“I have. I sure have.”
“Well, you’d better!”
“I had indeed better. I’ll be out part of the afternoon. If you need me, leave word. Good luck, Mrs. Potter.”
“Good luck to you too.”
The albacore had cooled off some, but it was good, and I finished it. I felt wonderful. I called Finch at the South Seas and told him we had had a bite and had a fish on the hook, and it might be the big one, and I would drop in on him at eight in the morning. He said he was all set. I lifted the receiver to put in a call to New York, then replaced it. It was goofy to suppose there could be any risk in George Thompson’s calling Nero Wolfe’s number, but I’d rather be goofy than sorry. Taking my raincoat and hat, I went down to the lobby, out into the rain, and to a drugstore in the next block. There I made the call from a booth. When I got Wolfe and reported the development, he grunted across the continent, and that was all. He had no additional instructions or suggestions. I got the impression that I had interrupted him at something important like a crossword puzzle.
I only half drowned finding a taxi to take me to the address of the Southwest Agency. With Dolman I didn’t have to be as choosy as the day before, since any mug should be able to keep a man from killing a woman right under his nose, but even so I didn’t want any part of Gibson or one like him. He produced a fairly good specimen, and I gave him careful and fully detailed instructions and made him repeat them. From there I went to the South Seas Hotel for a surprise call on Finch, thinking it just as well to check him and also to have a look at the room. He was lying on the bed, reading a book entitled Twilight of the Absolute, which seemed a deep dive for a dick, but then, as Finch, he was a literary agent, so I refrained from comment. The room was perfect, of medium size, with the door to the bathroom in the far corner and one to a good big closet off to one side. I didn’t stay long because my nerves were jumpy away from the phone in my room at the Riviera. If anything happened I wanted to know it quick. For instance, Clarence Potter would soon be home from work, or was already. What if he didn’t understand it some more and decided to take a hand?
But at bedtime the phone hadn’t let out a tinkle.
Chapter 16
At 8:02 Thursday morning I entered Finch’s room at the South Seas. He was up and dressed but hadn’t had breakfast, and I had only had orange juice before leaving the Riviera. Hanging my hat and raincoat, which had been sprinkled again, in the rear of the big closet, I gave him my order: griddle cakes, ham and eggs, a jar of honey, and coffee. He relayed it to room service, his own requirements being prunes and toast and coffee, which made me dart a glance at him, but he looked okay. When he was through I went to the phone and called the Glendale number and got an answer after four whirrs.
“Archie Goodwin, Mrs. Potter. Good morning. Did the man come?”
“Yes, he got here ten minutes ago. He’ll hide in the kitchen. You know I’m all excited?”
“Sure, that’s all right. It won’t matter if it shows; Corrigan will think it’s the prospect of fifty thousand bucks. Just take it easy. Do you want to ask anything?”
“No, not a thing.”
“Good for you. I’m in Finch’s room at the South Seas. Ring me if you need to, and of course when he leaves.”
She said she would. I hung up and called the airport. The plane from New York, due at eight o’clock, had landed at 7:50, ten minutes early.
The cuisine at the South Seas wasn’t as good as the Riviera, but I cleaned up my share. When we had finished we wheeled the breakfast table into the hall, and then had a discussion whether to make the bed. Harris, Finch to you, wanted to make it, but my point was that it would be unrealistic because no literary agent would have got up early enough to leave the room free for the chambermaid at that hour, and he had to concede it. He raised the question of whether I would stand in the closet or sit, and I said I would stand because no chair can be trusted not to squeak with a shift of weight. We had just got that settled when the phone rang. I was seated by it, but told Finch to take it and moved. He went and got it.
“Hello …. This is Walter Finch speaking …. Yes, I talked with Mrs. Potter …. That’s right …. No, I didn’t know she had written you, Mr. Corrigan, I only knew she had written for advice …. Yes, but may I speak to her, please?”
Pause.
“Yes, this is Finch, Mrs. Potter. Mr. Corrigan says he wants to see me, representing you about that manuscript …. Oh, I see …. Yes, I understand …. Certainly, I’ll consult you before any agreement is made …. Please put him on.”
Pause.
“Yes, I understand, Mr. Corrigan …. No, that’s all right, I’m perfectly willing to discuss it …. Yes, if you come right away. I have an appointment at eleven …. Room Twelve-sixteen, the South Seas …. All right, I’ll be here.”
He hung up and turned to me with a grin. “Got a landing net?”
“No, a gaff. What was the hitch?”
“Nothing serious. He seemed to think he had a client, but she didn’t agree. He’s coming on his own, to protect the lowly, without prejudice to her.”
“If you want me to,” I offered, “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with our civilization.”
“I want you to. What?”
“We’ve quit drinking champagne from ladies’ slippers. I would like to drink some from hers.”
I sat, bent and untied my laces and took off my shoes, took them to the closet, and put them on the floor out of the way. In my socks I hopped around on the spot where I would be standing, and heard no squeaks.
As I rejoined Finch the phone rang. He got it, spoke, covered the transmitter, and told me, “Mrs. Potter. She wants to know what color slippers you prefer.”
I went and took it. “Yes, Mrs. Potter? Archie Goodwin.”
“Why, he wasn’t here more than ten minutes! He hardly asked me anything. He asked about Mr. Finch, and the letter from my brother, and then he wanted me to say he could represent me as my attorney, and I said what you told me to, but when he spoke to Mr. Finch he tried to make it that he was representing me. I was hoping he would ask more things, the things you said he might ask, but he didn’t. There’s really nothing to tell you, but I’m calling because I said I would.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yes, he had his taxi wait for him.”
“Well, your part is probably finished, and you can let your bodyguard go if you want to. I was just telling Mr. Finch that I would like to drink champagne from your slipper.”
“You what? What did you say?”
“You heard me. Too late. I’ll let you know what happens, and you let me know if you hear from him again—immediately.”
“I will.”
I hung up and turned to Finch. “We’ve got about twenty minutes. What do you want refreshed?”
“Nothing. I’ve got it.”
“I hope to God you have.” I sat. “I could fill you in on Corrigan now, but I still think it’s better not to. I’ll say this, I am now offering three to one that he’s a killer, and if so he’s in a damn tight corner with his teeth showing. I don’t see how he can possibly jump you under the circumstances, but if he does don’t count on me. I won’t leave that closet for anything short of murder. If he actually kills you, yell.”
“Thanks.” He grinned at me. But he slipped his hand inside his coat to his armpit, came out with a gun, and dropped it into his side pocket.
Finch had given Corrigan the room number, and he might phone up from the lobby and might not. Also there was no telling how fast his driver was, and it would be too bad if Corrigan arrived sooner than expected, came straight up to the room, paused at the door, and heard voices. So we stopped talking well ahead of time. I was leaning back, studying the ceiling, when the knock came, and it didn’t sound like a chambermaid. I straightened up and left the chair in one motion, and Finch started for the door. Before he reached it I was in the closet, with the door pulled to enough to leave no crack, but unlatched.
The sound o
f the voice answered one question: it wasn’t a ringer, it was the senior partner himself. I heard the door closing and the footsteps passing the closet door, and Finch inviting the visitor to take the armchair. Then Corrigan’s voice.
“You understand why I’m here, Mr. Finch. My firm received a letter from Mrs. Potter requesting professional advice.”
Finch: “Yes, I understand that.”
Corrigan: “According to her, you state that you have in your possession a manuscript of a novel entitled ‘Put Not Your Trust,’ by Baird Archer, and that the author of it was her deceased brother, Leonard Dykes, who used ‘Baird Archer’ as a pen name.”
I held my breath. Here, right off the bat, was one of the tricky little points I had briefed him on.
Finch: “That’s not quite right. I didn’t say that I know Dykes was the author. I said I have reason to think he was.”
I breathed, not noisily.
Corrigan: “May I ask what reason?”
Finch: “A pretty good one. But frankly, Mr. Corrigan, I don’t see why I should let you cross-examine me. You’re not representing Mrs. Potter. You heard what she told me on the phone. Naturally I’ll tell her anything she wants to know, but why you?”
Corrigan: “Well.” A pause. “Other interests than Mrs. Potter’s may be involved. I suppose you know that Dykes was an employee of my law firm?”
Finch: “Yes, I know that.”
That was a fumble. He did not know that. I bit my lip.
Corrigan: “Just as you have reason to think that Dykes was the author, I have reason to think that other interests are involved. Perhaps we can take a short cut and save time. Let me see the manuscript. Let me go over it now, in your presence. That will settle it.”
Finch: “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I don’t own it, you know.”
Corrigan: “But you have it. How did you get it?”
Finch: “Properly and legitimately, in the course of my business as a literary agent.”
Corrigan: “You’re not listed in the New York phone book. Two agents who were asked have never heard of you.”
Finch: “Then you shouldn’t be wasting time on me. Really, Mr. Corrigan, this isn’t Russia and you’re not the MVD. Are you?”
Corrigan: “No. What harm could it possibly do anyone for you to let me look over that manuscript?”
Finch: “It’s not a question of harm. It’s ordinary business ethics. An agent doesn’t show his clients’ manuscripts to just anybody who would like to see them. Of course I’d gladly show it to you, in fact I’d be obliged to, if you were representing Mrs. Potter, whom I believe to be the owner of it. But as it is, nothing doing. That’s final.”
Corrigan: “In effect I am representing Mrs. Potter. She wrote my firm for advice. She has complete confidence in me. She refuses to engage me as her attorney only because she fears that a New York law firm would charge her a big fee. We wouldn’t. We would charge her nothing.”
Finch: “You should tell her that.”
Corrigan: “I tried to. People here on the Coast, especially women of her class, have an ingrained suspicion of New Yorkers, you know that. It’s a stupid prejudice, and Mrs. Potter is a stupid woman.”
I thought to myself, brother, you couldn’t be wronger. He was going on. “You may wonder why I’m making so much of this little matter, flying out here, and I’ll tell you. I said other interests may be involved, and I have good reason to think they are—important interests. I warn you now, for the record, that you may dangerously compromise both yourself and Mrs. Potter. On reliable information I believe that that manuscript is libelous. I believe that even in submitting it for sale you are risking severe penalties. I strongly advise you to get competent legal advice on it, and I assure you that I am qualified to give it. I offer it without charge, not through an impulse of benevolence, but to protect the interests I mentioned. Let me see that manuscript!”
Finch: “If I decide I need legal advice I know where to get it. I never saw you before. I’ve never heard of you. How do I know what or who you are?”
Corrigan: “You don’t. Naturally.” Sounds indicated that he was leaving his chair. “Here. This may satisfy you. Here are—What’s the matter?”
More sounds. Finch: “I’m polite, that’s all. When a visitor stands, I stand. Keep your credentials, Mr. Corrigan. I don’t care how good they are. As far as I’m concerned you’re a stranger trying to stick his nose into my business, and I’m not having any. Flying out here because you think a manuscript may be libelous—that sounds pretty damn fishy. You’ll see no manuscript that’s in my care. You’ll have to—uuhie!”
That’s the best I can do at spelling the sound he made. Other immediate sounds were not spellable at all, though fairly interpretable. One was surely a chair toppling. Another was feet moving heavily and swiftly. Others were grunts. Then came three in a row that were unmistakable: a fist or fists landing, and, right after, something that was heavier than a chair hitting the floor.
FINCH: “Get up and try again.”
A pause with sound effects.
CORRIGAN: “I lost my head.”
FINCH: “Not yet. You may next time. Going?”
That ended the dialogue. Corrigan had no exit line that he cared to use. The only sounds that came were footsteps and the opening and closing of the door, then more footsteps and another opening of the door, and, after a wait, its closing and the lock being turned. I stayed put until the closet door swung open without my touching it.
Finch stood grinning. “Well?” he demanded.
“You’re on the honors list,” I told him. “This is my lucky week, first Mrs. Potter and now you. Where did you plug him?”
“Two body jabs and one on the side of the neck.”
“How did he invite it?”
“He swung first and then tried to lock me. That wasn’t much, but the strain of that talk, with you listening—I’m hungry. I want some lunch.”
“You won’t get any, not now, unless it’s a sandwich in a taxi. It’s your move. He’ll see that manuscript or bust, and one will get you ten he’s on his way to Mrs. Potter, who he thinks is stupid. You will get there first, if you step on it, and stay there. The address is Twenty-eight-nineteen Whitecrest Avenue, Glendale. I’ll phone her. Get going!”
“But what—”
“Scoot, damn it! Write me a letter.”
He moved. He got hat and raincoat from the closet and was gone. I uprighted the chair that had toppled, straightened a rug, went to the closet for my shoes, and put them on. Then I sat in the armchair by the phone and called the Glendale number.
“Mrs. Potter? Archie Goo—”
“Did he come?”
“He did. I hid in the closet while Finch talked with him. He would give his diploma from law school to see that manuscript. When he saw there was nothing doing he tried to lay Finch out and got knocked down. He left in a hurry, and I’m giving ten to one that he’s on his way to you, so I sent Finch and I’m hoping he’ll get there before Corrigan does. What—”
“Really, Mr. Goodwin, I’m not afraid!”
“Don’t I know it. But Corrigan will bear down hard for you to name him your counsel, and it will take most of the pressure off if Finch is there. Anyway, I think you’ll like Finch, he’s not coarse and crude like me. You may have to give him some lunch. If you make Corrigan your attorney, no matter what he says, I’ll come and throw rocks through your windows.”
“That would be coarse and crude, wouldn’t it? I honestly think you have no confidence in me at all.”
“Little you know. If Corrigan gets there first, stall him until Finch comes, and don’t forget Finch has been there before.”
“I won’t.”
We hung up.
Going to a window and seeing with pleasure that it was raining only about half as hard as it had been, I opened it a good four inches to get some air. I raised the question whether to phone Wolfe and decided to wait further developments. Having had no opportunity for a
look at the morning papers, I phoned down for some, and, when they came, got comfortable. The papers were no damn good, except the sports pages, but I gave them enough of a play to make sure that nothing had happened which required my immediate attention and then picked up Finch’s book, Twilight of the Absolute, and gave it a try. I got the impression that it probably made sense, but I ran across nothing that convinced me that I had been wrong in trying to get along without it.
The phone rang. It was Finch. He was calling from Mrs. Potter’s. He began reminding me that he had not accepted my offer of ten to one. I agreed. “I know you didn’t. He came, did he?”
“Yes. I was in ahead by five minutes. He was surprised to see me and not delighted. He insisted on talking with Mrs. Potter alone, but I listened in from the kitchen with her knowledge and consent. He poured it on about the danger of libel and how it wouldn’t cost her anything for him to read the manuscript and give her his professional advice, and the way he put it, it was hard for her to handle. She couldn’t brush him off as a stranger, as I had. You should have heard her.”
“I would have liked to. What was her line?”
“Simple. She said if there was libel in the manuscript she didn’t want to know it and didn’t want me to, because then it wouldn’t be right to sell it to the movies, but if we just go ahead and sell it, it will be up to the movie people and surely they have good lawyers. He couldn’t get it into her head that even so she would be responsible.”
“I’ll bet he couldn’t. Kiss her for me.”
“I wouldn’t mind a bit. She is sitting here. Frankly, it was a waste of taxi fare to send me out here.”
“No. Of course Corrigan has left?”
“Yes. He kept his taxi.”
“He may be back. He came to get his hands on that manuscript and he intends to. If he does go back there’s no telling what he’ll try. Stick around. Stay until you hear from me.”
“I think Mrs. Potter feels that her husband doesn’t like the idea of men in the house while he’s away, especially one at a time.”
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