The Rubber Band/The Red Box 2-In-1

by Rex Stout

  “But, Mr. Perry.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “Miss Fox is my client. You’re not.”

  “Ah.” Perry smiled. “You want to be paid for it? I’ll pay a reasonable amount.”

  “Whatever information I have gathered in the interest of Miss Fox is not for sale to others.”

  “Rubbish. It has served her well. She has no further use for it.” He leaned forward again. “Look here, Wolfe. I don’t need to try to explain Muir to you, you’ve talked with him. If he has got so bad that he tries to frame a girl out of senile chagrin and vindictiveness, don’t you think I ought to know it? He is our senior vice-president. Wouldn’t our stockholders think so?”

  “I didn’t know stockholders think.” Wolfe sighed. “But to answer your first question: yes, sir, I do think you ought to know it. But you won’t learn it from me. Let us not go on pawing the air, Mr. Perry. This is definite: I did have evidence to support my threat, but under no circumstances will you get from me any proof that you could use against Mr. Muir. So we won’t discuss that. If there is any other topic …”

  Perry insisted. He got frank. His opinion was that Muir was such an old goat that his active services were no longer of any value to the corporation. He wanted to deal fairly with Muir, but after all his first duty was to the organization and its stockholders. And so on. He had suspected from the first that there was something odd about the disappearance of that $30,000, and he reasserted his right to know what Wolfe had found out about it. Wolfe let him ramble on quite a while, but finally he sighed and sat up and got positive. Nothing doing.

  Perry seemed determined to keep his temper. He sat and bit his lower lip and looked at me and back at Wolfe again.

  Wolfe asked, “Was there anything else, sir?”

  Perry hesitated. Then he nodded. “There was, yes. But I don’t suppose … however … I want to see Miss Fox.”

  “Indeed.” Wolfe’s shoulders went up an inch and down again. “The demand for that young woman seems to be universal. Did you know the police are still looking for her? They want to ask her about a murder.”

  Perry’s chin jerked up. “Murder? What murder?”

  “Just a murder. A man on the street with five bullets in him. I would have supposed Frisbie had told you of it.”

  “No. Muir said Frisbie said something … I forget what … but this sounds serious. How can she possibly be connected with it? Who was killed?”

  “A man named Harlan Scovil. Murder is often serious. But I think you needn’t worry about Miss Fox; she really had nothing to do with it. You see, she is still my client. At present she is rather inaccessible, so if you could just tell me what you want to see her about …”

  I saw a spot of color on Perry’s temple, and it occurred to me that he was the fourth man I had that day seen badly affected in the emotions by either the presence or the name of Clara Fox. She wasn’t a woman, she was an epidemic. But obviously Perry wasn’t going to repeat Muir’s performance. I watched the spot of color as it faded. At length he said to Wolfe quietly:

  “She is in this house. Isn’t she?”

  “The police searched this house today and didn’t find her.”

  “But you know where she is?”

  “Certainly.” Wolfe frowned at him. “If you have a message for her, Mr. Goodwin will take it.”

  “Can you tell me when and where it will be possible to see her?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Not at present. Tomorrow, perhaps …”

  Perry arose from his chair. He stood and looked down at Wolfe, and all of a sudden smiled. “All right,” he said. “I can’t say that my call here has been very profitable, but I’m not complaining. Every man has a right to his own methods if he can get away with them. As you suggest, I’ll wait till tomorrow; you may feel differently about it.” He put out his hand.

  Wolfe glanced at the outstretched hand, then opened his eyes to look directly at Perry’s face. He shook his head. “No, sir. You are perfectly aware that in view of this … event, I am no friend of yours.”

  Perry’s temple showed color again. But he didn’t say anything. He turned and steered for the door. I lifted myself and followed him. He already had his hat and gloves by the time I got to the hall stand, and when I opened the door for him I saw that he had a car outside, one of the new Wethersill convertibles. I watched him climb in, and waited until he had glided off before I re-entered and slid the bolt to.

  I stopped in the kitchen long enough to learn from Saul that he had phoned the message to headquarters but hadn’t been able to convince them that he was King George and so had rung off.

  In the office, Wolfe sat with his eyes closed and his lips moving. After sitting down and glancing over my notebook and putting it in the drawer, I observed aloud:

  “He’s wise.”

  No reply, no acknowledgment. I added, “Which is more than you are.” That met with the same lack of encouragement. I waited a courteous interval and resumed, “The poor old fellow would give anything in the world to forestall unpleasant publicity for the Seaboard Products Corporation. Just think what he has sacrificed! He has spent the best part of his life building up that business, and I’ll bet his share of the profits is no more than a measly half a million a year. But what I want to know—”

  “Shut up, Archie.” Wolfe’s eyes opened. “I can do without that now.” He grimaced at his empty glass. “I am atrociously uncomfortable. It is sufficiently annoying to deal with inadequate information, which is what one usually has, but to sit thus while surmises, the mere ghosts of facts, tumble idiotically in my brain, is next to insupportable. It would have been better, perhaps, if you had gone to 55th Street. With prudence. At any rate, we can try for Mr. Cramer. I told him I would telephone him by eight, and it lacks only ten minutes of that. I particularly resent this sort of disturbance at this time of day. I presume you know we are having guinea chicken Braziliera. See about Mr. Cramer.”

  That proved to be a job. Cramer’s extension seemed to be permanently busy. After five or six tries I finally got it, and was told by someone that Cramer wasn’t there. He had left shortly after seven o’clock, and it wasn’t known where he was, and he had left no word about any expected message from Nero Wolfe. Wolfe received the information standing up, for Fritz had appeared to announce dinner. I reported Cramer’s absence and added, “Why don’t I go uptown now and see if something fell and broke? Or send Saul.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “No. The police are there, and if there is anything to hear we shall hear it later by reaching Mr. Cramer, without exposing ourselves.” He moved to the door. “There is no necessity for Johnny to sit in the kitchen at a dollar and a half an hour. Send him home. Saul may remain. Bring Miss Fox.”

  I performed the errands.

  At the dinner table, of course, business was out. Nothing was said to Clara Fox about the call for help from Mike Walsh or Perry’s visit. In spite of the fact that she had a rose pinned on her, she was distinctly down in the mouth and wasn’t making any effort in the way of peddling charm, but even so, appraising her coolly, I could see that she might be a real problem for any man who was at all impressionable. She had been in the plant rooms with Wolfe for an hour before six o’clock, and during dinner he went on with a conversation which they had apparently started then, about folk dances and that sort of junk. He even hummed a couple of tunes for her, after the guinea chicken had been disposed of, which caused me to take a firm hold on myself so as not to laugh the salad out of my mouth. At that, it was better than when he tried to whistle, for he did produce some kind of a noise.

  With the coffee he told her that the larceny charge had been dropped. She opened her eyes and her mouth both.

  “No, really? Then I can go!” She stopped herself and put out a hand to touch his sleeve, and color came to her cheeks. “Oh, I don’t mean … that was terrible, wasn’t it? But you know how I feel, hiding …”

  “Perfectly.” Wolfe nodded. “But I’m afraid you must ask us to tolerate you a little longer. Y
ou can’t go yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, first, you might get killed. Indeed, it is quite possible, though I confess not very likely. Second, there is a development that must still be awaited. On that you must trust me. I know, since Archie told you of Lord Clivers’s statement that he has paid—”

  I didn’t hear the finish, because the doorbell rang and I wasn’t inclined to delay about answering it. I was already on pins and I would soon have been on needles if something hadn’t happened to open things up. I loped down the hall.

  It was only Johnny Keems whom I had sent home over an hour before. Wondering what for, I let him in. He said, “Have you seen it?”

  I said, “No, I’m blind. Seen what?”

  He pulled a newspaper from his pocket and stuck it at me. “I was going to a movie on Broadway and they were yelling this extra, and I was nearby so I thought it would be better to run over with it than to phone—”

  I had looked at the headlines. I said, “Go to the office. No, go to the kitchen. You’re on the job, my lad. Satisfactory.” I went to the dining-room and moved Wolfe’s coffee cup to one side and spread the paper in front of him. “Here,” I said, “here’s that development you’re awaiting.” I stood and read it with him while Clara Fox sat and looked at us.

  MARQUIS ARRESTED!

  BRITAIN’S ENVOY

  FOUND STANDING OVER MURDERED MAN!

  Gazette Reporter

  Witnesses Unprecedented Drama!

  At 7:05 this evening the Marquis of Clivers, special envoy of Great Britain to this country, was found by a city detective, within the cluttered enclosure of a building under construction on 55th Street, Manhattan, standing beside the body of a dead man who had just been shot through the back of the head. The dead man was Michael Walsh, night watchman. The detective was Purley Stebbins of the Homicide Squad.

  At seven o’clock a Gazette reporter, walking down Madison Avenue, seeing a crowd collected at 55th Street, stopped to investigate. Finding that it was only two cars with shattered windshields and other minor damages from a collision, he strolled on, turning into 55th. Not far from the corner he saw a man stepping off the curb to cross the street. He recognized the man as Purley Stebbins, a city detective, and was struck by something purposeful in his gait. He stopped, and saw Stebbins push open the door of a board fence where a building is being constructed.

  The reporter crossed the street likewise, through curiosity, and entered the enclosure after the detective. He ventured further, and saw Stebbins grasping by the arm a man elegantly attired in evening dress, while the man tried to pull away. Then the reporter saw something else: the body of a man on the ground.

  Advancing close enough to see the face of the man in evening dress and recognizing him at once, the reporter was quick-witted enough to call sharply, “Lord Clivers!”

  The man replied, “Who the devil are you?”

  The detective, who was feeling the man for a weapon, instructed the reporter to telephone headquarters and get Inspector Cramer. The body was lying in such a position that the reporter had to step over it to get at the telephone on the wall of a wooden shed. Meanwhile Stebbins had blown his whistle and a few moments later a patrolman in uniform entered. Stebbins spoke to him, and the patrolman leaned over the body and exclaimed, “It’s the night watchman, old Walsh!”

  Having phoned police headquarters, the reporter approached Lord Clivers and asked him for a statement. He was brushed aside by Stebbins, who commanded him to leave. The reporter persisting, Stebbins instructed the patrolman to put him out, and the reporter was forcibly ejected.

  The superintendent of the construction, reached on the telephone, said that the name of the night watchman was Michael Walsh. He knew of no possible connection between Walsh and a member of the British nobility.

  No information could be obtained from the suite of Lord Clivers at the Hotel Portland.

  At 7:30 Inspector Cramer and various members of the police force had arrived on the scene at 55th Street, but no one was permitted to enter the enclosure and no information was forthcoming.

  There was a picture of Clivers, taken the preceding week on the steps of the White House.

  I was raving. If only I had gone up there! I glared at Wolfe: “Be prudent! Don’t expose ourselves! I could have been there in ten minutes after that phone call! Great God and Jehosaphat!”

  I felt a yank at my sleeve and saw it was Clara Fox. “What is it? What—”

  I took it out on her. I told her savagely, “Oh, nothing much. Just another of your playmates bumped off. You haven’t got much of a team left. Mike Walsh shot and killed dead, Clivers standing there—”

  Wolfe had leaned back and closed his eyes, with his lips working. I reached for the paper and pushed it at her. “Sure, go ahead, hope you enjoy it.” As she leaned over the paper I heard her breath go in. I said, “Of all the goddam wonderful management—”

  Wolfe cut in sharply, “Archie!”

  I muttered, “Go to hell everybody,” and sat down and bobbed my head from side to side in severe pain. The cockeyed thing had busted wide open and instead of going where I belonged I had sat and eaten guinea chicken Brazilisomething and listened to Wolfe hum folk tunes. Not only that, it had busted at the wrong place and Nero Wolfe had made a fool of himself. If I had gone I would have been there before Cramer or anyone else.…

  Wolfe opened his eyes and said quietly, “Take Miss Fox upstairs and come to the office.” He lifted himself from his chair.

  So did Clara Fox. She arose with her face whiter than before and looked from one to the other of us. She announced, I’m not going upstairs. I … I can’t just stay here. I’m going … I’m going …”

  “Yes.” Wolfe lifted his brows at her. “Where?”

  She burst out, “How do I know where? Don’t you see I … I’ve got to do something?” She suddenly flopped back into her chair and clasped her hands and began to tremble. “Poor old Mike Walsh … why in the name of God … why did I ever …”

  Wolfe stepped to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Look here,” he snapped. “Do you wonder I’d rather have ten thousand orchids than a woman in my house?”

  She looked up at him, and shivered. “And it was you that let Mike Walsh go, when you knew—”

  “I knew very little. Now I know even less. —Archie, bring Saul.”

  “Johnny is here—”

  “No. Saul.”

  I went to the kitchen and got him. Wolfe asked him: “How long will it take to get Hilda Lindquist here?”

  Saul considered half an instant. “Fifty minutes if I phone. An hour and a half if I go after her.”

  “Good. Telephone. You had better tell her on the phone that Mike Walsh has been killed, since if she sees a Gazette on the way she might succumb also. Is there someone to bring her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Use the office phone. Tell her not to delay unnecessarily but there is no great urgency. Wipe the spot of grease of of the left side of your nose.”

  “Yes, sir,” Saul went, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket.

  Clara Fox said, in a much better tone, “I haven’t succumbed.” She brushed back her hair, but her hand was none too steady. “I didn’t mean, when I said you let Mike Walsh go—”

  “Of course not.” Wolfe didn’t relent any. “You weren’t in a condition to mean anything. You still are not. Archie and have one or two things to do. You can’t leave this house, certainly not now. Will you go upstairs and wait till Miss Lindquist gets here? And don’t be conceited enough to imagine yourself responsible for the death of Michael Walsh. Your meddlings have not entitled you to usurp the fatal dignity of Atropos; don’t flatter yourself. Will you go upstairs and command patience?”

  “Yes.” She stood up. “But I want … if someone should telephone for me I want to talk.”

  Wolfe nodded. “You shall. Though I fancy Mr. Horrocks will be too occupied with this involvement of his chief for social impulses.�
��

  But it was Wolfe’s off day; he was wrong again. A phone call from Horrocks, for Clara Fox, came within fifteen minutes. In the interim Wolfe and I had gone to the office and learned from Saul that he had talked to Hilda Lindquist and she was coming, and Wolfe had settled himself in his chair, disposed of a bottle of beer, and repudiated my advances. Horrocks didn’t mention the predicament of his noble uncle; he just asked for Clara Fox, and I sent Saul up to tell her to take it in Wolfe’s room, since there was no phone in hers. I should have listened in as a matter of business, but I didn’t, and Wolfe didn’t tell me to.

  Finally Wolfe sighed and sat up. “Try for Mr. Cramer.”

  I did so. No result. They talked as if, for all they knew, Cramer might be up in Canada shooting moose.

  Wolfe sighed again. “Archie. Have we ever encountered a greater jumble of nonsense?”

  “No, sir. If only I had gone—”

  “Don’t say that again, or I’ll send you upstairs with Miss Fox. Could that have ordered the chaos? The thing is completely ridiculous. It forces us to measures no less ridiculous. We shall have to investigate the movements of Mr. Muir since six o’clock this evening, to trust Mr. Cramer with at least a portion of our facts, to consider afresh the motivations and activities of Lord Clivers, to discover how a man can occupy two different spots of space at the same moment, and to make another long distance call to Nebraska. I believe there is no small firearm that will shoot fifteen hundred miles, but we seem to be confronted with a determination and ingenuity capable of almost anything, and before we are through with this we may need Mr. Lindquist badly. Get that farm—the name is Donvaag?”