Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 01

by Fer-De-Lance

  The dick stared at him. “How the hell—” he started, and stopped, and then went on, “So it’s already in the papers. I didn’t see it, and his name couldn’t have been for it’s only two hours since I learned it myself. You’re quite a guesser, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Thank you. Neither did I see it in the papers. But since Maria Maffei’s report of her brother’s disappearance did not arouse the police beyond a generous effort at conjecture, it seemed to me probable that nothing less than murder would stir them to the frenzy of discovering that Archie had visited his room and removed papers. So. Would you mind telling me where the body was found?”

  O’Grady stood up. “You can read it tonight. You’re a lulu, Mr. Wolfe. Now those papers.”

  “Of course.” Wolfe didn’t move. “But I offer a point for your consideration. All I ask of you is three minutes of your time and information which will be available from public sources within a few hours. Whereas—who knows?—today, or tomorrow, or next year, in connection with this case or another, I might happen upon some curious little fact which conveyed to you would mean promotion, glory, a raise in pay; and, I repeat, you make a mistake if you ignore the demands of professional civility. Was the body by any chance found in Westchester County?”

  “What the hell,” O’Grady said. “If I hadn’t already looked you up, and if it wasn’t so plain you’d need a boxcar to get around in, I’d guess you did it yourself. All right. Yes, Westchester County. In a thicket a hundred feet from a dirt road three miles out of Scarsdale, yesterday at eight P.M. by two boys hunting birds’ nests.”

  “Shot perhaps?”

  “Stabbed. The doctor says that the knife must have been left in him for a while, an hour or more, but it wasn’t there and wasn’t found. His pockets were empty. The label on his clothes showed a Grand Street store, and that and his laundry mark were turned over to me at seven o’clock this morning. By nine I had his name, and since then I’ve searched his room and seen the landlady and the girl.”

  “Excellent,” Wolfe said. “Really exceptional.”

  The dick frowned. “That girl,” he said. “Either she knows something, or the inside of her head is so unfurnished that she can’t remember what she ate for breakfast. You had her up here. What did you think when she couldn’t remember a thing about the phone call that the landlady said she heard every word of?”

  I shot a glance at Wolfe, but he didn’t blink an eyelash. He just said, “Miss Anna Fiore is not perfectly equipped, Mr. O’Grady. You found her memory faulty then?”

  “Faulty? She had forgot Maffei’s first name!”

  “Yes. A pity.” Wolfe pushed his chair back by putting his hands on the edge of the desk and shoving; I saw he meant to get up. “And now those papers. The only other articles are an empty tobacco can and four snapshots. I must ask a favor of you. Will you let Mr. Goodwin escort you from the room? A personal idiosyncrasy; I have a strong disinclination for opening my safe in the presence of any other person. No offense of course. It would be the same, even perhaps a little accentuated, if you were my banker.”

  I had been with Wolfe so long that I could usually almost keep up with him, but that time I barely caught myself. I had my mouth open to say that the stuff was in a drawer of his desk, where I had put it the evening before in his presence, and his look was all that stopped me. The dick hesitated, and Wolfe assured him, “Come, Mr. O’Grady. Or go rather. There is no point in surmising that I am creating an opportunity to withhold something, because even if I were there would be nothing you could do to prevent it. Suspicions of that sort between professional men are futile.”

  I led the dick into the front room, closing the door behind us. I supposed Wolfe would monkey with the safe door so we could hear the noise, but just in case he didn’t take the trouble I made some sort of conversation so O’Grady’s ears wouldn’t be disappointed. Pretty soon we were called back in, and Wolfe was standing on the near side of the desk with the tobacco can and the envelope I had filed the papers and snapshots in. He held them out to the dick.

  “Good luck, Mr. O’Grady. I give you this assurance, and you may take my word for what they are worth: if at any time we should discover anything that we believe would be of significance or help to you, we shall communicate with you at once.”

  “Much obliged. Maybe you mean that.”

  “Yes, I do. Just as I say it.”

  The dick went. When I heard the outer door close I went to the front room and through a window saw him walking away. Then I returned to the office and approached Wolfe’s desk, where he was seated again, and grinned at him and said:

  “You’re a damn scoundrel.”

  The folds of his cheeks pulled away a little from the corners of his mouth; when he did that he thought he was smiling. I said, “What did you keep?”

  Out of his vest pocket he pulled a piece of paper about two inches long and half an inch wide and handed it to me. It was one of the clippings from Maffei’s top bureau drawer, and it was hard to believe that Wolfe could have known of its existence, for he had barely glanced through that stuff the evening before. But he had taken the trouble to get O’Grady out of the room in order to keep it.

  METAL-WORKER, must be expert both design and mechanism, who intends returning to Europe for permanent residence, can get lucrative commission. Times L467 Downtown.

  I ran through it twice, but saw no more in it than when I had first read it the afternoon before in Maffei’s room. “Well,” I said, “if you’re trying to clinch it that he meant to go for a sail I can run down to Sullivan Street and pry those luggage stickers off of Anna’s wardrobe. And anyway, granting even that it means something, when did you ever see it before? Don’t tell me you can read things without looking at them. I’ll swear you didn’t—” I stopped. Sure, of course he had. I grinned at him. “You went through that stuff while I was taking Anna home last night.”

  He waited till he was back around the desk and in his chair again before he murmured sarcastically, “Bravo, Archie.”

  “All right,” I said. I sat down across from him. “Do I get to ask questions? There’s three things I want to know. Or am I supposed to go up front and do my homework?” I was a little sore, of course; I always was when I knew that he had tied up a nice neat bundle right in front of me without my even being able to see what was going in it.

  “No homework,” he said. “You are about to go for the car and drive with reasonable speed to White Plains. If the questions are brief—”

  “They’re brief enough, but if I’ve got work to do they can wait. Since it’s White Plains, I suppose I’m to take a look at the hole in Carlo Maffei and any other details that seem to me unimportant.”

  “No. Confound it, Archie, stop supposing aloud in my presence; if it is inevitable that in the end you are to be classed with—for instance—Mr. O’Grady, let us at least postpone it as long as possible.”

  “O’Grady did a good job this morning, two hours from a coat label and a laundry mark to that phone call.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Cerebrally an oaf. But your questions?”

  “They can wait. What is it at White Plains if it’s not Maffei?”

  Wolfe gave me his substitute for a smile, an unusually prolonged one for him. Finally he said, “A chance to make some money. Does the name Fletcher M. Anderson mean anything to you without referring to your files?”

  “I hope so.” I snorted. “No thanks for a bravo either. Nineteen-twenty-eight. Assistant District Attorney on the Goldsmith case. A year later moved to the country and is now District Attorney for Westchester County. He would admit that he owes you something only if the door were closed and he whispered in your ear. Married money.”

  Wolfe nodded. “Correct. The bravo is yours, Archie, and I shall manage without the thanks. At White Plains you will see Mr. Anderson and deliver a provocative and possibly lucrative message. At least that is contemplated; I am awaiting information from a caller who is expected at any moment.” He reached acros
s his rotundity to remove the large platinum watch from his vest pocket and glance at it. “I note that a dealer in sporting goods is not more punctual than a skeptic would expect. I telephoned at nine; the delivery would be made at eleven without fail; it is now eleven-forty. It really would be well at this point to eliminate all avoidable delay. It would have been better to send you—Ah!”

  It was the buzzer. Fritz passed the door down the hall; there was the sound of the front door opening and another voice and Fritz’s in question and answer. Then heavy footsteps drowning out Fritz’s, and there appeared on the threshold a young man who looked like a football player bearing on his shoulder an enormous bundle about three feet long and as big around as Wolfe himself. Breathing, he said, “From Corliss Holmes.”

  At Wolfe’s nod I went to help. We got the bundle onto the floor and the young man knelt and began untying the cord, but he fumbled so long that I got impatient and reached in my pocket for my knife. Wolfe’s murmur sounded from his chair, “No, Archie, few knots deserve that,” and I put my knife back. Finally he got it loose and the cord pulled off, and I helped him unroll the paper and burlap, and then stood up and stared. I looked at Wolfe and back again at the pile on the floor. It was nothing but golf clubs, there must have been a hundred of them, enough I thought to kill a million snakes, for it had never seemed to me that they were much good for anything else.

  I said to Wolfe, “The exercise will do you good.”

  Still in his chair, Wolfe told us to put them on the desk, and the young man and I each grabbed an armload. I began spreading them in an even row on the desk; there were long and short, heavy and light, iron, wood, steel, chromium, anything you might think of. Wolfe was looking at them, each one as I put it down, and after about a dozen he said, “Not these with iron ends. Remove them. Only those with wooden ends.” To the young man, “You do not call this the end?”

  The young man looked amazed and superior. “That’s the head.”

  “Accept my apologies—your name?”

  “My name? Townsend.”

  “Accept my apologies, Mr. Townsend. I once saw golf clubs through a shop window while my car was having a flat tire, but the ends were not labeled. And these are in fact all varieties of a single species?”

  “Huh? They’re all different.”

  “Indeed. Indeed, indeed. Plain wooden faces, inset faces, bone, composition, ivory—since this is the head I presume that is the face?”

  “Sure, that’s the face.”

  “Of course. And the purpose of the inset? Since everything in life must have a purpose except the culture of Orchidaceæ.”

  “Purpose?”

  “Exactly. Purpose.”

  “Well—” The young man hesitated. “Of course it’s for the impact. That means hitting the ball, it’s the inset that hits the ball, and that’s the impact.”

  “I see. Go no further. That will do nicely. And the handles, some wood, really fine and sensitive, and steel—I presume the steel handles are hollow.”

  “Hollow steel shaft, yes, sir. It’s a matter of taste. That one’s a driver. This is a brassie. See the brass on the bottom? Brassie.”

  “Faultless sequitur,” Wolfe murmured. “That, I think, will be all, the lesson is complete. You know, Mr. Townsend, it is our good fortune that the exigencies of birth and training furnish all of us with opportunities for snobbery. My ignorance of this special nomenclature provided yours; your innocence of the elementary mental processes provides mine. As to the object of your visit, you can sell me nothing; these things will forever remain completely useless to me. You can reassemble your bundle and take it with you, but let us assume that I should purchase three of these clubs and that the profit on each should be one dollar. Three dollars? If I give you that amount will it be satisfactory?”

  The young man had, if not his own dignity, at least that of Corliss Holmes. “There is no obligation to purchase, sir.”

  “No, but I haven’t finished. I have to ask a favor of you. Will you take one of these clubs—here, this one—and stand there, beyond that chair, and whirl it about you in the orthodox manner?”

  “Whirl it?”

  “Yes; club, strike, hit, whatever you call it. Pretend that you are impacting a ball.”

  Beyond snobbery, the young man was now having difficulty to conceal his contempt. He took the driver from Wolfe, backed away from the desk, shoved a chair aside, glanced around, behind, and up, then brought the driver up over his shoulder and down and through with a terrific swish.

  Wolfe shuddered. “Ungovernable fury,” he murmured. “Again, more slowly?”

  The young man complied.

  “If possible, Mr. Townsend, more slowly yet?”

  This time he made it slow motion, a cartoon, derisive, but Wolfe watched it keenly and soberly. Then he said:

  “Excellent. A thousand thanks, Mr. Townsend. Archie, since we have no account at Corliss Holmes, will you please give Mr. Townsend three dollars? A little speed now, if you don’t mind. The trip I mentioned is imminent and even urgent.”

  After the quiet weeks that had passed it made my heart jump to hear Wolfe ask for speed. The young man and I had the package together again in no time; I went to let him out the front door, and then back to the office. Wolfe was sitting there with his lips fixed to whistle, but with no sound that could be heard six feet away; you only knew the air was going in and out by his chest rising and falling. Sometimes, when close enough to him, I had tried to hear if he really thought he was doing a tune, but without success. He stopped as I came in and said:

  “This will only take a minute, Archie. Sit down. You won’t need your notebook.”

  Chapter 4

  When I’m driving I don’t see much of anything except the road, for I have the type of mind that gets on a job and stays there until it’s time for another one. That day I hit a good clip, too; on account of the traffic it took a long while to get to Woodlawn, but from there to White Plains my clock covered just twenty-one minutes. But in spite of my type of mind and the hurry I was in I enjoyed the Parkway out of the corner of my eye. Lots of the bushes were covered with flowers, the new crop of leaves on the trees was waving easy in the breeze like a slow dance, and the grass was thick and green. I thought to myself that they couldn’t make a carpet if it cost ten thousand dollars that would be as nice to walk on as that grass.

  The hurry didn’t help any. When I got to the courthouse there was nothing but bad luck. Anderson was away and wouldn’t be back until Monday, four days. In the Adirondacks, they said, but wouldn’t give me his address; it wouldn’t have been a bit unpleasant to head the roadster for Lake Placid and step on it. His chief assistant, whose name, Derwin, I had never heard before, was still out to lunch and wouldn’t be back for half an hour. No one around seemed to care about being helpful.

  I went down the street to a phone and got Wolfe in New York. He said to wait for Derwin and try it on him; and I didn’t mind having time for a couple of sandwiches and a glass of milk before he was expected back. When I returned Derwin was in his office, but I had to wait for him twenty minutes, I suppose for him to finish picking his teeth. The place was certainly dead.

  When I consider the different kinds I’ve seen it seems silly to say it, but somehow to me all lawyers look alike. It’s a sort of mixture of a scared look and a satisfied look, as if they were crossing a traffic-filled street where they expect to get run over any minute but they know exactly the kind of paper to hand the driver if they get killed and they’ve got one right in their pocket. This Derwin looked like that; otherwise he seemed very respectable, well-dressed and well-fed, somewhere around forty, under rather than over, with his dark hair brushed back slick and his face happy and pleased-looking. I laid my panama on a corner of his desk and took a chair before I said:

  “I’m sorry to have missed Mr. Anderson. I don’t know if you’ll be interested in my message, but I’m pretty sure he would.”

  Derwin was leaning back in his chair with a
politician’s smile. “If it is connected with the duties of my office, I certainly will, Mr. Goodwin.”

  “It’s connected all right. But I’m at a disadvantage since you don’t know my employer, Nero Wolfe. Mr. Anderson knows him.”

  “Nero Wolfe?” Derwin wrinkled his forehead. “I’ve heard of him. The private detective, you mean of course. This is only White Plains, you see, the provinces begin a little farther north.”

  “Yes, sir. Not that I would call Nero Wolfe a private detective. As a description—well, for one thing it’s a little too active. But that’s the man I work for.”

  “You have a message from him?”

  “Yes, sir. As I say, the message was for Mr. Anderson, but I telephoned him half an hour ago and he said to give it to you. It may not work out the same, for I happen to know that Mr. Anderson is a rich man, and I don’t know that much about you. Maybe you’re like me, maybe your salary is the only rope that holds Saturday and Sunday together for you.”

  Derwin laughed, just a trick laugh, for in a second his face was solemn and businesslike. “Maybe I am. But although I am not particularly rushed this afternoon, I am still waiting for the message.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s like this. Last Sunday afternoon, four days ago, Peter Oliver Barstow, president of Holland University, died suddenly while playing golf on the links of the Green Meadow Club over toward Pleasantville. You know about that?”

  “Of course. It was a loss to the community, to the whole country in fact. Of course.”

  I nodded. “His funeral was Tuesday and he was buried at Agawalk Cemetery. Mr. Nero Wolfe wants to bet you—he would rather bet Mr. Anderson but he says you’ll do—that if you’ll have the body lifted and an autopsy made you’ll find proof of poison. He will bet ten thousand dollars and will deposit a certified check for that amount with any responsible person you name.”

  I just grinned as Derwin stared at me. He stared a long time, then he said, “Mr. Nero Wolfe is crazy.”