Wolfe looked at Helen Lugos. “So when you told Mr. Goodwin that you did not look in the drawer every day, you lied. And you knew that the bomb, put in the drawer by Kenneth Meer, was intended for you. You had known that from the day it happened. You probably knew it, at least surmised it, the moment you entered the wrecked room.”
Browning was on his feet. “Come, Helen,” he said. “This is absurd. We’re going.”
“No,” Wolfe said. He turned to me, lifted a hand, and wiggled a finger. I went and opened the connecting door to the front room and stuck my head in and said, “Help.” Saul and Fred headed for the other door, to the hall, and Orrie came and joined me. Helen Lugos was up and moving, with Browning behind her, but before they reached the door to the hall Saul and Fred were there, and Helen Lugos stopped. Saul swung the door around, closed it, and he and Fred stood with their backs to it.
“You are not going, Mr. Browning,” Wolfe said. “Come and sit down.”
Browning turned. “This is absurd. Absolutely ridiculous.”
“It is not. I have more to say and I mean you to hear it. You might as well sit.”
“No. You’ll regret this.”
“I doubt it.” Wolfe turned. “Your notebook, Archie.”
I went to my desk, sat, got notebook and pen, and crossed my legs. A replay, though not quite instant.
Wolfe leaned back. “A suggested draft for an article in tomorrow’s Gazette. ‘Yesterday afternoon Nero Wolfe, comma, the private investigator, comma, told a Gazette reporter that he has learned who was responsible for the death by violence of Peter Odell, comma, a vice-president of the Continental Air Network, comma, on May twentieth. Period. Mr. Odell was killed by the explosion of a bomb in the office of Amory Browning, comma, also a vice-president of the Continental Air Network. Paragraph.
“‘Mr. Wolfe said, comma, quote, “I have established to my satisfaction that the bomb was put in a drawer of Mr. Browning’s desk by Kenneth Meer, comma, Mr. Browning’s assistant, dash, the drawer in which Mr. Browning kept a supply of bourbon whisky. Period. Mr. Meer knew that Miss Helen Lugos, comma, Mr. Browning’s secretary, comma, was in the habit of opening the drawer every afternoon to see that the whisky was there, comma, and he placed the bomb so it would explode when the drawer was opened. Period. However, comma, Mr. Odell entered the room shortly after three o’clock and opened the drawer, comma, it is not known why. Paragraph.
“‘Quote. “In these circumstances, comma, established to my satisfaction, comma, it is not only reasonable, comma, it is unavoidable, comma, to suppose that Miss Lugos has been aware that the bomb must have been put in the drawer by Mr. Meer, comma, and the supposition is supported by the fact that she has consistently denied that she habitually opened the drawer every day to check on the whisky. Period. Also it is reasonable to suppose that Mr. Browning was aware of that too, comma, or at least suspected it. Period. Kenneth Meer knew of the intimate personal relationship that existed between Mr. Browning and Miss Lugos, comma, and was tormented by the knowledge. Period. He was torn by two intense and conflicting desires. Colon. His ardent wish to advance through his association with Mr. Browning, comma, and his concupiscence. Period. It may be assumed—”’”
“This is worse than ridiculous.” Browning was standing at the end of Wolfe’s desk. “It’s idiotic. No newspaper would print it. Any of it.”
“Oh, yes. The Gazette would, with a guaranty from Mrs. Odell to cover all expenses. Yes, indeed. You’re up a stump, Mr. Browning, and so is Miss Lugos. Not only the publicity; you would have to sue for libel, or persuade the District Attorney to charge us with criminal libel. That would be obligatory, and both of you would have to submit to questioning under oath. That would be idiotic, for a man in your position.”
For the second time that day something happened that was hard to believe. Browning stood with his eyes glued to Wolfe, but probably not really seeing him, his shoulders set, and his chin back. Twenty seconds, half a minute, I don’t know; and then he turned right around and looked at Helen Lugos, who had stayed over by the door, an arm’s reach from Saul and Orrie. And she said, “Ask him what he wants.” It was a suggestion, not a command, but even so, from a secretary to a vice-president soon to be a president? Women’s Lib, or what?
Whatever it was, it worked fine. He turned back to Wolfe and asked, “What do you want?”
“I like eyes at a level,” Wolfe said. “Please sit down.”
Helen Lugos came back to the yellow chair, and sat. At least she left the red leather chair for him, and he took it, or some of it—about the front eight inches of the seat, barely enough to keep his rump on—and asked again, “What do you want?”
“From you, not much,” Wolfe said. “I am not Jupiter Fidius. I want only to do the job I was hired to do. I think I know the present state of Kenneth Meer’s mind. His mood, his spirit. I think he’s pregnable. I want to get him on the telephone, tell him you and Miss Lugos are here, and ask him to join us for a discussion. If he refuses or demurs, I want you to speak to him and tell him to come. I don’t know how things stand between you and him; of course during these six weeks you would have liked to turn him out, but didn’t dare. Will he come if you tell him to?”
“Yes. Then what?”
“We’ll see. One possibility, he may acknowledge that he put the bomb in the drawer, but claim that it was intended for Peter Odell—that he knew that Odell intended to come and open the drawer. There are other possibilities, and it may be that his real motive need not be divulged. That would please you and Miss Lugos, and I have no animus against you, but I make no commitment. This is your one chance to get out of it with minor bruises. I know too much now that the police should know.”
Would he ask her for another suggestion? No. He looked at her, but only for a second, and then said, “All right. If you think—all right.”
Wolfe turned to me: “Get him.”
That was one of the possible snags. What if he wasn’t there? What if he had got a toothache or twisted an ankle and left for the day? But he hadn’t. I got him and Wolfe got on. I stayed on.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Meer. I’m calling from my office, at the suggestion of Mr. Browning. He and Miss Lugos are here. We have talked at some length, and have come to a point where we need your help. Can you come at once?”
“Why—they’re there?”
“Yes. Since half past two.”
“Mr. Browning told you to call me?”
“Yes. He’s right here. Do you want to speak to him?”
“I don’t—no. No. All right. I’ll leave in five minutes.”
He hung up. Wolfe told Browning, “He’ll leave in five minutes. You and Miss Lugos may wish to speak privately. This room is sound-proofed.” He stood. “Would you like something to drink?”
Browning looked at her and she shook her head, and he said, “No.” Saul and Fred left by the hall door, closing it after them, and Wolfe and Orrie and I left by the door to the front room. In a moment Saul and Fred joined us. Wolfe said, “I’m going to the kitchen. I’m thirsty. Any questions? Any comments?”
Orrie said, “It’s all set. It’s up to him.”
Wolfe went by the hall door. Fred said, “If anyone wants a bet, I’m giving two to one that he’ll have it.”
Saul said, “I’d rather have your end.”
I said, “I don’t want either end.”
They debated it. At a time like that, it only makes it longer to keep looking at your watch, but that’s what I did. 3:22, 3:24, 3:27. At that time of day there should be taxis headed downtown on Ninth Avenue in the Fifties, and it was only nineteen blocks. At half past three I went to the hall, leaving the door open, and stood with my nose against the oneway glass of the front door. Me and my watch. 3:32, 3:34, 3:36. He had been run over by a truck or something. He was on his way to the airport. At 3:37 a taxi rolled up in front and stopped alongside the parked cars, and the door opened, and he climbed out, and he had the brief case. I called through the open door
to the front room, “Okay, he has it!” and they came. Orrie went down the hall to the door to the office and stood. Fred stood at my left by the rack; he would be behind the door when I opened it. Saul stood in the doorway to the front room. Kenneth Meer mounted the stoop with the brief case tucked under his left arm. He pushed the button, and I counted a slow ten and opened the door, and he stepped in. With the brief case under his arm, that hand was pressed against his left hip, and his right hand was hanging loose. I don’t think I have ever made a faster or surer move. Facing him, I got his two wrists, and I got them good, and Saul, from behind him, got the brief case. His mouth popped open but no sound came, and he went stiff top to bottom, absolutely stiff. Then he tried to turn around, but I had his wrists, and only his head could turn. Saul had backed away, holding the brief case against his belly with both hands. I said, “Go ahead and don’t drop it,” and he started down the hall to the rear, where the stair to the basement was, and at the door to the office Orrie joined him. I let go of Meer’s wrists, and he stood, still stiff, and stared down the hall at Saul going. He still hadn’t made a sound. Then suddenly he started to slump. He made it over to the bench, flopped down on it, bent over with his face in his hands, and started to shake all over. Still no sound, absolutely none. I told Fred, “Keep him company,” and headed for the kitchen.
Wolfe was on his stool at the center table with a beer glass in his hand. “You win,” I said. “He had it and we got it.”
“Where is he?”
“In the hall.”
You wouldn’t believe how easy and smooth he can remove his seventh of a ton off of a stool. I followed him down the hall. Meer was still huddled on the bench and still shaking. Wolfe stood and looked down at him for a good ten seconds, told Fred, “Stay here,” went back down the hall and opened the office door and entered, and I followed. Browning, in the red leather chair, asked, “Did he come? The doorbell rang five min—”
“Shut up,” Wolfe snapped, and crossed to his desk and sat and glared at them. “Yes,” he said, “he came. When he came Saturday, day before yesterday, he was in his own car, but he didn’t leave his brief case in it. He kept it with him, and he kept it in his lap as he sat where you are now. When I decided today to ask him to come, later, I thought it likely that he would bring the brief case, and if so there would be a bomb in it, since he would know you two were here. It was only a conjecture, but well-grounded, and it has been verified. He came, and he had the brief case, and it is now in my basement under a pile of mattresses. On your way out, you will pass him in the hall—prostrated, wretched, defeated. Pass him, just pass him. He is no longer yours. I am now—”
“But my god, what—”
“Shut up! I am now going to call Mr. Cramer and ask him to come and bring with him men who know how to deal with bombs. If you don’t want to encounter him, leave at once. Go.”
He turned to me. “Get him, Archie.”
I swiveled and dialed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
REX STOUT, the creator of Nero Wolfe, was born in Noblesville, Indiana, in 1886, the sixth of nine children of John and Lucetta Todhunter Stout, both Quakers. Shortly after his birth, the family moved to Wakarusa, Kansas. He was educated in a country school, but, by the age of nine, was recognized throughout the state as a prodigy in arithmetic. Mr. Stout briefly attended the University of Kansas, but left to enlist in the Navy, and spent the next two years as a warrant officer on board President Theodore Roosevelt’s yacht. When he left the Navy in 1908, Rex Stout began to write freelance articles, worked as a sightseeing guide and as an itinerant bookkeeper. Later he devised and implemented a school banking system which was installed in four hundred cities and towns throughout the country. In 1927 Mr. Stout retired from the world of finance and, with the proceeds of his banking scheme, left for Paris to write serious fiction. He wrote three novels that received favorable reviews before turning to detective fiction. His first Nero Wolfe novel, Fer-de-Lance, appeared in 1934. It was followed by many others, among them, Too Many Cooks, The Silent Speaker, If Death Ever Slept, The Doorbell Rang and Please Pass the Guilt, which established Nero Wolfe as a leading character on a par with Erle Stanley Gardner’s famous protagonist, Perry Mason. During World War II, Rex Stout waged a personal campaign against Nazism as chairman of the War Writers’ Board, master of ceremonies of the radio program “Speaking of Liberty” and as a member of several national committees. After the war, he turned his attention to mobilizing public opinion against the wartime use of thermonuclear devices, was an active leader in the Authors’ Guild and resumed writing his Nero Wolfe novels. Rex Stout died in 1975 at the age of eighty-eight. A month before his death, he published his seventy-second Nero Wolfe mystery, A Family Affair.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
PLEASE PASS THE GUILT
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with The Viking Press, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-75610-7
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1973 by Rex Stout.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by
mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Viking Press, Inc.,
625 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022.
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.
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