Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe - Red Box

by The Red Box (lit)

  CHAPTER Seventeen

  The next morning, Saturday, there was no early indication that the detective business of Nero Wolfe had any burden heavier than a feather on either its mind or its conscience. I had my figure laved and clothed before eight o'clock, rather expecting a pre-breakfast summons to some sort of action from the head of the firm, but I might as well have snoozed my full 510 minutes. The house phone stayed silent. As usual, Fritz took a tray of orange juice, crackers and chocolate to Wolfe's room at the appointed moment, and there was no indication that I was scheduled for anything more enterprising than slitting open the envelopes of the morning mail and helping Fritz empty the wastebasket.

  At nine o'clock, when I was informed by the hum of the elevator that Wolfe was ascending for his two hours with Horstmann in the plant rooms, I was seated at the little table in the kitchen, doing the right thing by a pile of toast and four eggs cooked in black butter and sherry under a cover on a slow fire, and absorbing the accounts in the morning papers of the sensational death of Perren Gebert. It was a new one on me. The idea was that when he started to enter his car he had bumped his head against a sauce dish full of poison which had been perched on a piece of tape stuck to the cloth of the top above the driver's seat, and the poison had spilled on him, most of it going down the back of his neck. The poison wasn't named. I decided to finish with my second cup of coffee before going to the shelves in the office for a book on toxicology to glance over the possibilities. There couldn't be more than two or three that would furnish results as sudden and complete as that, applied externally.

  A little after nine o'clock a phone call came from Saul Panzer. He asked for Wolfe and I put him through to the plant rooms; and then, to my disgust but not my surprise, Wolfe shooed me off the line. I stretched out my legs and looked at the tips of my shoes and told myself that the day would come when I would walk into that office carrying a murderer in a suitcase, and Nero Wolfe would pay dearly for a peek. Soon after that, Cramer phoned. He was also put through to Wolfe, and this time I kept my line and scribbled it in my notebook, but it was a waste of paper and talent. Cramer sounded tired and bitter, as if he needed three drinks and a good long nap. The gist of his growlings was that they were on the rampage at the District Attorney's office and about ready to take drastic action. Wolfe murmured sympathetically that he hoped they would do nothing that would interfere with Cramer's progress on the case, and Cramer told Wolfe where to go. Kid stuff.

  I got out a book on toxicology, and I suppose to an ignorant pnlooker I would have appeared to be a studious fellow buried in research, but as a matter of fact I was a caged tiger. I wanted to get in a lick somewhere, so much that it made my stomach ache. I wanted to all the more, because I had scored a couple of muffs on the case, once when I had failed to bring Gebert away from that gang of gorillas up at Glennanne, and once when I had beat it from 73rd Street three minutes before Perren Gebert got his right there on the spot It was the humor I was in that made me not any too hospitable when, around ten o'clock, Fritz brought me the card of a visitor and I saw it was Mathias R.

  Frisbie. I told Fritz to show him in. I had heard of this Frisbie, an Assistant District Attorney, but had never seen him. I observed, when he entered, that I hadn't missed much. He was the window-dummy type—high collar, clothes pressed very nice, and embalmed stiff and cold. The only thing you could tell from his eyes was that his self-esteem almost hurt him.

  He told me he wanted to see Nero Wolfe. I told him that Mr. Wolfe would be engaged, as always in the morning, until eleven o'clock. He said it was urgent and important business and he required to see him at once. I grinned at him: “Wait here a minute.” I moseyed up three flights of stairs to the plant rooms and found Wolfe with Theodore, experimenting with a new method of pollenizing for hybrid seeds. He nodded to admit I was there.

  I said, “The drastic action is downstairs. Name of Frisbie. The guy that handled the Clara Fox larceny for Muir, remember? He wishes you to drop everything immediately and hurry down.” Wolfe didn't speak. I waited half a minute and then asked pleasantly, “Shall I tell him you're stricken dumb?” Wolfe grunted. He said without turning, “And you were glad to see him. Even an Assistant District Attorney, and even that one. Don't deny it. It gave you an excuse to pester me. Very well, you've pestered me. Go.” “No message?” “None. Go.” I ambled back downstairs. I thought Frisbie might like to have a few moments to himself, so I stopped in the kitchen for a little chat with Fritz regarding the prospects for lunch and other interesting topics. When I wandered into the office Frisbie was sitting down, frowning, with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingertips all meeting each other, properly matched.

  I said, “Oh, yes. Mr. Frisbie. Since you say you must talk with Mr. Wolfe himself, can I get you a book or something? The morning paper? He will be down at eleven.” Frisbie's fingertips parted. He demanded, “He's here, isn't her “Certainly. He's never anywhere else.” “Then—I won't wait an hour. I was warned to expect this. I won't tolerate it.” I shrugged. “Okay. I'll make it as easy as I can for you. Do you want to look at the morning paper while you're not tolerating it?” He stood up. “Look here. This is insufferable. Time and time again this man Wolfe has had the effrontery to obstruct the operations of our office. Mr.

  Skinner sent me here—” “I'll bet he did. He wouldn't come again himself, after his last experience—” “He sent me, and I certainly don't intend to sit here until eleven o'clock.

  Owing to an excess of leniency with which Wolfe has too often been treated by certain officials, he apparently regards himself as above the law. No one can flout the processes of justice—no one!” The high color had got higher. “Boyden McNair was murdered three days ago right in this office, and there is every reason to believe that Wolfe knows more about it than he has told. He should have been brought to see the District Attorney at once—but no, he has not even been properly questioned! Now another man has been killed, and again there is good reason to believe that Wolfe has withheld information which might have prevented it. I have made a great concession to him by coming here at all, and I want to see hfrn at once. At once!” I nodded. “Sure, I know you want to see him, but keep your shirt on. Let's make it a hypothetical question. If I say you'll have to wait until eleven o'clock, then what?” He glared. “I won't wait. I'll go to my office and I'll have him served. And I'll see that his license is revoked! He thinks his friend Morley can save him, but he can't get away with this kind of crooked underhanded—” I smacked him one. I probably wouldn't have, except for the bad humor I was in anyway. It was by no means a wallop, merely a pat with the palm at the side of his puss, but it tilted him a little. He went back a step and began to tremble, and stood there with his arms at his sides and his fists doubled up.

  I said, “They're no good hanging there at your knees. Put 'em up and I'll slap you again.” He was too mad to pronounce properly. He sputtered, “You'll re-regret this.

  You'll—” I said, “Shut up and get out of here before you make me mad. You talk of revoking licenses! I know what's eating you, you've got delusions of grandeur, and you've been trying to hog a grandstand play ever since they gave you a desk and a chair down there. I know all about you. I know why Skinner sent you, he wanted to give you a chance to make a monkey of yourself, and you didn't even have gump enough to know it. The next time you shoot off your mouth about Nero Wolfe being crooked and underhanded I won't slap you in private, I'll do it with an audience. Git!” In a way I suppose it was all right, and of course it was the only thing to do under the circumstances, but there was no deep satisfaction in it. He turned and walked out, and after I had heard the front door close behind him I went and sat down at my desk and yawned and scratched my head and kicked over the wastebasket. It had been a fleeting pleasure to smack him and read him out, but now that it was over there was an inclination inside of me to feel righteous, and that made me glum and in a worse temper than before. I hate to feel righteous, because it makes me uncomfortable
and I want to kick something.

  I picked up the wastebasket and returned the litter to it piece by piece. I took out the plant records and opened them and put them back again, went to the front room and looked out of the window onto 35th Street and came back, answered a phone call from Ferguson's Market which I relayed to Fritz, and finally got myself propped on my coccyx again with the book on toxicology. I was still fighting with that when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven o'clock.

  He progressed to his desk and sat down, and went through his usual motions with the pen, the mail, the vase of orchids, the button to subpoena beer. Fritz came with the tray, and Wolfe opened and poured and drank and wiped his lips. Then he leaned back and sighed. He was relaxing after his strenuous activities among the flower pots.

  I said, “Frisbie got obnoxious and I touched him on the cheek with my hand. He is going to revoke your license and serve you with different kinds of papers and maybe throw you into a vat of lye.” “Indeed.” Wolfe opened his eyes at me. “Was he going to revoke the license before you hit him or afterward?” “Before. Afterward he didn't talk much.” Wolfe shuddered. “I trust your discretion, Archie, but sometimes I feel that I am trusting the discretion of an avalanche. Was there no recourse but to batter him?” “I didn't batter him. I didn't even tap him. It was just a gesture of annoyance.

  I'm in an ugly mood.” “I know you are. I don't blame you. This case has been tedious and disagreeable from the beginning. Something seems to have happened to Saul. We have a job ahead of us. It will end, I think, as disagreeably as it began, but we shall do it in style if we can, and with finality—ah! There, I hope, is Saul now.” The doorbell had rung. But again, as on the evening before, it wasn't Saul. This time it was Inspector Cramer.

  Fritz ushered him in and he lumbered across. He looked as if he was about due for dry dock, with puffs under his eyes, his greying hair straggly, and his shoulders not as erect and military as an inspector's ought to be. Wolfe greeted him: “Good morning, sir. Sit down. Will you have some beer?” He took the dunce's chair, indulged in a deep breath, took a cigar from his pocket, scowled at it and put it back again. He took another breath and told both of us: “When I get into such shape that I don't want a cigar I'm in a hell of a fix.” He looked at me. “What did you do to Frisbie, anyway?” “Not a thing. Nothing that I remember.” “Well, he does. I think you're done for. I think he's going to plaster a charge of treason on you.” I grinned. “That hadn't occurred to me. I guess that's what it was, treason.

  What do they do, hang me?” Cramer shrugged. “I don't know and I don't care. What happens to you is the least of my worries. God, I wish I felt like lighting a cigar.” He took one from his pocket again, looked it over, and this time kept it in his hand. He passed me up. “Excuse me, Wolfe, I guess I didn't mention I don't want any beer. I suppose you think I came here to start a fracas.” Wolfe murmured, “Well, didn't you?” “I did not. I came to have a reasonable talk. Can I ask you a couple of straight questions and get a couple of straight replies?” “You can try. Give me a sample.” “Okay. If we searched this place would we find McNair's red box?” “No.” “Have you ever seen it or do you know where it is.

  “No. To both.” “Did McNair tell you anything here Wednesday before he died that gave you any line on motive for these murders?” “You have heard every word Mr. McNair said in this office; Archie read it to you from his notes.” “Yeah. I know. Have you received information as to motive from any other source?” “Now, really.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “That question is preposterous. Certainly I have. Haven't I been on die case four days?” “Who from?” “Well, for one, from you.” Cramer stared. He stuck his cigar in his mouth and put his teeth into it without realizing he was doing it. He threw up his hands and dropped them.

  “The trouble with you, Wolfe,” he declared, “is that you can't forget for one little moment how terribly smart you are. Hell, I know it. Do you think I ever waste my time making calls like this on Del Pritchard or Sandy Mollew? When did I tell you what?” Wolfe shook his head. “No, Mr. Cramer. Now—as the children say—now you're getting warm. And I'm not quite ready. Suppose we take turns at this; I have my curiosities, too. The story in the morning paper was incomplete. What sort of contraption was it that spilled the poison on Mr. Gebert?” Cramer grunted. “You want to know?” “I am curious, and we might as well pass the time.” “Oh, we might.” The inspector removed his cigar and looked at its end with surprise at finding it unlit, touched a match to it, and puffed. “It was like this. Take a piece of ordinary adhesive tape an inch wide and ten inches long.

  Paste the ends of the tape to the cloth of the top of Gebert's car, above the driver's seat, about five inches apart, so that the tape swings loose like a hammock. Take an ordinary beetleware sauce dish, like they sell in the five and ten, and set it in that little hammock, and you'll have to balance it carefully, because a slight jar will upset it. Before you set the dish in the hammock, pour into it a couple of ounces of nitrobenzene— or, if you'd rather, you can call it essence of mirbane, or imitation oil of bitter almonds, because it's all the same thing. Also pour in with it an ounce or so of plain water, so that the nitrobenzene will settle to the bottom and the layer of water on top will keep the oil from evaporating and making a smell. If you will make the experiment of getting into a car the way a man ordinarily does, you will find that your eyes are naturally directed toward the seat and the floor, and there isn't one chance in a thousand that you would see anything pasted to the roof, especially at night, and furthermore you will find that your head will go in within an inch of the roof and you're sure to bump the sauce dish. And even if you don't, it will fall and spill on you the first hole you hit or the first corner you turn. How do you like that for a practical joke?” Wolfe nodded. “From the pragmatic standpoint, close to perfect. Simple, effective, and cheap. If you had had the poison in your possession for some time, as provision against an emergency, your entire outlay would not be more than fifteen cents—tape, an ounce of water, and sauce dish. From the newspaper account I suspected the nitrobenzene. It would do that.” Cramer nodded emphatically. “I'll say it would. Last year a worker in a dye factory spilled a couple of ounces on his pants, not directly on his skin, and he was dead in an hour. The man I had tailing Gebert handled him when he ran up to him after he fell, and got a little on his hands and some strong fumes, and he's in a hospital now with a blue face and purple lips and purple fingernails.

  The doctor says he'll pull through. Lew Frost got a little of it too, but not bad. Gebert must have turned his head when he felt it spilling and smelled it, because he got a little on his face and maybe even a couple of drops in his eyes. You should have seen him an hour after it happened.” “I think not.” Wolfe was pouring beer. 'Tor me to look at him could have done him no good, and certainly me none.” He drank, and felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and had none, and I got him one from the drawer. He leaned back and looked sympathetically at the inspector. “I trust, Mr. Cramer, that the routine progresses satisfactorily.” “Smart again. Huh?” Cramer puffed. “I'll call the turn again in a minute. But I'll try to satisfy you. The routine progresses exactly as it should, but it don't get anywhere. That ought to make you smack your lips. You tipped me off Wednesday to stick to the Frost family—all right, any of them could have done it. If it was either of the young ones they did it together, because they went together to the chapel. They would have had barely enough time to do the taping and pouring, because they got there only a minute or two after Gebert did. It could have been done in two minutes; I've tested it The uncle and the mother went separately, and either of them would have had plenty of time. They've accounted for it, of course, but not in a way you can check it up to the minute.

  On opportunity none of them is absolutely Out.” The inspector puffed some more. “One thing, you might think we could find some passerby who saw someone making motions with the top of that car, but it could have been done sitting inside with the doo
r closed and wouldn't have attracted much attention, and it was night. We've had no luck on that so far. We found the empty bottles in the car, in the dashboard compartment—ordinary two-ounce vials, stocked by every drug store, no labels. Of course there were no fingerprints on them or on the sauce dish, and as for finding out where they came from, you might as well try to trace a redheaded paper match. We're checking up on sources of nitro-benzene, but I agree with you that whoever is handling this business isn't leaving a trail like that.

  “I'll tell you.” Cramer puffed again. “I don't think we can do it We can keep on trying, but I don't believe we can. There's too much luck and dirty cleverness against us. It'll be months before I get in my car again without looking up at the top. We've got to get at it through motive, or I swear I'm beginning to believe we won't get it at all. I know that's what you've wanted too, that's why you said the red box would do it. But where the hell is it? If we can't find it we'll have to get at the motive without it. So far it's a blank, not only with the Frosts, but with everyone else we've investigated. Granted that Dudley Frost is short as trustee of the estate, which he may or may not be, what good does it do him to croak McNair and Gebert? With Lew and the girl, there's not even a hair of a motive. With Mrs. Frost, we know she's been paying Gebert a lot of jack for a long time. She says she was paying off an old debt, and he's dead and he wouldn't tell us anyhow. It was probably blackmail for something that happened years ago, but what was it that happened, and why did she have to kill him right now, and where did McNair fit in? McNair was the first to go.” Cramer reached to knock ashes into the tray, sat back in his chair, and grunted.