The League of Frightened Men

by Rex Stout

  I had a good deal stronger feeling of Paul Chapin, behind me, than I've had of lots of people under my eyes and sometimes under my hands too.

  I flipped the pages of the record book,» and I didn't turn around until Wolfe came I in.

  I had many times seen Wolfe enter the office when a visitor was there waiting for him, and I watched him to see if he would | vary his common habit for the sake of any effect on the cripple. He didn't. He stopped inside the door and said, "Good morning, Archie." Then he turned to Chapin and his trunk and head went forward an inch and a half from the • perpendicular, in a sort of mammoth | elegance. "Good morning, sir." He proceeded to his desk, fixed the orchids in the vase, sat down, and looked through the mail. He rang for Fritz, took out his pen and tried it on the scratch pad, and when Fritz came nodded for beer. He • looked at me:

  "You saw Mr. Wright? Your errand fl was successful?"

  "Yes, sir. In the bag."

  "Good. If you would please move a chair up for Mr. Chapin. – If you would be so good, sir? For either amenities or hostilities, the distance is too great. Come closer." He opened a bottle of beer.

  Chapin got up, grasped his stick, and hobbled over to the desk. He paid no attention to the chair I placed for him, nor to me, but stood there leaning on his stick, his flat cheeks pale, his lips showing a faint movement like a race horse not quite steady at the barrier, his lightcolored eyes betraying neither life nor death – neither the quickness of the one nor the glassy stare of the other. I got at my desk and shuffled my pad in among a pile of papers, ready to take my notes while pretending to do something else, but Wolfe shook his head at me. "Thank you, Archie, it will not be necessary."

  The cripple said, "There need be neither amenities nor hostilities. I've come for my box."

  "Ah! Of course. I might have known." ^oife had turned on his gracious tone.

  "If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Chapin, may

  I ask how you knew I had it?"

  "You may ask." Chapin smiled. "Any man's vanity will stand a pat on the back, won't it, Mr. Wolfe? I inquired for my package where I had left it, and was told I it was not there, and learned of the ruse by which it had been stolen. I reflected, and it was obvious that the likeliest thief was you. You must believe me, this is not flattery, I really did come to you first."

  "Thank you. I do thank you." Wolfe, having emptied a glass, leaned back and got comfortable. "I am considering – this shouldn't bore you, since words are the tools of your trade – I am considering the comical and tragical scantiness of all vocabularies. Take, for example, the – procedure by which you acquired the | contents of that box, and I got the box and all; both our actions were, by definition, stealing, and both of us are thieves; words implying condemnation and contempt, and yet neither of us would concede that he has earned them. So much « ,r for words – but of course you know that, since you are a professional." fl "You said contents. You haven't opened the box."

  "My dear sir! Could Pandora herself have resisted such a temptation?"

  "You broke the lock."

  "No. It is intact. It is simple, and surrendered easily."

  "And… you opened it. You probably…" He stopped and stood silent. His voice had gone thin on him, but I couldn't see that his face displayed any feeling at all, not even resentment. He continued, "In that case… I don't want it. I don't want to see it. – But that's preposterous. Of course I want it. I must have it." „ Wolfe, looking at him with half-closed eyes, motionless, said nothing. That lasted for seconds. All of a sudden Chapin demanded, suddenly hoarse:

  I "Damn you, where is it?"

  Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. "Mr.

  Chapin. Sit down."

  "No."

  "Very well. You can't have the box. I intend to keep it."

  Still there was no change on the cripple's face. I didn't like him, but I was admiring him. His light-colored eyes had kept straight into Wolfe's, but now they moved; he glanced aside at the chair I had placed for him, firmed his hand on the crook of his stick, and limped three steps i and sat down. He looked at Wolfe again and said:

  "For twenty years I lived on pity. I don't know if you are a sensitive man, I don't know if you can guess what a diet like that would do. I despised it, but I lived on it, because a hungry man takes what he can get. Then I found something else to sustain me. I got a measure of pride in achievement, I ate bread that I earned, I threw away the stick that I needed to walk with, one that had been • given me, and bought one of my own. Mr. • Wolfe, I was done with pity. I had swallowed it to the extreme of toleration. I was sure that, whatever gestures I might be brought, foolishly or desperately, to accept from my fellow creatures, it would never again be pity." n j He stopped. Wolfe murmured, "Not sure. Not sure unless you carried death ready at hand."

  "Right. I learn that today. I seem to have acquired a new and active antipathy to death."

  "And as regards pity…" ‹I need it. I ask for it. I discovered an hour ago that you had got my box, and I have been considering ways and means. I can see no other way to get it than to plead with you. Force" – he smiled the smile that his eyes ignored – "is not feasible. The force of law is of course, under the circumstances, out of the question. Cunning – I have no cunning, except with words. There is no way but to call upon your pity. I do so, I plead with you. The box is mine by purchase. The contents are mine by… by sacrifice. By purchase I can say, though not with money. I ask you to give it back to me." j "Well. What plea have you to offer?"

  "The plea of my need, my very real need, and your indifference."

  "You are wrong there, Mr. Chapin. I need it too." | "No. It is you who are wrong. It is valueless to you."

  "But, my dear sir." Wolfe wiggled a finger. "If I permit you to be the judge of your own needs you must grant me the same privilege. What other plea?"

  "None. I tell you, I will take it in pity."

  "Not from me. Mr. Chapin. Let us not keep from our tongues what is in our minds. There is one plea you could make that would be effective. – Wait, hear me.

  I know that you are not prepared to make it, not yet, and I am not prepared to ask for it. Your box is being kept in a safe place, intact. I need it here in order to be sure that you will come to see me whenever I am ready for you. I am not yet ready. When the time comes, it will not be merely my possession of your box that will persuade you to give me what I want and intend to get. I am preparing for you. You said you have acquired a new and active antipathy to death. Then you should prepare for me: for the best I shall be able to offer you, the day you come for your box, will be your choice between two deaths. I shall leave that, for the moment, as cryptic as it sounds; you may understand me, but you certainly will not try to anticipate me. – Archie. In order that Mr. Chapin may not suspect us of gullery, bring the box please."

  I went and unlocked the cabinet and got the box from the shelf, and took it and put it down on Wolfe's desk. I hadn't looked at it since Wednesday and had forgotten how swell it was; it certainly was a pip. I put it down with care. The cripple's eyes were on me, I thought, rather than on the box, and I had a notion of how pleased he probably was to see me handling it. For nothing but pure damn meanness I rubbed my hand back and forth along the top of it. Wolfe told me to sit down.

  Chapin's hands were grasping the arms of his chair, as if to lift himself up. He said, "May I open it?"

  "No."

  J He got to his feet, disregarding his stick, leaning on a hand on the desk. "I'll Just… lift it."

  "No. I'm sorry, Mr. Chapin. You won't touch it."

  I The cripple leaned there, bending forward, looking Wolfe in the eyes. His chin was stuck out. All of a sudden he began to laugh. It was a hell of a laugh, I thought it was going to choke him. He went on with it. Then it petered out and he turned around and got hold of his stick. He seemed to me about half I hysterical, and I was ready to jump him if he tried any child's play like bouncing the stick on Wolfe's bean, but I had him wrong again. He got into his regular pos
ture, leaning to the right side with his head a little to the left to even up, and from his light-colored eyes steady on Wolfe again you would never have guessed he had any sentiments at all.

  Wolfe said, "The next time you come H here, Mr. Chapin, you may take the box with you." • Chapin shook his head. His tone was | new, sharper: "I.think not. You're making a mistake. You're forgetting that I've had twenty years practice at renunciation."»

  Wolfe shook his head. "Oh no. On the contrary, that's what I'm counting on.

  The only question will be, which of two sacrifices you will select. If I know you, and I think I do, I know where your choice will lie."

  "I'll make it now." I stared at the cripple's incredible smile; I thought to myself that in order to break him Wolfe would have to wipe that smile off, and it didn't look practical by any means I'd ever heard of. With the smile still working, fixed, Chapin put his left hand on the desk to steady himself, and with his right hand he lifted his stick up, pointing it in front of him like a rapier, and gently let its tip come to rest on the surface of the desk. He slid the tip along until it was against the side of the box, and then pushed, not in a hurry, just a steady push.

  The box moved, approached the edge, kept going, and tumbled to the floor. It bounced a little and rolled towards my feet. j Chapin retrieved his stick and got his weight on it again. He didn't look at the box; he directed his smile at Wolfe. "I told you, sir, I had learned to live on pity.

  I am learning now to live without it." | He tossed his head up, twice, like a horse on the rein, got himself turned around, and hobbled to the door and on out. I sat and watched him; I didn't go to the hall to help him. We heard him out there, shuffling to keep his balance as he got into his coat. Then the outer door opening and closing. I Wolfe sighed. "Pick it up, Archie. Put it away. It is astonishing, the effect a little literary and financial success will produce on a spiritual ailment."

  He rang for beer.

  15

  I didn't go out again that morning. Wolfe got loquacious. Leaning back with his fingers interlaced in front of his belly, with his eyes mostly shut, he favored me with one of his quiet endless orations, his subject this time being what he called bravado of the psyche. He said there were two distinct species of bravado: one having as its purpose to impress outside spectators, the other being calculated solely for an internal audience. The latter was bravado of the psyche. It was a show put on by this or that factor of the ego to make a hit with all the other factors.

  And so on. I did manage, before one o'clock, to make a copy of the first warning on the Harvard Club junk, and Put it under the glass. It was it. Chapin had typed his poems of friendship on that machine.

  After lunch I got in the roadster to hunt for Hibbard. The usual reports had come from the boys, including Saul Panzer: nothing. Fred Durkin had cackled over the phone, at a quarter to one, that he and his colleagues had made a swell procession following Paul Chapin to Nero Wolfe's house, and had retired around the corner, to Tenth Avenue, to await news of Wolfe's demise. Then they had trailed Chapin back home again.

  I had about as much hope of findingHibbard as of getting a mash note fromGreta Garbo, but I went on poking around. Of course I was phoning his niece, Evelyn, twice a day, not in the expectation of getting any dope, since she • would let us know if she got any kind of I news, but because she was my client and you've got to keep reminding your clients you're on the job. She was beginning to sound pretty sick on the telephone, and I hardly had the heart to try to buck her up, but I made a few passes at it.

  Among other weak stabs I made that Friday afternoon was a visit to the office of Ferdinand Bowen the stockbroker.

  Hibbard had an account with Galbraith Bowen that had been fairly active fooling with bonds, not much margin stuff, and while I more or less took Bowen in my stride, calling on all the members of the league, there was a little more chance of a hint there than with the others. Entering the office on the twentieth floor of one of the Wall Street buildings, I told myself I'd better advise Wolfe to give a boost to Bowen's contribution to the pot, no matter what the bank report said. Surely they had the rent paid, and that alone must have been beyond the dreams of avarice. It was one of those layouts, a whole floor, that give you the feeling that a girl would have to be at least a duchess to get a job there as a stenographer.

  I was taken into Bowen's own room. It was as big as a dance hall, and the rugs made you want to walk around them.

  Bowen sat behind a beautiful dark-brown desk with nothing on it but the Wall Street Journal and an ash tray. One of his little hands held a long fat cigarette with smoke curling up from it that smelled like a Turkish harlot – at least it smelled like what I would expect if I ever got close to one. I didn't like that guy. If I'd had my choice of pinning a murder on him or Paul Chapin, I'd have been compelled to toss a coin. 1 He thought he was being decent when he grunted at me to sit down. I can stand a real tough baby, but a bird that fancies himself for a hot mixture of John D.

  Rockefeller and Lord Chesterfield, being all the time innocent of both ingredients, gives me a severe pain in the sitter. I told him what I was telling all of them, that I would like to know about the last time he had seen Andrew Hibbard, and all details.

  He had to think. Finally he decided the last time had been more than a week • before Hibbard disappeared, around the I twentieth of October, at the theater. It had been a party, Hibbard with his niece and Bowen with his wife. Nothing of any significance had been said, Bowen declared, nothing with any bearing on the present situation. As he remembered it, ^_ there had been no mention of Paul›k I Chapin, probably because Bowen had J been one of the three who had hired the Bascom detectives, and Hibbard disapproved of it and didn't want to spoil the evening with an argument.

  I asked him, "Hibbard had a trading account with your firm?"

  He nodded. "For a long while, over ten years. It wasn't very active, mostly back and forth in bonds."

  "Yeah. I gathered that from the statements among his papers. You see, one thing that might help would be any evidence that when Hibbard left his apartment that Tuesday evening he had an idea that he might not be back again. I can't find any. I'm still looking. For instance, during the few days preceding his disappearance, did he make any unusual arrangements or give any unusual orders regarding his account here?" | Bowen shook the round thing that he used to grow his hair on. "No. I would have been told… but I'll make sure."

  From a row on the wall behind him he pulled out a telephone, and talked into it.

  He waited a while, and talked some more.

  He pushed the phone back, and turned to me. "No, as I thought. There has been no transaction on Andy's account for over two weeks, and there were no instructions from him."

  I bade him farewell.

  That was a good sample of the steady progress I made that day in the search for Andrew Hibbard. It was a triumph. I found out as much from the other six guys I saw as I did from Ferdinand Bowen, so I was all elated when I breezed in home around dinner time, not to mention the fact that with the roadster parked on Ninetieth Street some dirty lout scraped the rear fender while I was in seeing Dr.

  Burton. I didn't feel like anything at all, not even like listening to the charming gusto of Wolfe's dinner conversation – during a meal he refused to remember that there was such a thing as a murder case in the world – so I was glad that he picked that evening to leave the radio turned on.

  After dinner we went to the office. Out of spite and bitterness I started to tell him about all the runs I had scored that afternoon, but he asked me to bring him the atlas and began to look at maps.

  There were all sorts of toys he was apt to begin playing with when he should have had his mind on business, but the worst of all was the atlas. When he got that out I gave up. I fooled around a while with the plant records and the expense account, then I closed my affairs for the night and went over to his desk to look him over. He was doing China! The atlas was a Gouchard, the finest to be had,
and did China more than justice. He had the folded map opened out, and with his pencil in one hand and his magnifying glass in the other, there he was buried in the Orient.

  Without bothering to say good night to him, for I knew he wouldn't answer, I picked up his copy of Devil Take the Hindmost and went upstairs to my room, stopping in the kitchen for a pitcher of milk.

  B After I had got into pajamas and slippers I deposited myself in my most comfortable chair, under the reading lamp, with the milk handy on the little tile-top table, and took a crack at Paul |Chapin's book. I thought it was about •time I caught up with Wolfe. I flipped through it, and saw there were quite a few places he had marked – sometimes only a phrase, sometimes a whole sentence, occasionally a long passage of two or three paragraphs. I decided to concentrate on those, and I skipped around and took them at random: … not by the intensity of his desire, but merely by his inborn impulse to act; to do, disregarding all pale considerations…

  For Alan there was no choice in the matter, for he knew that the fury that spends itself in words is but the mumbling of an idiot, beyond the circumference of reality.

  I read a dozen more, yawned, and drank some milk. I went on:

  She said, "That's why I admire you… / don't like a man too squeamish to butcher his own meat.ff … and scornful of all the whining eloquence deploring the awful brutalities of war; for the true objection to war is not the blood it soaks into the grass and the thirsty soil, not the bones it crushes, not the flesh it mangles, not the warm nutritious viscera it exposes to the hunger of the innocent birds and beasts. These things have their beauty, to compensate for the fleeting agonies of this man and that man. The trouble with war is that its noble and quivering excitements transcend the capacities of our weakling nervous systems; we are not men enough for it; it properly requires for its sublime sacrifices the blood and bones and flesh of heroes, and what have we to offer? This little coward, that fat sniveler, all these regiments of puny cravens…