“Miss Mitchell. Do you eat much candy?” She said, “You're being smart.” “I'm begging your indulgence. It won't hurt you, with nerves like yours. Do you eat much candy?” She drew her shoulders together, and released them. “Once in a while. I have to be careful I'm a model, and I watch myself.” “What is your favorite kind?” “Candied fruits. I like nuts too.” “You removed the lid from that box last Monday. What color was it?” “Brown. A kind of gold-brown.” “What kind was it? What did it say on the lid?” “It said...it said, Medley. Some kind of a medley.” Wolfe snapped, “'Some kind?” Do you mean to say you don't remember what name was on the lid?” She frowned at him. “No...I don't. That's funny. I would have thought—” “So would I. You looked at it and took the lid off, and later replaced the lid and held onto the box, knowing there was deadly poison in it, and you weren't even curious enough—” “Now wait a minute. You're not so smart. Molly was dead on the floor, and everybody was crowding into the room, and I was looking for Mr. McNair to give him the box, I didn't want the damn thing, and certainly I wasn't trying to think of things to be curious about.” She frowned again. “At that, it is funny I didn't really see the name.” Wolfe nodded. He turned abruptly to Lew Frost. “You see, sir, how it is done.
What is to be deduced from Miss Mitchell's performance? Is she cleverly pretending that she does not know what was on that lid, or is it credible that she really failed to notice it? I am merely demonstrating. For another example, take your cousin.” He switched his eyes and shot at her, “You, Miss Frost. Do you eat candy?” She looked at her cousin. “Is this necessary, Lew?” Frost flushed. He opened his mouth, but Wolfe was in ahead: “Miss Mitchell didn't beg off. Of course, she has good nerves.” The sylph leveled her eyes at him. “There's nothing wrong With my nerves. But this cheap—oh, well. I eat candy. I much prefer caramels, and since I work as a model and have to be careful too, I confine myself to them.” “Chocolate caramels? Nut caramels?” “Any kind. Caramels. I like to chew them.” “How often do you eat them?” “Maybe once a week.” “Do you buy them yourself?” “No. I don't get a chance to. My cousin knows my preference, and he sends me boxes of Carlatti's. Too often. I have to give most of them away.” “You are very fond of them?'' She nodded. “Very.” “You find it hard to resist them when offered?” “Sometimes, yes.” “Monday afternoon you had been working hard? You were tired? You had had a short and unsatisfactory lunch?” She was tolerating it. “Yes.” “Then, when Miss Lauck offered you caramels, why didn't you take one?” “She didn't offer me caramels. There weren't any in that—” She stopped. She glanced aside, at her cousin, and then put her eyes at Wolfe again. “That is, I didn't suppose—” “Suppose?” Wolfe's voice suddenly softened. “Miss Mitchell couldn't remember what was on the lid of that box. Can you, Miss Frost?” “No. I don't know.” “Miss Mitchell has said that you didn't handle the box. You were at the mirror, fixing your hair; you didn't even look at it. Is that correct?” She was staring at him. “Yes.” “Miss Mitchell has also said that she replaced the lid on the box and kept it under her arm until she handed it to Mr. McNair. Is that correct?” “I don't know. I...I didn't notice.” “No. Naturally, under the circumstances. But after the box was given to Mr.
McNair, from that time until he turned it over to the police, did you see it at all? Did you have an opportunity to inspect it?” “I didn't see it. No.” “Just one more, Miss Frost—this finishes the demonstration: you are sure you don't know what was on that lid? It was not a brand you were familiar with?” She shook her head. “I have no idea.” Wolfe leaned back and sighed. He picked up the third bottle and filled his glass and watched the foam work. No one spoke; we just looked at him, while he drank.
He put the glass down and wiped his lips, and opened his eyes on his client.
“There you are, Mr. Frost,” he said quietly. “Even in a brief demonstration, where no results were expected, something is upturned. By her own testimony, your cousin never saw the contents of that box after Miss Lauck swiped it. She doesn't know what brand it was, so she could not have been familiar with its contents. And yet, she knew, quite positively, that there were no caramels in it. Therefore: she saw the contents of the box, somewhere, sometime, before Miss Lauck swiped it. That, sir, is deduction. That is what I meant when I spoke of interviews with all of the persons who were at this place last Monday.” Lew Frost, glaring at him, blurted, “You call this—what the hell do you call this? My cousin—” “I told you, deduction.” The sylph sat, pale, and stared at him. She opened her mouth a couple of times, but closed it without speaking. Thelma Mitchell horned in: “She didn't say she knew positively there were no caramels in it. She only said—” Wolfe put up a palm at her. “You being loyal, Miss Mitchell? For shame. The first loyalty here is to the dead. Mr. Frost dragged me here because Molly Lauck died. He hired me to find out how and why. —Well, sir? Didn't you?” Frost sputtered, “I didn't hire you to play damn fool tricks with a couple of nervous girls. You damn fat imbecile—listenl I already know more about this business than you'd ever find out in a hundred years! If you think I'm paying you—now what? Where you going? What's the game now? You get back in that chair I say—” Wolfe had arisen, without haste, and moved around the table, going sideways past Thelma Mitchell's feet, and Frost had jumped up and started the motions of a stiff arm at him.
I got upright and stepped across. “Don't shove, mister.” I would just as soon have plugged him, but he would have had to drop on a lady. “Subside, please.
Come on, back up.” He gave me a bad eye, but let that do. Wolfe had sidled by, towards the door, and at that moment there was a knock on it and it opened, and the handsome woman in the black dress with white buttons appeared. She moved in.
“Excuse me, please.” She glanced around, composed, and settled on me. “Can you spare Miss Frost? She T'S needed downstairs. And Mr. McNair says you wish to speak with me. I can give you a few minutes now.” I looked at Wolfe. He bowed to the woman, his head moving two inches. “Thank you, Mrs. Lament. It won't be necessary. We have made excellent progress; more than could reasonably have been expected. —Archie. Did you pay for the beer?
Give Mr. Frost a dollar. That should cover it.” I took out my wallet and extracted a buck and laid it on the table. A swift glance showed me that Helen Frost looked pale, Thelma Mitchell looked interested, and Llewellyn looked set for murder. Wolfe had left. I did likewise, and joined him outside where he was pushing the button for the elevator.
I said, “That beer couldn't have been more than two bits a throw, seventy-five cents for three.” He nodded. “Put the difference on his bill.” Downstairs we marched through the activity without halting. McNair was over at one side talking with a dark medium-sized woman with a straight back and a proud mouth, and I let my head turn for a second look, surmising it was Helen Frost's mother. A goddess I hadn't seen before was parading in a brown topcoat in front of a horsey jane with a dog, and three or four other people were scattered around. Just before we got to the street door it opened and a man entered, a big broad guy with a scar on his cheek. I knew all about that scar. I tossed him a nod.
“Hi, Purley.” He stopped and stared, not at me, at Wolfe. “In the name of God! Did you shoot him out of a cannon?” I grinned and went on.
On the way home I made attempts at friendly conversation over my shoulder, but without success. I tried: “Those models are pretty creatures. Huh?” No sale. I tried: “Did you recognize that gentleman we met coming out? Our old friend Purley Stebbins of the Homicide Squad. One of Cramer's hirelings.” No response. I started looking ahead for a good hole.
CHAPTER Three
The first telephone call from Llewellyn Frost came around half-past one, while Wolfe and I were doing the right thing by some sausage with ten kinds of herbs in it, which he got several times every spring from a Swiss up near Chappaqua who prepared it himself from home-made pigs. Fritz Brenner, the chef and household pride, was instructed to tell Llewellyn that Mr. Wolf
e was at table and might not be disturbed. I wanted to go and take it, but Wolfe nailed me down with a finger. The second call came a little after two, while Wolfe was leisurely sipping coffee, and I went to the office for it.
Frost sounded concerned and aggravated. He wanted to know if he could expect to find Wolfe in at two-thirty, and I said yes, he would probably be in forevermore. After we hung up I stayed at my desk and fiddled around with some things, and in a few minutes Wolfe entered, peaceful and benign but ready to resent any attempt at turbulence, as he always was after a proper and unhurried meal.
He sat down at his desk, sighed happily, and looked around at the walls—the bookshelves, maps, Holbeins, more bookshelves, the engraving of Brilliat-Savarin. After a moment he opened the middle drawer and began taking out beer-bottle caps and piling them on the desk. He remarked: “A little less tarragon, and add a pinch of chervil. Fritz might try that next time. I must suggest it to him.” “Yeah,” I agreed, not wanting to argue about that. He knew damn well I loved tarragon. “But if you want to get those caps counted you'd better get a move on.
Our client's on his way down here.” “Indeed.” He began separating the caps into piles of five. “Confound it, in spite of those three outside bottles, I think I'm already four ahead on the week.” “Well, that's normal.” I swirled. “Listen, enlighten me before Frost gets here.
What got you started on the Frost girl?” His shoulders lifted a quarter of an inch and dropped again. “Rage. That was a cornered rat squealing. There I was, cornered in that insufferable scented hole, dragooned into a case where there was nothing to start on. Or rather, too much.
Also, I dislike murder by inadvertence. Whoever poisoned that candy is a bungling ass. I merely began squealing.” He frowned at the piles of caps.
“Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-three. But the result was remarkable. And quite conclusive. It would be sardonic if we should earn the second half of our fee by having Miss Frost removed to prison. Not that I regard that as likely. I trust, Archie, you don't mind my babbling.” “No, it's okay right after a meal. Go right ahead. No jury would ever convict Miss Frost of anything anyhow.” “I suppose not. Why should they? Even a juror must be permitted his tribute to beauty. But if Miss Frost is in for an ordeal, I suspect it will not be that.
Did you notice the large diamond on her finger? And the one set in her vanity case?” I nodded. “So what? Is she engaged?” “I couldn't say. I remarked the diamonds because they don't suit her. You have heard me observe that I have a feeling for phenomena. Her personality, her reserve—even allowing for the unusual circumstances—it is not natural for Miss Frost to wear diamonds. Then there was Mr. McNair's savage hostility, surely as unnatural as it was disagreeable, however he may hate Mr. Llewellyn Frost—and why does he hate him? More transparent was the reason for Mr. Frost's familiarity with so strange a term as ‘ortho-cousin,’ strictly a word for an anthropologist, though it leaves room for various speculations....Ortho-cousins are those whose parents are of the same sex —the children of two brothers or of two sisters; whereas cross-cousins are those whose parents are brother and sister. In some tribes cross-cousins may marry, but not ortho-cousins. Obviously Mr. Frost has investigated the question thoroughly... Certainly it is possible that none of these oddities has any relation to the death of Molly Lauck, but they are to be noted, along with many others. I hope I am not boring you, Archie. As you are aware, this is the routine of my genius, though I do not ordinarily vocalize it. I sat in this chair one evening for five hours, thus considering the phenomena of Paul Chapin, his wife, and the members of that incredible League of Atonement. I talk chiefly because if I do not you will begin to rustle papers to annoy me, and I do not feel like being irritated. That sausage—but there's the bell. Our client. Ha! Still our client, though he may not think so.” Footsteps sounded from the hall, and soon again, returning. The office door opened and Fritz appeared. He announced Mr. Frost, and Wolfe nodded and requested beer. Fritz went.
Llewellyn came bouncing in. He came bouncing, but you could tell by his eyes it was a case of dual personality. Back behind his eyes he was scared stiff. He bounced up to Wolfe's desk and began talking like a man who was already late for nine appointments.
“I could have told you on the phone, Mr. Wolfe, but I like to do business face to face. I like to see a man and let him see me. Especially for a thing like this. I owe you an apology. I flew off the handle and made a damn fool of myself. I want to apologize.” He put out a hand. Wolfe looked at it, and then up at his face. He took his hand back, flushed, and went on, “You shouldn't be sore at me, I just flew off the handle. And anyway, you must understand this, I've got to insist on this, that that was nothing up there. Helen—my cousin was just flustered. I've had a talk with her. That didn't mean a thing. But naturally she's all cut up—she already was, anyhow—and we've talked it over, and I agree with her that I've got no right to be butting in up there. Maybe I shouldn't have butted in at all, but I thought—well—it doesn't matter what I thought. So I appreciate what you've done, and it was swell of you to go up there when it was against your rule...so we'll just call it a flop and if you'll just tell me how much I owe you...” He stopped, smiling from Wolfe to me and back again like a haberdasher's clerk trying to sell an old number with a big spiff on it.
Wolfe surveyed him. “Sit down, Mr. Frost.” “Well...just to write a check...” He backed into a chair and got onto his sitter, pulling a check folder from one pocket and a fountain pen from another.
“How much?” “Ten thousand dollars.” He gasped and looked up. “What!” Wolfe nodded. “Ten thousand. That would be about right for completing your commission; half for solving the murder of Molly Lauck and half for getting your cousin away from that hell-hole.” “But, my dear man, you did neither. You're loony.” His eyes narrowed. “Don't think you're going to hold me up. Don't think—” Wolfe snapped, “Ten thousand dollars. And you will wait here while the check is being certified.” “You're crazy.” Frost was sputtering again. “I haven't got ten thousand dollars.
My show's going big, but I had a lot of debts and still have. And even if I had it—what's the idea? Blackmail? If you're that kind151” “Please, Mr. Frost. I beg you. May I speak?” Llewellyn glared at him.
Wolfe settled back in his chair. “There are three things I like about you, sir, but you have several bad habits. One is your assumption that words are brickbats to be hurled at people in an effort to stun them. You must learn to stop that.
Another is your childish readiness to rush into action without stopping to consider the consequences. Before you definitely hired me to undertake an investigation you should have scrutinized the possibilities. But the point is that you hired me; and let me tell you, you burned all bridges when you goaded me into that mad sortie to Fifty-second Street. That will have to be paid for.
You and I are bound by contract; I am bound to pursue a certain inquiry, and you are bound to pay my reasonable and commensurate charge. And when, for personal and peculiar reasons, you grow to dislike the contract, what do you do? You come to my office and try to knock me out of my chair by propelling words like ‘blackmail’ at me! Pfui! The insolence of a spoiled child!” He poured beer, and drank. Llewellyn Frost watched him. I, after getting it into my notebook, nodded my head at him in encouraging approval of one of his better efforts.
The client finally spoke. “But look here, Mr. Wolfe. I didn't agree to let you go up there and... that is...I didn't have any idea you were going...” He stopped on that, and gave it up. “I'm not denying the contract. I didn't come here and start throwing brickbats. I just asked, if we call it off now, how much do I owe you?” “And I told you.” “But I haven't got ten thousand dollars, not this minute. I think I could have it in a week. But even if I did, my God, just for a couple of hours' work—” “It is not the work.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “It is simply that I will not permit my self-conceit to be bruised by the sort of handling you are trying to give it. It is true t
hat I hire out my abilities for money, but I assure you that I am not to be regarded as a mere peddler of gewgaws or tricks. I am an artist or nothing. Would you commission Matisse to do a painting, and, when he had scribbled his first rough sketch, snatch it from him and crumple it up and tell him, That's enough, how much do I owe you?' No, you wouldn't do that. You think the comparison is fanciful? I don't. Every artist has his own conceit. I have mine. I know you are young, and your training has left vacant lots in your brain; you don't realize how offensively you have acted.” “For God's sake.” The client sat back. “Well.” He looked at me as if I might suggest something, and then back at Wolfe. He spread out his hands, palms up.
“All right, you're an artist. You're it. I've told you, I haven't got ten thousand dollars. How about a check dated a week from today?” Wolfe shook his head. “You could stop payment. I don't trust you; you are incensed; the flame of fear and resentment is burning in you. Besides, you should get more for your money, and I should do more to earn it. The only sensible course—” The ring of the telephone interrupted him. I swung around to my desk and got it.
I acknowledged my identity to a gruff male inquiry, waited a minute, and heard the familiar tones of another male voice. What it said induced a grin.
I turned to Wolfe: “Inspector Cramer says that one of his men saw you up at McNair's place this morning, and nearly died of the shock. So did he when he heard it. He says it would be a pleasure to discuss the case with you a while on the telephone.” “Not for me. I am engaged.” I returned to the wire and had more talk. Cramer was as amiable as a guy stopping you on a lonely hill because he's out of gas. I turned to Wolfe again: “He'd like to stop in at six o'clock to smoke a cigar. He says, to compare notes. He means S O S.” Wolfe nodded.
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe - Red Box Page 3