by Rex Stout
It was a short walk to my next stop, an older and dingier office building on Forty-third Street west of Fifth Avenue. After taking the elevator to the fourth floor and entering a door that was labeled Modern Thoughts, I got a pleasant surprise. Having on Sunday bought a copy of the magazine that Vincent Lipscomb edited, and looked through it before passing it to Wolfe, I had supposed that any female employed by it would have all her points of interest, if any, inside her skull; but a curvy little number with dancing eyes, seated at a switchboard, gave me one bright glance and then welcomed me with a smile which indicated that the only reason she had taken the job was that she thought I would show up someday.
I would have enjoyed cooperating by asking her what kind of orchids she liked, but it would soon be noon, so I merely returned the smile, told her I wanted to see Mr. Lipscomb, and handed her a card.
“A card?” she said appreciatively. “Real style, huh?” Seeing what was on it, she gave me a second look, still friendly but more reserved, inserted a plug with lively fingers, pressed a button, and in a moment spoke into the transmitter.
She pulled out the plug, handed me the card, and said, “Through there and third door on the left.”
I didn’t have to count to three because as I started down the dark narrow hall a door opened and a man appeared and bellowed at me as if I had been across a river, “In here!” Then he went back in. When I entered he was standing with his back to a window with his hands thrust into his pants pockets. The room was small, and the one desk and two chairs could have been picked up on Second Avenue for the price of a pair of Warburton shoes.
“Mr. Lipscomb?”
“Yes.”
“You know who I am.”
“Yes.”
His voice, though below a bellow, was up to five times as many decibels as were needed. It could have been to match his stature, for he was two inches above me, with massive shoulders that much wider; or it could have been in compensation for his nose, which was wide and flat and would have spoiled any map no matter what the rest of it was.
“This is a confidential matter,” I told him. “Personal and private.”
“Yes.”
“And between you and me only. My proposition is just from me and it’s just for you.”
“What is it?”
“An offer to exchange information for cash. Since you’re a magazine editor, that’s an old story to you. For five thousand dollars I’ll tell you about the talk Mrs. Fromm had with Mr. Wolfe last Friday. Authentic and complete.”
He removed a hand from a pocket to scratch a cheek, then put it back. When he spoke his voice was down to a reasonable level. “My dear fellow, I’m not Harry Luce. Anyway, magazines don’t buy like that. The procedure is this: you tell me in confidence what you have, and then, if I can use it, we agree on the amount. If we can’t agree, no one is out anything.” He raised the broad shoulders and let them drop. “I don’t know. I shall certainly run a piece on Laura Fromm, a thoughtful and provocative piece; she was a great woman and a great lady; but at the moment I don’t see how your information would fit in. What’s it like?”
“I don’t mean for your magazine, Mr. Lipscomb, I mean for you personally.”
He frowned. If he wasn’t straight he was good. “I’m afraid I don’t get you.”
“It’s perfectly simple. I heard that talk, all of it. That evening Mrs. Fromm was murdered, and you’re involved, and I have-”
“That’s absurd. I am not involved. Words are my specialty, Mr. Goodwin, and one difficulty with them is that everybody uses them, too often in ignorance of their proper meaning. I’m willing to assume that you used that word in ignorance-otherwise it was slanderous. I am not involved.”
“Okay. Are you concerned?”
“Of course I am. I wasn’t intimate with Mrs. Fromm, but I esteemed her highly and was proud to know her.”
“You were at the party at Horan’s Friday evening. You were one of the last to see her alive. The police, who specialize in words too in a way, have asked you a lot of questions and will ask you more. But say you’re concerned. Everything considered, including what I heard Mrs. Fromm tell Mr. Wolfe, I thought you might be concerned five thousand dollars’ worth.”
“This begins to sound like blackmail. Is it?”
“Search me. You’re the word specialist. I’m ignorant.”
His hands abruptly left his pockets, and for a second I thought he was going to make contact, but he only rubbed his palms together. “If it’s blackmail,” he said, “there must be a threat. If I pay, what then?”
“No threat. You get the information, that’s all.”
“And if I don’t pay?”
“You don’t get it.”
“Who does?”
I shook my head. “I said no threat. I’m just trying to sell you something.”
“Of course. A threat doesn’t have to be explicit. It has been published that Wolfe is investigating the death of Mrs. Fromm.”
“Right.”
“But she didn’t engage him to do that, since surely she wasn’t anticipating her death. This is how it looks. She paid Wolfe to investigate something or somebody, and that evening she was killed. He considered himself under obligation to investigate her death. You can’t be offering to sell me information that Wolfe regards as being connected with her death, because you couldn’t possibly suppress such evidence without Wolfe’s connivance, and you’re not claiming that, are you?”
“No.”
“Then what you’re offering is information, something Mrs. Fromm told Wolfe, that need not be disclosed as related to her death. Isn’t that correct?”
“No comment.”
He shook his head. “That won’t do. Unless you tell me that, I couldn’t possibly deal with you. I don’t say I will deal if you do tell me, but without that I can’t decide.”
He about-faced and was looking out the window, if his eyes were open. All I had was his broad back. He stayed that way long enough to take his temperature, and then some. Finally he turned.
“I don’t see that it would help any, Goodwin, for me to characterize your conduct as it deserves. Good God, what a way to make a living! Here I am, giving all my time and talent and energy in an effort to improve the tone of human conduct-and there you are. But that doesn’t interest you-all you care about is money. Good God! Money! I’ll think it over. I may phone you and I may not. You’re in the book?”
I told him yes, Nero Wolfe’s number, and, not caring to hear any more ugly facts about myself as compared to him, I slunk out. My cheerful little friend at the switchboard might have been willing to buck me up some, but I felt it would be bad for her to have any contact with my kind of character and went right on by.
Down the street I found a phone booth, dialed the number I knew best, and had Wolfe’s voice in my ear.
“Ready with Number Four,” I told him. “Lipscomb. Are you comfortable?”
“Go ahead. No questions.”
His saying “No questions” meant that he was not alone. So I took extra care to give it all to him, including my spot opinion of the improver of the tone of human conduct. That done, I told him it was twenty minutes past twelve, to save him the trouble of looking up at the clock, and asked if I should proceed to Number Five, Paul Kuffner, the public-relations adviser who had operated on me so smoothly when he found me with Jean Estey.
“No,” he said curtly. “Come home at once. Mr. Paul Kuffner is here, and I want to see you.”
Chapter 10
The tone and wording of Wolfe’s command had of course warned me what to expect, so I wasn’t surprised at the dirty look he gave me as I entered the office. Paul Kuffner, in the red leather chair, didn’t turn on the smile of enthusiastic approval he had favored me with Saturday, but I wouldn’t have called his expression hostile. I suppose sound public relations rule out open hostility to a fellow being unless he actually chews on your ear. One little bite wouldn’t be enough.
As I sat at my d
esk Wolfe spoke. “Don’t sit there, Archie. Your right to sit at that desk is suspended.” He pointed to one of the yellow chairs. “Move, please.”
I was astounded. “What! What’s the idea?”
“Move, please.” He was grim.
I told my face that in addition to being astounded I was hurt and bewildered, as I arose, went to the yellow chair, lowered myself, and met his withering gaze. His tone matched. “Mr. Kuffner has made a shocking accusation. I want you to hear it from him. Mr. Kuffner?”
It pained Kuffner to have to say it. His thick wide mouth puckered, making an arc of his plucked-eyebrow mustache. He addressed me, not Wolfe. “I am informed that you made an offer this morning to a woman whose veracity I rely upon. She says that you offered to tell her all about the talk Mrs. Fromm had with Mr. Wolfe last Friday, if she would first pay you five thousand dollars in cash.”
I did not leap from my chair in indignation. Being a veteran detective of wide experience under the guidance of Nero Wolfe, I should be able to meet a contemptible frame-up with some poise. I raised my chin a quarter of an inch and asked him, “What’s the woman’s name?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t told Mr. Wolfe because she requested me not to. Of course you know it.”
“I’ve forgotten. Tell me.”
“No.”
“For God’s sake.” I was mildly disgusted. “If you were a United States Senator, naturally I wouldn’t expect you to name my accuser, but since you’re not, go climb a tree.”
Kuffner was distressed but stubborn. “It seems to me quite simple. All I ask you to do is answer the question, did you make such an offer to any woman this morning?”
“Okay, say I answer it. Then you say that some man told you that I stole the cheese out of his mousetrap last night, and did I, and I answer that. Then you say that some horse told you that I cut off his tail-”
“That will do,” Wolfe put in. “He does have a point, Mr. Kuffner. Anonymous accusations are in questionable taste.”
“It’s not anonymous to me. I know her.”
“Then name her.”
“I was asked not to.”
“If you promised not to I’m afraid we’re at an impasse. I’m not surprised that Mr. Goodwin makes this demand; he would be a ninny if he didn’t. So that ends it. I shall not pursue it. If you are not justified in expecting an answer to an anonymous accusation, neither am I.”
Kuffner puckered his mouth, and the mustache was a parenthesis lying on its back. His hand went automatically to his side pocket and came out with a cigarette case. He opened it and removed one, looked at it and became aware of it, and asked, “May I smoke?”
“No,” Wolfe said flatly.
That was by no means a hard and fast rule. It had been relaxed not only for some men, but even for a few women, not necessarily prospective clients. Kuffner was frustrated and confused. A performance of a basic habit had been arbitrarily stopped, and also he had a problem. Taking a cigarette from a metal case with a clamp needs only a flick of a finger and thumb, but putting one back in is more complicated. He solved it by returning the case to his left side pocket and putting the cigarette in his right one. He was trying not to be flustered, but his voice showed it. “It was Miss Angela Wright.”
I met it like a man. “Miss Wright told you that?”
“Yes.”
“That I made her that offer?”
“Yes.”
I got up and made for my desk. Wolfe asked, “What are you doing?”
“Phoning Miss Wright to ask her. If she says yes, I’ll call her a purebred liar and offer her a pedigree certificate for five thousand bucks.”
“She’s not there,” Kuffner said.
“Where is she?”
“She was going to get a bite of lunch and then go to the chapel where the funeral will be held.”
“Did you,” Wolfe asked, “make Miss Wright an offer as described by Mr. Kuffner?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you say anything to her that could have been reasonably construed as such an offer?”
“No, sir.”
“Did anyone else hear your conversation with her?”
“Not unless that room is wired for sound.”
“Then sit at your desk, please.” Wolfe turned to the visitor. “If you have correctly reported what Miss Wright told you, it is an issue of veracity between her and Mr. Goodwin. I believe Mr. Goodwin. Other than what you have said, have you any evidence to impeach him?”
“No evidence, no.”
“Do you still believe Miss Wright?”
“I-yes. I do.”
“Then there we are. You realize, I suppose, that for me it is not exclusively a choice between Miss Wright and Mr. Goodwin as the liar, since I have no knowledge of what she told you except your own statement.”
Kuffner smiled. He had caught up now and was bland again. “We might as well make it unanimous, Mr. Wolfe. I didn’t mention this because it was only an inference by Miss Wright. It is her opinion that you sent Goodwin to her to make that offer. So for me too they are not the only alternatives.”
Wolfe nodded, unconcerned. “Once the fabric is woven it may be embellished at will.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s twenty minutes to my lunchtime. We’re at a dead end and might as well quit unless you want to proceed on a hypothesis. We can assume that either Miss Wright or you is lying, or we can assume that Mr. Goodwin is, or he and I both are. I’m quite willing, as a basis for discussion, to assume the last. That’s the best position you could possibly have expected to occupy. What then?”
Kuffner was ready for it. “Then I ask you how you can justify making an improper and coercive proposal to Miss Wright.”
“I reply that you have no mandate to regulate my conduct. Then?”
“I would decide-this would be with reluctance-I would probably decide that it was my duty to inform the police that you were interfering with the official investigation of a murder.”
“Nonsense. My talk with Mrs. Fromm has been reported to them, but not with a copyright. I’m not an attorney, and what a client says to me is not privileged. There was no interference or impropriety, and certainly no coercion. I had something that was legally and rightfully in my possession, a record of a talk, and I offered to sell it, with no attempt at compulsion or any hint of a disagreeable alternative. Your decision to report it to the police doesn’t interest me.”
Kuffner was smiling. “You certainly were prepared for that.”
“I should have been. I framed the hypothesis. What next?”
The smile disappeared. “I would like to drop the hypothesis. Even if I could prove the offer was made-and I can’t, except for Miss Wright’s word-since you think you can justify it-and I’ll grant you’re right for the sake of argument-where would that get me? We haven’t much time left-I must get to the funeral-and I want to get down to business.”
“Your business or mine?”
“Both.” Kuffner leaned forward. “My professional function, Mr. Wolfe, is to give advice to my clients, and to some extent handle their affairs, so that they and their activities will be regarded in a favorable light. Mrs. Fromm was one of my clients. Another was, and is, the Association for the Aid of Displaced Persons. I have a strong feeling of obligation to Mrs. Fromm which was not diminished by her death-on the contrary, I will do anything in my power to see that her memory and reputation are not damaged. Also I am concerned about the Association. As far as I know, there was no connection between her death and the Association’s affairs, but it is possible that there was one. Do you know of any?”
“Go on, Mr. Kuffner.”
“I am. I think it is more than possible, it is very probable, that there was a connection between Mrs. Fromm’s death and her talk with you on Friday. What she consulted you about must have been secret, because to my knowledge she told no one of coming to see you. It would have been the natural thing for her to tell me, that’s obvious, but she didn’t. It must have been important
, because she certainly wouldn’t have called on a private detective, especially you, about anything trivial. And if it was connected with whatever and whoever killed her, it must have been more than important, it must have been vital. I want to know about it-I need to know about it. I have tried to get the police to tell me-and they won’t. You have just said that the record of that talk is legally and rightfully in your possession and it wouldn’t be improper for you to sell it. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for it. Cash in advance. If you want it in currency I can have it this afternoon.”
Wolfe was frowning at him. “Which is it, Mr. Kuffner, black or white? You can’t have it both ways. You were going to report an iniquitous proposal to the police, and now you are ready to be a party to it. An extraordinary ethical somersault.”
“No more extraordinary than yours,” Kuffner contended. “You were condemning Goodwin for it-you even ordered him away from his desk-and then you justified it.”
“Certainly. Mr. Goodwin would have been offering to sell something that doesn’t belong to him; it belongs to me.” Wolfe flipped a hand. “But your dexterity as a casuistic acrobat, though impressive, is collateral. The question is, do I accept your offer? The answer is no. I must decline it.”
Kuffner’s fist hit the chair arm. “You can’t decline! You can’t!”
“No?”
“No! I have a right to demand this as the representative of Mrs. Fromm’s interests! You have no right to decline! It’s improper interference with my legitimate function!”
Wolfe shook his head. “If there were no other reason for my refusal it would be enough that I’m afraid to deal with you. You’re much too agile for me. Only minutes ago it was improper interference for me to offer to sell the information; now it’s improper interference for me to refuse to sell it. You have me befuddled, and I must at least have time to get my bearings. I know how to reach you.” He glanced at the clock. “You’ll be late for the funeral.”