Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 01

by Fer-De-Lance

  “Day before yesterday,” I observed.

  Durkin, I saw, had his notebook open too, and now he nodded. “Monday, June fourth.”

  Wolfe shook his head. He had been sitting as still and unobservant as a mountain with his chin lodged on his chest, and now without moving otherwise his head shook faintly as he murmured, “Durkin. Today is Wednesday, June seventh.”

  “Well?” Fred stared. “Okay with me, Mr. Wolfe.”

  Wolfe wiggled a finger at Maria. “Was it Monday?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. That’s my evening off.”

  “You should know that evening. Durkin, annotate your notebook, or, better perhaps, throw it away. You are a full twelvemonth ahead of your times; next year Monday will be June fourth.” He turned to the woman. “Maria Maffei, I am sorry to have to give you a counsel of desperation. Consult the police.”

  “I have, sir.” A gleam of resentment shot from her eyes. “They say he has gone to Italy with my money.”

  “Perhaps he has.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Wolfe. You know better. You have looked at me. You can see I would not know so little of a brother as that.”

  “Do the police tell you what boat your brother sailed on?”

  “How could they? There has been no boat. They do not investigate or even consider. They merely say he has gone to Italy.”

  “I see, they do it by inspiration. Well. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I can only guess. Robbery. Where is his body then? Again consult the police. Sooner or later someone will find it for them and your puzzle will be solved.”

  Maria Maffei shook her head. “I don’t believe it, Mr. Wolfe. I just don’t believe it. And there was the phone call.”

  I broke in, “You mentioned no phone call.”

  She smiled at me with her teeth. “I would have. There was a phone call for him at the rooming-house a little before seven. The phone there is in the downstairs hall and the girl heard him talking. He was excited and he agreed to meet someone at half-past seven.” She turned to Wolfe. “You can help me, sir. You can help me find Carlo. I have learned to look cool like the grass in the morning because I have been so long among these Americans, but I am Italian and I must find my brother and I must see anyone who has hurt him.”

  Wolfe only shook his head. She paid no attention.

  “You must, sir. Mr. Durkin says you are very tight about money. I still have something left and I could pay all expenses and maybe a little more. And you are Mr. Durkin’s friend and I am Mrs. Durkin’s friend, my friend Fanny.”

  Wolfe said, “I am nobody’s friend. How much can you pay?”

  She hesitated.

  “How much have you got?”

  “I have—well—more than a thousand dollars.”

  “How much of it would you pay?”

  “I would pay—all of it. If you find my brother alive, all of it. If you find him not alive and show him to me and show me the one who hurt him, I would still pay a good deal. I would pay first for the funeral.”

  Wolfe’s eyelids lowered slowly and raised slowly. That, as I knew, meant his approval; I had often looked for that sign, and frequently in vain, when I was reporting to him. He said, “You’re a practical woman, Maria Maffei. Moreover, possibly, a woman of honor. You are right, there is something in me that can help you; it is genius; but you have not furnished the stimulant to arouse it and whether it will be awakened in search of your brother is problematical. In any event, routine comes first, and the expense of that will be small.”

  He turned to me.

  “Archie, go to Carlo Maffei’s rooming-house; his sister will accompany you as authority. See the girl who heard the phone call; see others; examine his room; if any trail is indicated phone here for Saul Panzer any time after five; returning here bring with you any articles that seem to you unimportant.”

  I thought it was unnecessary for him to take that dig at me before a stranger, but I had long since learned that there was no point in resenting his pleasantries. Maria Maffei got up from her chair and thanked him.

  Durkin took a step forward. “About that being tight with money, Mr. Wolfe, you know how a man’s tongue will get started—”

  I rescued him. “Come on, Fred, we’ll take the roadster and I might as well drop you on the way.”

  Chapter 2

  When I parked the big shiny black roadster in front of the number on Sullivan Street Maria Maffei had given me I felt that I might never see it alive and happy again—the roadster I mean—for the street was littered with rubbish and full of wild Italian kids yelling and dashing around like black-eyed demons. But I had had the roadster in worse places than that, as for instance the night I chased young Graves, who was in a Pierce coupé with a satchel of emeralds between his knees, from New Milford all over Pike County, up and down a dozen mountains in a foot of mud and the worst rain I ever saw. It was Wolfe’s orders that after every little rub the roadster should be fixed up as good as new, and of course that pleased me just as well.

  It was just another rooming-house. For some reason or other they’re all alike, whether it’s a high-hat affair in the Fifties or a brownstone west of Central Park full of honest artist girls or an Italian hangout like this one on Sullivan Street. With, of course, a difference in details like garlic. Maria Maffei took me first to the landlady, a nice fat woman with wet hands and a pushed-in nose and rings on her fingers, and then upstairs to her brother’s room. I looked around a little while Maria Maffei went to get the girl who had heard the phone call. It was a good-sized room on the third floor with two windows. The rug was worn and the furniture old and sort of broken, but it was clean and really not a bad room except for the noise from the hoodlums below when I opened the window to see if the roadster was still on its feet. Two large traveling bags were stacked in a corner, one flimsy and old and done for, the other one old too but sturdy and good. Neither was locked. The flimsy one was empty; the good one contained a lot of small tools of different shapes and sizes, some of which had pawnshop tags hanging on them, and some pieces of wood and metal and odds and ends like coil springs. The closet contained an old suit of clothes, two overalls, an overcoat, two pairs of shoes, and a felt hat. In the drawers of the bureau which stood between the windows was an assortment, not scanty for a man who had been living on his sister for a year, of shirts, ties, handkerchiefs, socks, and a lot of miscellaneous junk like shoestrings, lead pencils, snapshots, and empty pipe-tobacco cans. In an upper drawer was a bundle of seventeen letters in envelopes all with Italian postage stamps, fastened with a rubber band. Scattered around in the same drawer were receipts and paid bills, a tablet of writing-paper, a few clippings from newspapers and magazines, and a dog collar. On top of the bureau, along with comb and brush and similar impedimenta as Wolfe would say, were half a dozen books, all in Italian except one that was full of pictures and designs, and a big stack of magazines, different monthly issues for three years back all with the same name, Metal Crafts. In the corner by the right window was a plain rough wood table with its top scarred and cut all over, and on it was a small vise, a grinder and buffer with an electric cord long enough to reach the lamp socket, and some more tools like those in the traveling bag. I was looking over the grinder to see how recently it had been used when Maria Maffei came in with the girl.

  “This is Anna Fiore,” the woman said.

  I went over and shook hands with her. She was a homely kid about twenty with skin like stale dough, and she looked like she’d been scared in the cradle and never got over it. I told her my name and said that I had learned from Miss Maffei that she had heard Mr. Maffei answering the phone call before he went out Monday evening. She nodded.

  I turned to the woman. “I expect you’d like to get along back uptown, Miss Maffei. Anna and I will get along.”

  She shook her head. “If I’m back by dinner it will be all right.”

  I got a little gruff. The truth was that I agreed with Durkin that it was a washout and that there was nothing to be expected fro
m it but fanning the air. So I told Maria Maffei that I could easily do without her and she’d better trot along and she’d hear from Wolfe if there was anything to hear. She shot a glance at the girl and showed her teeth to me, and left us.

  I pulled a couple of chairs face to face and got the girl deposited on one in front of me, and pulled out my notebook.

  “You’ve got nothing to be scared of,” I told her. “The worst that can happen to you is that you’ll do a favor to Miss Maffei and her brother and she might give you some money. Do you like Miss Maffei?”

  She seemed startled, as if surprised that anyone should think it worth the trouble to learn her likes and dislikes, but the answer was ready behind the surprise. “Yes, I like her. She is nice.”

  “Do you like Mr. Maffei?”

  “Yes, of course, everybody does. Except when he drinks, then a girl should stay away from him.”

  “How did you happen to hear the phone call Monday evening? Were you expecting it?”

  “How could I be expecting it?”

  “I don’t know. Did you answer the phone?”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Ricci answered it. She told me to call Mr. Maffei and I called upstairs. Then I was clearing the table in the dining-room and the door was open and I could hear him talking.”

  “Could you hear what he said?”

  “Of course.” She looked a little scornful. “We always hear everything anyone says on the telephone. Mrs. Ricci heard him too, she heard the same as I did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “First he said hello. Then he said well this is Carlo Maffei what do you want. Then he said that’s my business I’ll tell you when I see you. Then he said why not here in my room. Then he said no I’m not scared I’m not the one to be scared. Mrs. Ricci says it was it’s not me that’s scared, but she don’t remember right. Then he said sure I want the money and a lot more. Then he said all right seven-thirty at the corner of. Then he said shut up yourself what do I care. Then he said all right seven-thirty I know that car.”

  She stopped. I said, “Who was he talking to?”

  I supposed of course that the answer would be that she didn’t know, since Maria Maffei had not known, but she said at once, “The man that called him up before.”

  “Before? When?”

  “Quite a few times. In May. One day twice. Mrs. Ricci says nine times before Monday altogether.” “Did you ever hear his voice?” “No, sir. Mrs. Ricci always answers.” “Did you ever hear this man’s name?” “No, sir. After Mrs. Ricci got curious she asked it, but he always just said never mind tell him he’s wanted on the phone.”

  I began to think there might be some fun in this somewhere, possibly even some money. Not that the money interested me; that was for Wolfe; it was the fun I was after. Anyway it might not be just a stick-up and a stiff in the East River. I decided to see what I could get, and I went after that girl. I had heard Wolfe do it many a time, and while I knew most of his results came from a kind of feeling that wasn’t in me, still a lot of it was just patience and hit-or-miss. So I went after her. I kept at it two hours, and collected a lot of facts, but not one that meant anything to me. Once I thought I might be getting warm when I learned that Carlo Maffei had two different women with whom he appeared publicly on different occasions, and one of them was married; but when I saw that wouldn’t tie up with the phone call I threw it out. Maffei had mentioned going to Italy but had given no details. He had pretty well kept his business in his own bosom. He had never had callers except his sister and a friend from his old prosperous days with whom he had occasionally gone to dine. I pumped her for two hours and couldn’t see a gleam anywhere, but something about that phone call kept me from calling it a dull day and putting on my hat. Finally I said to her:

  “You stay here a minute, Anna, while I go down and see Mrs. Ricci.”

  The landlady confirmed the girl’s version of the phone call and said she had no idea who the caller was though she had tried on several occasions to find out. I asked her a few questions here and there, and then requested permission to take Anna with me uptown. She said no, she couldn’t be left alone with the dinner to get, so I produced a dollar bill, and she asked what time she might expect the girl back, saying that it must not be later than nine o’clock.

  After taking my dollar! I told her, “I can make no promises, Mrs. Ricci, when my boss gets started asking questions nights and days are nothing. But she’ll be back safe and sound as soon as possible.”

  I went upstairs and got Anna and some of the stuff from the bureau drawer and when we got to the street was relieved to find that the roadster hadn’t lost a fender or a spare tire.

  I moseyed along uptown taking it easy, not wanting to reach Thirty-fifth Street too soon, since Wolfe was always upstairs with the plants from four to six and it wasn’t a good idea to disturb him during those two hours unless you had to. Anna was overwhelmed by the roadster; she kept her feet pulled back against the seat and her hands folded tight in her lap. That tickled me and I felt kindly toward her, so I told her that I might give her a dollar if she told my boss anything that would help him out. It was a minute or two after six when I pulled up in front of the old brownstone less than a block from the Hudson River where Wolfe had lived for twenty years and where I had been with him a third of that.

  Anna didn’t get home that night by nine o’clock. It was after eleven when Wolfe sent me to the Times office for the papers, and it was well past midnight when we finally hit on the spot that Anna recognized. By that time Mrs. Ricci had telephoned three times, and when I got to Sullivan Street with the girl a little before one the landlady was waiting out in front, maybe with a knife in her sock. But she didn’t say a word, only glared at me. I had given Anna her dollar, for something had happened.

  I had reported to Wolfe up in the front plant-room, the sun-room, leaving Anna down in the office. He sat there in the big chair with a red and tan orchid eight inches wide tickling the back of his neck, looking not interested. He really wasn’t interested. He barely glanced at the papers and things I had brought with me from Maffei’s room. He admitted that the phone call had a dash of possibility in it, but couldn’t see that there was anything to bother about. I tried to persuade him that since the girl was already downstairs he might as well take it up and see what he could get; and I added with malice:

  “Anyway, she cost a dollar. I had to give the landlady a dollar.”

  “That was your dollar, Archie.”

  “No, sir, it was an expense dollar. It’s down in the book.”

  I went with him to the elevator. If he had had to do his own lifting and lowering I don’t think he would ever have gone upstairs, even for the plants.

  He began on Anna at once. It was beautiful. Five years earlier I wouldn’t have appreciated it. It was beautiful because it was absolutely comprehensive. If there was anything in that girl, any bit of knowledge, any apparently forgotten shred of feeling or reaction, that could show us a direction or give us a hint, it simply could not have kept away from him. He questioned her for five hours. He asked her about Carlo Maffei’s voice, his habits, his clothing, his meals, his temper, his table manners, his relations with his sister, with Mrs. Ricci, with Anna herself, with everyone Anna had ever seen him with. He asked her about Mrs. Ricci, about all the residents of the rooming-house for two years, about the neighbors, and about the tradesmen who delivered things to the house. All this he did easily and leisurely, careful not to tire her—quite different from the time I watched him with Lon Graves; him he wore down and drove halfway crazy in an afternoon. It seemed to me he got only one thing out of the girl, and that wasn’t much, only an admission that she had removed something from Maffei’s room that very morning. Wednesday. Little pieces of paper from his bureau drawer with mucilage on the back, and printed on the front S.S. LUCIA and S.S. FIORENZA. Of course they were steamship luggage stickers. From the newspaper file I learned that the Lucia had sailed on the 18th of May and the Fiorenza on the 3rd of J
une. Evidently Maffei had decided on Italy not once, but twice, and had given it up both times. Anna had taken them, she said, because they were pretty colors and she wanted to paste them on the box she kept her clothes in. During dinner, which the three of us ate together in the dining-room, he let Anna alone entirely and talked to me, mostly about beer, but with the coffee he moved us back to the office and went at it again. He doubled back and recovered the ground, he darted around at random on things so irrelevant and inconsequential that anyone who had never seem him pull a rabbit out of that hat before would have been sure he was merely a nut. By eleven o’clock I was through, yawning and ready to give up, and I was exasperated that he showed not the slightest sign of impatience or discouragement.

  Then all at once he hit it.

  “So Mr. Maffei never gave you any presents?”

  “No, sir. Except the box of chalk I told you about. And the newspapers, if you call that a present.”

  “Yes. You said he always gave you his morning paper. The Times.”

  “Yes, sir. He told me once he took the Times for the classified ads. You know, the job ads.”

  “Did he give you his paper Monday morning?”