoon can I drop in?”

“Any time that suits you. I’ll be here, and you can look at the transcripts of the talks with the contestants if you want to. Mr. Wolfe will be upstairs and not available. When he’s sunk in a thing as he is in this it’s a job to get him to eat.”

“But damn it, what’s he doing?”

“He’s using the brain you hired. Didn’t you gentlemen decide you needed a special kind of brain? All right, you got one.”

“We certainly did. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

I told him that would be fine, and hung up, and turned to ask Wolfe if that would do, but he had lifted his book and opened it and I didn’t want to disturb him.

T
hank the Lord those next four days are behind me instead of ahead. I admit that there are operations and situations where the best you can do is set a trap and then wait patiently for the victim to spring it, and in such a case I can wait as patiently as the next one, but we had set no trap. Waiting for the victim to make the trap himself and then spring it called for more patience than I had in stock.

Wolfe had asked me what I would suggest, and I spent part of the time from Thursday noon to Friday noon, in between phone calls and personal appearances of LBA personnel and Talbott Heery, trying to hit on something. I had to agree with him that there was no point in tagging along after the cops on any of the routines. Altogether, while sitting at my desk or on the stool in the kitchen, or brushing my teeth, or shaving, or looking out the window, I conceived at least a dozen bright ideas, none of them worth a damn when you turned them over. I did submit one of them to Wolfe after dinner Thursday evening: to get the five contestants together in the office, and tell them it had been thought that Dahlmann had put the answers to the last five verses in a safe deposit box, but evidently
he hadn’t, since none could be found, and there was no authentic list of answers against which their solutions could be checked, and therefore other verses, not yet devised, would have to replace the ones they had. He asked what good it would do. I said we would get their reactions. He said we already had their reactions, and besides, LBA would properly reject a procedure that made them out a bunch of bungling boobies.

There was nothing in Friday’s papers that struck a spark, but at least they didn’t announce that Cramer had got his man and the case was solved. Just the contrary. No one had been tapped even as a material witness, and it was plain, from the way the
Gazette
handled it, that the field was still wide open. Lon Cohen phoned again around noon to ask what Wolfe was waiting for, and I told him for a flash. He asked what kind of flash, and I told him to ask Miss Frazee.

The climax of the phone calls from the clients began soon after lunch Friday. Wolfe was up in his room to be away from the turmoil. He had finished
Beauty for Ashes
and started on
Party of One
, not in verse, by Clifton Fadiman. The climax was in three scenes, the hero of the first one being Patrick O’Garro. It was the third call from him in the twenty-four hours, and he made it short and to the point. He asked to speak to Wolfe and I gave him the usual dose. He asked if I had anything to report and I said no.

“All right,” he said, “that’s enough. This is formal notice that our agreement with him is canceled and he is no longer representing Lippert, Buff and Assa. This conversation is being recorded. He can send a bill for services to date. Did you hear me?”

“Sure I hear you. I’d like to say more because my
phone conversations don’t get recorded very often, but there’s nothing to say. Goodbye.”

I went to the hall, up the flight of stairs to Wolfe’s room, tapped on the door, and entered. He was in the big chair by the window, in his shirt sleeves with his vest unbuttoned, with his book.

“You look nice and comfortable,” I said approvingly, “but you prefer the chair downstairs and you can come on down if you want to. O’Garro just phoned and canceled the order. We’re fired. He said the conversation was being recorded. I wonder why it makes a man feel important to have what he says on the phone recorded? I don’t mean him, I mean me.”

“Bosh,” he said.

“No, really, it
did
make me feel important.”

“Shut up.” He closed his eyes. In a minute he opened them. “Very well. I’ll be down shortly. It’s a confounded nuisance.”

I agreed and left him. As I went back downstairs my feelings were mixed. Getting tossed out on our ear would certainly be no fun, it wouldn’t help our prestige any, and it would reduce our bill by about ninety-five per cent to a mere exorbitant charge for consultation, but I did not burst into tears as I began strolling around the office to wait for developments. At least the fat son of a gun would have to snap out of it and show something. At least his eyes would get a rest from the strain of constant reading. At least I wouldn’t have to try to dig up more ways of explaining why they couldn’t speak to a genius while he was fermenting.