The Red Box

by Rex Stout

  “Because I want you to solve this case.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because no one else can. Wait till you see—”

  “Yes. Thank you. But why your overwhelming interest in the case? The murdered girl—what was she to you?”

  “Nothing.” Frost hesitated. He went on, “She was nothing to me. I knew her—an acquaintance. But the danger—damn it, let me tell you about it. The way it happened—”

  “Please, Mr. Frost.” Wolfe was crisp. “Permit me. If the murdered girl was nothing to you, what standing will there be for an investigator engaged by you? If you could not persuade Mr. McNair and the others to come to me, it would be futile for me to go to them.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. I’ll explain that—”

  “Very well. Another point. I charge high fees.”

  The young man flushed. “I know you do.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Mr. Wolfe. I’ve thrown away a lot of my father’s money since I put on long pants. A good gob of it in the past two years, producing shows, and they were all flops. But now I’ve got a hit. It opened two weeks ago, and it’s a ten weeks buy. Bullets for Breakfast. I’ll have plenty of cash to pay your fee. If only you’ll find out where the hell that poison came from—and help me find a way.…”

  He stopped. Wolfe prompted him, “Yes, sir? A way—”

  Frost frowned. “A way to get my cousin out of that murderous hole. My ortho-cousin, the daughter of my father’s brother.”

  “Indeed.” Wolfe surveyed him. “Are you an anthropologist?”

  “No.” Frost flushed again. “I told you, I’m in show business. I can pay your fee—within reason, or even without reason. But we ought to have an understanding about that. Of course the amount of the fee is up to you, but my idea would be to split it, half to find out where that candy came from, and the other half for getting my cousin Helen away from that place. She’s as stubborn as you are, and you’ll probably have to earn the first half of the fee in order to earn the second, but I don’t care if you don’t. If you get her out of there without clearing up Molly Lauck’s death, half the fee is yours anyhow. But Helen won’t scare, that won’t work, and she has some kind of a damn fool idea about loyalty to this McNair, Boyden McNair. Uncle Boyd, she calls him. She’s known him all her life. He’s an old friend of Aunt Callie’s, Helen’s mother. Then there’s this dope, Gebert—but I’d better start at the beginning and sketch it—hey! You going now?”

  Wolfe had pushed his chair back and elevated himself to his feet. He moved around the end of his desk with his customary steady and not ungraceful deliberation.

  “Keep your seat, Mr. Frost. It is four o’clock, and I now spend two hours with my plants upstairs. Mr. Goodwin will take the details of the poisoning of Miss Molly Lauck—and of your family complications if they seem pertinent. For the fourth time, I believe it is, good day, sir.” He headed for the door.

  Frost jumped up, sputtering. “But you’re coming uptown—”

  Wolfe halted and ponderously turned. “Confound you, you know perfectly well I am! But I’ll tell you this, if Alec Martin’s signature had been on that outlandish paper I would have thrown it in the wastebasket. He splits bulbs. Splits them! —Archie. We shall meet Mr. Frost at the McNair place tomorrow morning at ten minutes past eleven.”

  He turned and went, disregarding the client’s protest at the delay. Through the open office door I heard, from the hall, the grunt of the elevator as he stepped in it, and the bang of its door.

  Llewellyn Frost turned to me, and the color in his face may have been from gratification at his success, or from indignation at its postponement. I looked him over as a client—his wavy light brown hair brushed back, his wide-open brown eyes that left the matter of intelligence to a guess, his big nose and broad jaw which made his face too heavy even for his six feet.

  “Anyhow, I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Goodwin.” He sat down. “You were clever about it, too, keeping that Martin out of it. It was a big favor you did me, and I assure you I won’t forget—”

  “Wrong number.” I waved him off. “I told you at the time, I keep all my favors for myself. I suggested that round robin only to try to drum up some business, and for a scientific experiment to find out how many ergs it would take to jostle him loose. We haven’t had a case that was worth anything for nearly three months.” I got hold of a notebook and pencil, and swiveled around and pulled my desk-leaf out. “And by the way, Mr. Frost, don’t you forget that you thought of that round robin yourself. I’m not supposed to think.”

  “Certainly,” he nodded. “Strictly confidential. I’ll never mention it.”

  “Okay.” I flipped the notebook open to the next blank page. “Now for this murder you want to buy a piece of. Spill it.”

  Chapter 2

  So the next morning I had Nero Wolfe braving the elements—the chief element for that day being bright warm March sunshine. I say I had him, because I had conceived the persuasion which was making him burst all precedents. What pulled him out of his front door, enraged and grim, with overcoat, scarf, gloves, stick, something he called gaiters, and a black felt pirate’s hat size 8 pulled down to his ears, was the name of Winold Glueckner heading the signatures on the letter—Glueckner, who had recently received from an agent in Sarawak four bulbs of a pink Coellogyne pandurata, never seen before, and had scorned Wolfe’s offer of three thousand bucks for two of them. Knowing what a tough old heinie Glueckner was, I had my doubts whether he would turn loose of the bulbs no matter how many murders Wolfe solved at his request, but anyhow I had lit the fuse.

  Driving from the house on 35th Street near the Hudson River—where Wolfe had lived for over twenty years and I had lived with him—to the address on 52nd Street, I handled the sedan so as to keep it as smooth as a dip’s fingers. Except for one I couldn’t resist; on Fifth Avenue near Forty-third there was an ideal little hole about two feet across where I suppose someone had been prospecting for the twenty-six dollars they paid the Indians, and I maneuvered to hit it square at a good clip. I glanced in the mirror for a glimpse of Wolfe in the back seat and saw he was looking bitter and infuriated.

  I said, “Sorry, sir, they’re tearing up the streets.”

  He didn’t answer.

  From what Llewellyn Frost had told me the day before about the place of business of Boyden McNair Incorporated—all of which had gone into my notebook and been read to Nero Wolfe Monday evening—I hadn’t realized the extent of its aspirations in the way of class. We met Llewellyn Frost downstairs, just inside the entrance. One of the first things I saw and heard, as Frost led us to the elevator to take us to the second floor, where the offices and private showrooms were, was a saleswoman who looked like a cross between a countess and Texas Guinan, telling a customer that in spite of the fact that the little green sport suit on the model was of High Meadow Loom hand-woven material and designed by Mr. McNair himself, it could be had for a paltry three hundred. I thought of the husband and shivered and crossed my fingers as I stepped into the elevator. And I remarked to myself, “I’ll say it’s a sinister joint.”

  The floor above was just as elegant, but quieter. There was no merchandise at all in sight, no saleswomen and no customers. A long wide corridor had doors on both sides at intervals, with etchings and hunting prints here and there on the wood paneling, and in the large room where we emerged from the elevator there were silk chairs and gold smoking stands and thick deep-colored rugs. I took that in at a glance and then centered my attention on the side of the room opposite the corridor, where a couple of goddesses were sitting on a settee. One of them, a blonde with dark blue eyes, was such a pronounced pippin that I had to stare so as not to blink, and the other one, slender and medium-dark, while not as remarkable, was a cinch in a contest for Miss Fifty-second Street.

  The blonde nodded at us. The slender one said, “Hello, Lew.”

  Llewellyn Frost nodded back. “ ’Lo, Helen. See you later.”

  As we went down the corrido
r I said to Wolfe, “See that? I mean, them? You ought to get around more. What are orchids to a pair of blossoms like that?”

  He only grunted at me.

  Frost knocked at the last door on the right, opened it, and stood aside for us to precede him. It was a large room, fairly narrow but long, and there was only enough let-up on the elegance to allow for the necessities of an office. The rugs were just as thick as up front, and the furniture was Decorators’ Delight. The windows were covered with heavy yellow silk curtains, sweeping in folds to the floor, and the light came from glass chandeliers as big as barrels.

  Frost said, “Mr. Nero Wolfe. Mr. Goodwin. Mr. McNair.”

  The man at the desk with carved legs got up and stuck out a paw, without enthusiasm. “How do you do, gentlemen. Be seated. Another chair, Lew?”

  Wolfe looked grim. I glanced around at the chairs, and saw I’d have to act quick, for I knew that Wolfe was absolutely capable of running out on us for less than that, and having got him this far I was going to hold on to him if possible. I stepped around to the other side of the desk and put a hand on Boyden McNair’s chair. He was still standing up.

  “If you don’t mind, sir. Mr. Wolfe prefers a roomy seat, just one of his whims. The other chairs are pretty damn narrow. If you don’t mind?”

  By that time I had it shoved around where Wolfe could take it. McNair stared. I brought one of the Decorators’ Delights around for him, tossed him a grin, and went around and sat down by Llewellyn Frost.

  McNair said to Frost, “Well, Lew, you know I’m busy. Did you tell these gentlemen I agreed to give them fifteen minutes?”

  Frost glanced at Wolfe and then looked back at McNair. I could see his hands, with the fingers twined, resting on his thigh; the fingers were pressed tight. He said, “I told them I had persuaded you to see them. I don’t believe fifteen minutes will be enough—”

  “It’ll have to be enough. I’m busy. This is a busy season.” McNair had a thin tight voice and he kept shifting in his chair—that is, temporarily his chair. He went on, “Anyway, what’s the use? What can I do?” He spread out his hands, glanced at his wrist watch, and looked at Wolfe. “I promised Lew fifteen minutes. I am at your service until 11:20.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Judging from Mr. Frost’s story, I shall need more. Two hours or more, I should say.”

  “Impossible,” McNair snapped. “I’m busy. Now, fourteen minutes.”

  “This is preposterous.” Wolfe braced his hands on the arms of the borrowed chair and raised himself to his feet. He stopped Frost’s ejaculation by showing him a palm, looked down at McNair and said quietly, “I didn’t need to come here to see you, sir. I did so in acknowledgment of an idiotic but charming gesture conceived and executed by Mr. Frost. I understand that Mr. Cramer of the police has had several conversations with you, and that he is violently dissatisfied with the lack of progress in his investigation of the murder of one of your employees on your premises. Mr. Cramer has a high opinion of my abilities. I shall telephone him within an hour and suggest that he bring you—and other persons—to my office.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “For much longer than fifteen minutes.”

  He moved. I got up. Frost started after him.

  “Wait!” McNair called out. “Wait a minute, you don’t understand!” Wolfe turned and stood. McNair continued, “In the first place, why try to browbeat me? That’s ridiculous. Cramer couldn’t take me to your office, or any place, if I didn’t care to go, you know that. Of course Molly—of course the murder was terrible. Good God, don’t I know it? And naturally I’ll do anything I can to help clear it up. But what’s the use? I’ve told Cramer everything I know, we’ve been over it a dozen times. Sit down.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead and nose, started to return it to his pocket and then threw it on the desk. “I’m going to have a breakdown. Sit down. I worked fourteen hours a day getting the spring line ready, enough to kill a man, and then this comes on top of it. You’ve been dragged into this by Lew Frost. What the devil does he know about it?” He glared at Frost. “I’ve told it over and over to the police until I’m sick of it. Sit down, won’t you? Ten minutes is all you’ll need for what I know, anyhow. That’s what makes it worse, as I’ve told Cramer, nobody knows anything. And Lew Frost knows less than that.” He glared at the young man. “You know damn well you’re just trying to use it as a lever to pry Helen out of here.” He transferred the glare to Wolfe. “Do you expect me to have anything better than the barest courtesy for you? Why should I?”

  Wolfe had returned to his chair and got himself lowered into it, without taking his eyes off McNair’s face. Frost started to speak, but I silenced him with a shake of the head. McNair picked up the handkerchief and passed it across his forehead and threw it down again. He pulled open the top right drawer of his desk and looked in it, muttered, “Where the devil’s that aspirin?” tried the drawer on the left, reached in and brought out a small bottle, shook a couple of tablets onto his palm, poured half a glass of water from a thermos carafe, tossed the tablets into his mouth, and washed them down.

  He looked at Wolfe and complained resentfully, “I’ve had a hell of a headache for two weeks. I’ve taken a ton of aspirin and it doesn’t help any. I’m going to have a breakdown. That’s the truth—”

  There was a knock, and the door opened. The intruder was a tall handsome woman in a black dress with rows of white buttons. She came on in, glanced politely around, and said in a voice full of culture:

  “Excuse me, please.” She looked at McNair: “That 1241 resort, the cashmere plain tabby with the medium oxford twill stripe—can that be done in two shades of natural shetland with basket instead of tabby?”

  McNair frowned at her and demanded, “What?”

  She took a breath. “That 1241 resort—”

  “Oh. I heard you. It cannot. The line stands, Mrs. Lamont. You know that.”

  “I know. Mrs. Frost wants it.”

  McNair straightened up. “Mrs. Frost? Is she here?”

  The woman nodded. “She’s ordering. I told her you were engaged. She’s taking two of the Portsmouth ensembles.”

  “Oh. She is.” McNair had suddenly stopped fidgeting, and his voice, though still thin, sounded more under command. “I want to see her. Ask if it will suit her convenience to wait till I’m through here.”

  “And the 1241 in two shades of shetland—”

  “Yes. Of course. Add fifty dollars.”

  The woman nodded, excused herself again, and departed.

  McNair glanced at his wrist watch, shot a sharp one at young Frost, and looked at Wolfe. “You can still have ten minutes.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “I won’t need them. You’re nervous, Mr. McNair. You’re upset.”

  “What? You won’t need them?”

  “No. You probably lead too active a life, running around getting women dressed.” Wolfe shuddered. “Horrible. I would like to ask you two questions. First, regarding the death of Molly Lauck, have you anything to add to what you have told Mr. Cramer and Mr. Frost? I know pretty well what that is. Anything new?”

  “No.” McNair was frowning. He picked up his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “No. Nothing whatever.”

  “Very well. Then it would be futile to take up more of your time. The other question: may I be shown a room where some of your employees may be sent to me for conversation? I shall make it as brief as possible. Particularly Miss Helen Frost, Miss Thelma Mitchell, and Mrs. Lamont. I don’t suppose Mr. Perren Gebert happens to be here?”

  McNair snapped, “Gebert? Why the devil should he be?”

  “I don’t know.” Wolfe lifted his shoulders half an inch, and dropped them. “I ask. I understand he was here one week ago yesterday, the day Miss Lauck died, when you were having your show. I believe you call it a show?”

  “I had a show, yes. Gebert dropped in. Scores of people were here. About talking with the girls and Mrs. Lamont—if you make it short you can do it here. I have to go
down to the floor.”

  “I would prefer something less—more humble. If you please.”

  “Suit yourself.” McNair got up. “Take them to one of the booths, Lew. I’ll tell Mrs. Lamont. Do you want her first?”

  “I’d like to start with Miss Frost and Miss Mitchell. Together.”

  “You may be interrupted, if they’re needed.”

  “I shall be patient.”

  “All right. You tell them, Lew?”

  He looked around, grabbed his handkerchief from the desk and stuffed it in his pocket, and bustled out.

  Llewellyn Frost, rising, began to protest, “I don’t see why you didn’t—”

  Wolfe stopped him. “Mr. Frost. I endure only to my limit. Obviously, Mr. McNair is sick, but you cannot make that claim to tolerance. Don’t forget that you are responsible for this grotesque expedition. Where is this booth?”

  “Well, I’m paying for it.”

  “Not adequately. You couldn’t. Come, sir!”

  Frost led us out and back down the corridor, and opened the door at the end on the left. He switched on lights, said he would be back soon, and disappeared. I moved my eyes. It was a small paneled room with a table, a smoking stand, full-length mirrors, and three dainty silk chairs. Wolfe stood and looked at the mess, and his lips tightened.

  He said, “Revolting. I will not—I will not.”

  I grinned at him. “I know damn well you won’t, and for once I don’t blame you. I’ll get it.”

  I went out and strode down the corridor to McNair’s office, entered, heaved his chair to my shoulder, and proceeded back to the booth with it. Frost and the two goddesses were going in as I got there. Frost went for another chair, and I planked my prize down behind the table and observed to Wolfe, “If you get so you like it we’ll take it home with us.” Frost returned with his contribution, and I told him, “Go and get three bottles of cold light beer and a glass and an opener. We’ve got to keep him alive.”

  He lifted his brows at me. “You’re crazy.”