Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 01

by Fer-De-Lance

  I said, “Good morning. Who invited you?”

  He said, “It wasn’t you anyhow. I want to see Nero Wolfe.”

  “You can’t. He’s sick. What do you want?”

  He smiled, being smooth, and handed me a card. I looked at it.

  “Sure. From Anderson’s office. His right-hand man? What do you want?”

  “You know what I want,” he smiled. “Let’s go in and talk it over.”

  I didn’t see any sense in trying to be coy. Anyway I had no idea when Wolfe might kick out of it, and that made me sick. So I covered it all in as few words as possible. I told him that Wolfe didn’t know one thing that they didn’t know, at least nothing that applied to Barstow, and that what he did know came to him in a dream. I told him that if they wanted Wolfe on the case at a price to say so and name the price and he would take it or leave it. I told him that if they wanted to try any funny warrants they would be surprised how funny they’d turn out to be before Wolfe got through with them. Then I told him that I could see that he weighed twenty pounds more than I did and that therefore I wouldn’t attempt to go back in the house until he had departed, and that I would appreciate it if he would get a move on because I was reading an interesting book. He inserted a few remarks as I went along, but when I finished all he said was:

  “Tell Wolfe he cant get away with it.”

  “Sure. Any other message?”

  “Just go to hell for you.”

  I grinned, and stood on the stoop watching him as he walked off, headed east. I had never heard of him before, but I didn’t know Westchester very well. The name on the card was H. R. Corbett. I went back to the front room and sat and smoked cigarettes.

  After lunch, some time around four, I heard a newsy out in the street calling an extra. I went out and called him and bought one. There it was taking up half of the front page: BARSTOW POISONED—DART FOUND IN BODY. I read it through. If ever I had a pain in the neck it was then. Of course Wolfe and I weren’t mentioned; I hadn’t expected that; but to think of what that piece might have meant to us! I kicked myself for bungling with Derwin, and again with Anderson, for I was sure it could have been handled somehow to let us in, though it was hard to see how. And I kicked Wolfe for his damn relapse. At least I wanted to. I read it again. It wasn’t a dart at all, it was a short steel needle, just as Wolfe had said, and it had been found below the stomach. Sore as I was at Wolfe, I handed it to him. There was his picture.

  I went to the kitchen and laid the paper on the table in front of Wolfe without a word, and went out again. He called after me, “Archie! Get the car, here’s a list for you.”

  I pretended I didn’t hear. Later Fritz went. Next day the Sunday papers were full of it. They had sent their packs running around sniffing all over Westchester County, but they hadn’t found a thing. I read all the articles through, and I learned a lot of details about the Green Meadow Club, the Barstow family, the Kimballs who had been in the foursome, the doctor who had pulled a boner, and a lot besides, but nobody really knew any more than Wolfe had known Wednesday evening when he had asked Anna Fiore if she had ever seen a golf club in Carlo Maffei’s room. Not as much, for there was no accepted theory as to how the needle got in Barstow’s belly. All the papers had pieces by experts on poisons and what they do to you.

  Sunday evening I went to a movie, telling Fritz to open the door to no one. Not that I expected anything; it looked as if Anderson was playing his own hand. Possibly, through motive or discoveries he had made, he was really lining it up. I would have got drunk that evening if it hadn’t been Sunday. When I got back from the movie Wolfe had gone up to his room, but Fritz was still in the kitchen washing up. I fried a piece of ham to make myself a sandwich and poured a glass of milk, for I hadn’t had much dinner. I noticed that the Times I had put there in the morning for Wolfe was still on top of the refrigerator just as I had left it. It was ten to one he hadn’t looked at it.

  I read in my room until after midnight and then had trouble going to sleep on account of my mind working. But apparently there was no trouble about it after I once got started, for when I pried my eyes open in the morning enough to glance at the clock on the stand it was after nine. I was sitting on the edge of the bed yawning when I heard a noise overhead that woke me up good. Either that was two pairs of footsteps and I knew both of them or I was still dreaming. I went out in the hall and listened a minute and then ran downstairs. Fritz was in the kitchen drinking coffee. “Is that Mr. Wolfe up with Horstmann?”

  “And how.” That was the only slang Fritz ever used and he always welcomed a chance to get it in. He smiled at me, glad to see me excited and happy. “Now I will just get a leg of lamb and rub garlic on it.”

  “Rub poison ivy on it if you want to.” I went back up to dress.

  The relapse was over! I was excited all right. I shaved extra clean and whistled in the bathtub. With Wolfe normal again anything might happen. When I got back down to the kitchen a dish of figs and a fat omelet were ready for me, and the newspaper was propped up against the coffeepot. I started on the headlines and the figs at the same time, but halfway through a fig I stopped chewing. I raced down the paragraphs, swallowing the mouthful whole to get it out of the way. It was plain, the paper stated it as a fact. Although no confirmation was needed, I turned the pages over, running my eyes up and down and across. It was on page eight toward the bottom, a neat little ad in a neat little box:

  I WILL PAY FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD TO ANY PERSON OR PERSONS WHO WILL FURNISH INFORMATION RESULTING IN THE DISCOVERY AND RIGHTEOUS PUNISHMENT OF THE MURDERER OF MY HUSBAND PETER OLIVER BARSTOW.

  ELLEN BARSTOW

  I read it through three times and then tossed the paper away and got calm. I finished the fruit and omelet, with three pieces of toast and three cups of coffee. Fifty grand, with the Wolfe bank balance sagging like a clothesline under a wet horse blanket; and not only that, but a chance of keeping our places on the platform in the biggest show of the season. I was calm and cool, but it was only twenty minutes after ten. I went to the office and opened the safe and dusted around and waited.

  When Wolfe came down at eleven he looked fresh but not noticeably good-humored. He only nodded for good morning and didn’t seem to care much whether I was there or not as he got himself into his chair and started looking through the mail. I just waited, thinking I would show him that other people could be as hard-boiled as he was, but when he began checking off the monthly bill from Harvey’s I popped at him:

  “I hope you had a nice weekend, sir.”

  He didn’t look at me, but I saw his cheeks folding. “Thank you, Archie. It was delightful; but on awakening this morning I felt so completely water-logged that with only myself to consider I would have remained in bed to await disintegration. Names battered at me: Archie Goodwin, Fritz Brenner, Theodore Horstmann; responsibilities; and I arose to resume my burden. Not that I complain; the responsibilities are mutual; but my share can be done only by me.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but you’re a damn liar, what you did was look at the paper.”

  He checked off items on the bill. “You can’t rile me, Archie, not today. Paper? I have looked at nothing this morning except life, and that not through a newspaper.”

  “Then you don’t know that Mrs. Barstow has offered fifty thousand dollars for her husband’s murderer?”

  The pencil stopped checking; he didn’t look at me, but the pencil was motionless in his fingers for seconds. Then he placed the bill under a paperweight, laid the pencil beside it, and lifted his head. “Show it to me.”

  I exhibited first the ad and then the first page article. Of the ad he read each word; the article he glanced through.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Indeed. Mr. Anderson does not need the money, even granting the possibility of his earning it, and only a moment ago I was speaking of responsibilities. Archie, do you know what I thought in bed this morning? I thought how horrible and how amusing it would be to send Theodore away and let all those
living and breathing plants, all that arrogant and pampered loveliness, thirst and gasp and wither away.”

  “Good God!”

  “Yes. Just an early morning fantasy; I haven’t the will for such a gesture. I would be more likely to offer them at auction—should I decide to withdraw from responsibilities—and take passage for Egypt. You know of course that I own a house in Egypt which I have never seen. The man who gave it to me, a little more than ten years ago—yes, Fritz, what is it?”

  Fritz was a little awry, having put on his jacket hurriedly to go to the door.

  “A lady to see you, sir.”

  “Her name?”

  “She had no card, sir.”

  Wolfe nodded, and Fritz went out. In a moment he was back on the threshold, bowing in a young woman. I was on my feet. She started toward me, and I inclined my head in Wolfe’s direction. She looked at him, stopped, and said:

  “Mr. Nero Wolfe? My name is Sarah Barstow.” “Be seated,” Wolfe said. “You must pardon me; for engineering reasons I arise only for emergencies.”

  “This is an emergency,” she said.

  Chapter 7

  From the newspapers I was pretty well up on Sarah Barstow. She was twenty-five, popular, a graduate of Smith, and prominent both in university society at Holland and in various groups in summer Westchester. Of course beautiful, according to the papers. I thought to myself that this time that detail was accurate, as she arranged herself in a chair in front of Wolfe and sat with her eyes on him. She wore a tan linen dress with a coat to match and a little black hat on sideways. Her gloves showed that she was driving. Her face was a little small but everything on it was in place and well arranged; her eyes were too bright in the pupils and too heavy around the edges from tiredness, and from crying perhaps, and her skin was pale, but health and pleasantness showed through that. Her voice was low and had sense in it. I liked her.

  She started to explain herself, but Wolfe wiggled a finger at her. “It is unnecessary, and possibly painful to you, Miss Barstow, I know. You are the only daughter of Peter Oliver Barstow. All you need tell is why you have come to me.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “Of course you would know, Mr. Wolfe. It is a little difficult—perhaps I wanted a preamble.” She had a try at a smile. “I am going to ask you a favor, I don’t know how much of a favor it will be.”

  “I can tell you that.”

  “Of course. First I must ask you, do you know that my mother had an advertisement in the paper this morning?”

  Wolfe nodded. “I have read it.”

  “Well, Mr. Wolfe, I—that is, we, the family—must ask you to disregard that advertisement.”

  Wolfe breathed and let his chin down. “An extraordinary request, Miss Barstow. Am I supposed to be as extraordinary in granting it, or do I get reasons?”

  “There are reasons of course.” She hesitated. “It is not a family secret, it is known that my mother is—in some degree and on various occasions—irresponsible.” Her eyes were earnest on him. “You must not think there is anything ugly about this or that it has anything to do with money. There is plenty of money and my brother and I are not niggardly. Nor must you think that my mother is not a competent person—certainly not in the legal sense. But for years there have been times when she needed our attention and love, and this—this terrible thing has come in the middle of one of them. She is not normally vengeful, but that advertisement—my brother calls it a demand for blood. Our close friends will of course understand, but there is the world, and my father—my father’s world was a wide one—we are glad if they help us mourn for him but we would not want them—Father would not want them—to watch us urging on the bloodhounds—”

  She gave a little gasp and stopped, and glanced at me and back at Wolfe. He said, “Yes, Miss Barstow, you are calling me a bloodhound. I am not offended. Go on.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a tactless fool. It would have been better if Dr. Bradford had come.”

  “Was Dr. Bradford considering the enterprise?”

  “Yes. That is, he thought it should be done.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Well—yes. My brother greatly regrets it, the advertisement I mean. He did not fully approve of my coming to see you. He thought it would be—fruitless.”

  “On the theory that it is difficult to call off a bloodhound. Probably he understands dogs. Have you finished, Miss Barstow? I mean, have you any further reasons to advance?”

  She shook her head. “Surely, Mr. Wolfe, those are sufficient.”

  “Then as I understand it, your desire is that no effort be made to discover and punish the persons who murdered your father?”

  She stared at him. “Why—no. I didn’t say that.”

  “The favor you ask of me is that I refrain from such an effort?”

  Her lips closed. She opened them enough to say, “I see. You are putting it as badly as possible.”

  “Not at all. Clearly, not badly. Understandably, your mind is confused; mine is lucid. Your position as you have so far expressed it is simply not intelligent. You may make any one of several requests of me, but you may not ask them all at once, for they are mutually exclusive. You may, for instance, tell me that while you are willing that I should discover the murderer, you request me not to expect to be paid for it as your mother has offered. Is that your request?”

  “It is not. You know it is not.”

  “Or you may tell me that I may find the murderer if I can, and collect the reward if I choose to take advantage of the legal obligation, but that the family disapproves of the offer of reward on moral grounds. Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Her lip trembled a little, but in a moment she pulled it up firm. Then suddenly she stood up and shot at him: “No! I’m sorry I came here. Professor Gottlieb was wrong; you may be clever—good day, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Good day, Miss Barstow.” Wolfe was motionless. “The engineering considerations keep me in my chair.”

  She was going. But halfway to the door she faltered, stood a moment, and turned. “You are a bloodhound. You are. You are heartless.”

  “Quite likely.” Wolfe crooked a finger. “Come back to your chair. Come, do; your errand is too important to let a momentary resentment ruin it. That’s better; self-control is an admirable quality. Now, Miss Barstow, we can do one of two things: either I can flatly but gracefully refuse your original request as you made it and we can part on fairly bad terms; or you can answer a few questions I would like to ask and we can then decide what’s to be done. Which shall it be?”

  She was groggy, but game. She was back in her chair and had a wary eye on him. She said, “I have answered many questions in the past two days.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I can imagine their tenor and their stupidity. I shall not waste your time or insult your intelligence. How did you learn that I knew anything of this business?”

  She seemed surprised. “How did I learn it? Why, you are responsible for it. That is, you discovered it. Everyone knows it. It was in the paper—not New York, the White Plains paper.”

  I had a grin at that. Derwin would phone Ben Cook to come and assist me to the station, would he?

  Wolfe nodded. “Have you asked the favor of Mr. Anderson that you have asked of me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She hesitated. “Well—it didn’t seem necessary. It didn’t seem—I don’t know how to express it.”

  “Use your wits, Miss Barstow. Was it because it appeared unlikely that he would do any discovering worthy the name?”

  She was holding herself tight. Her hands—damn good hands with strong fingers and honest knuckles—were little fists in her lap. “No!” she said.

  “Very well. But what made you think it likely, at least possible, that my discovering might be more to the point?”

  She began, “I didn’t think—” But he stopped her:

  “Come, control yourself. It is an honest plain question. You did think me more competent at
discovery than Mr. Anderson, did you not? Was it because I had made the original discovery?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is, because I had somehow known that your father was killed by a poisoned needle propelled from the handle of a golf club?”

  “I—don’t—know. I don’t know, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Courage. This will soon be over. Curiosity alone prompts the next question. What gave you the strange idea that I was so rare a person as to respond favorably to the idiotic request you meant to make of me?”

  “I didn’t know. I didn’t have that idea really. But I was ready to try, and I had heard a professor at the university, Gottlieb, the psychologist, mention your name—he had written a book called Modern Crime Detection—”

  “Yes. A book that an intelligent criminal should send as a gift to every detective he knows.”

  “Perhaps. His opinion of you is more complimentary. When I telephoned Professor Gottlieb he said that you were not susceptible of analysis because you had intuition from the devil, and that you were a sensitive artist as well as a man of probity. That sounded—well, I decided to come to see you. Mr. Wolfe, I beg you—I beg of you—”

  I was sure she was going to cry and I didn’t want her to. But Wolfe brusquely brought her up:

  “That’s all, Miss Barstow. That is all I need to know. Now I shall ask a favor of you: will you permit Mr. Goodwin to take you upstairs and show you my plants?”

  She stared; he went on, “No subterfuge is intended. I merely wish to be alone with the devil. Half an hour perhaps; and to make a telephone call. When you return I shall have a proposal for you.” He turned to me. “Fritz will call you.”

  She got up and came with me without a word. I thought that was pretty good, for she was shaky and suspicious all over. Instead of asking her to walk up two flights of stairs I took her down the hall and used Wolfe’s elevator. As we got out on the top floor she stopped me by catching my arm.