by Rex Stout
Etc.
At ten-thirty Wolfe leaned back and said, “Instructions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before you go to bed get Saul, Fred, and Orrie, and ask them to be here at eleven in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tomorrow is a holiday. I don’t suppose Miss Bonner will be at her office. If possible, get her tonight and ask her to breakfast with me at eight.”
I looked at him. He meant business, though what business I couldn’t say. Add his opinion of women to his opinion of other detectives, and you get his opinion of female detectives. Circumstances had compelled him to use Dol Bonner a year or so back, but now he was asking for it, and even inviting her to breakfast. Fritz would be on needles.
“I have her home number,” I told him, “and I’ll try, but she may already be gone for the long week end. If so, is it urgent enough to dig her out?”
“Yes. I want her. Now for you. You will go early in the morning to Jamaica race track and-”
“No racing at Jamaica now. It’s closed.”
“What about Belmont?”
“Open. Big day tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll see. You will act on this hypothesis: that Roger Foote took Jarrell’s gun and hid it in his room or elsewhere on the premises. Thursday afternoon he shot Eber with it. Since he intended to say he had spent the day at Jamaica, he went there so as to be seen, and he hid the gun somewhere there. To speculate as to why he hid it instead of disposing of it is pointless; we know he did hide it because it was used again on Sunday. Either he hid it at Jamaica or, having made an appearance there, he went to Belmont and hid it there. In either case, on Sunday he went and retrieved it, returned to New York, met Brigham by appointment, and killed him. Acting on that hypothesis, your job is to learn where he left the gun from Thursday to Sunday, and you may start either at Jamaica or at Belmont. It’s barely possible you’ll even find the gun. He may have thought he might have further use for it and went back and hid it again in the same place after killing Brigham. He didn’t get home Sunday until seven o’clock.”
I said-not an objection, just a fact-“Of course he had all of New York City too.”
“I know, but that’s hopeless. He had to go to Jamaica on Thursday and to Belmont on Sunday, to be seen, and since we know he was there we’ll look there. We know little or nothing of his movements in New York City; we know of no place particularly available to him where he could hide a gun and count on getting it again. First explore the possibilities at Jamaica and Belmont.”
I explored them for four straight days, equipped with five hundred bucks in small bills from cash reserve and eight pictures of Roger Foote, procured early Thursday morning from the files at the Gazette. I went to Jamaica first because Belmont would have such a mob on the holiday that I would merely have got trampled.
Meanwhile, throughout the four days, Wolfe presumably had the gang busy working on other hypotheses-including Dol Bonner-though he never told me who was after what, except that I gathered Saul Panzer was on Otis Jarrell himself. That was a compliment to the former client, since Saul’s rate was sixty bucks a day and expenses and he was worth at least five times that. Fred Durkin was good but no Saul Panzer. Orrie Cather, whom you have seen at my desk, was yes and no. On some tricks he was unbeatable, but on others not so hot. As for Dol Bonner, I didn’t know much about her firsthand, but the word around was that if you had to have a female dick she was it. She had her own office and a staff-with one of which, Sally Colt, I was acquainted.
By Sunday night I knew enough about Jamaica and Belmont, especially Belmont, to write a book, with enough left over for ten magazine articles. I knew four owners, nine trainers, seventeen stable boys, five jockeys, thirteen touts, twenty-eight miscellaneous characters, one lamb, three dogs, and six cats, to speak to. I had aroused the suspicions of two track dicks and become close friends with one. I had seen two hundred and forty-seven girls it would have been fun to talk to but was too busy. I had seen about the same number of spots where a gun could be hid, but could find no one who had seen Roger Foote near any of them. None of them held a gun at the time I called, nor could I detect any trace of oil or other evidence that a gun had been there. One of them, a hole in a tree the other side of the backstretch, was so ideal that I was tempted to hide my own gun in it. Another good place would have been the bottom of a rack outside Gallant Man’s stall, but there were too many eagle eyes around. Peach Fuzz wasn’t there.
Sunday night I told Wolfe there was nothing left to explore unless he wanted me to start looking in horses’ mouths, and he said he would have new instructions in the morning.
But he never gave them to me, for a little after ten on Monday a call came inviting me to visit the DA’s office, and, after buzzing Wolfe in the plant rooms to tell him where to find me, I went. After thirty minutes with Mandelbaum and a dick I knew one thing, that the several hundred city and county employees working on the case had got exactly as far as I had at Jamaica and Belmont. After another thirty minutes I knew another thing, that the police commissioner and the district attorney had decided it had become necessary to find out what I was doing at Jarrell’s under an assumed name, no matter how Jarrell felt about it. I said I wanted to phone Mr. Wolfe and was told that all the phones were busy. At noon I was taken in to the DA himself and had forty minutes with him that did neither of us any good. At one o’clock I was allowed to take my pick of ham or turkey in a sandwich; no corned beef. I insisted on milk and got it. At two-thirty I decided it had gone far enough and was walking out, but was stopped. Held as a material witness. Then, of course, they had to let me make a phone call, and within ten minutes there was a call for Mandelbaum from Nathaniel Parker, who is Wolfe’s lawyer when Wolfe is driven to the extremity of using one.
I didn’t get locked up at all. The DA had another try at me and then sent me into another room with a dick named O’Leary, and in two hours I won $3.12 from him at gin. I was perfectly willing to give him a chance to get it back, but someone came and took me to Mandelbaum’s room, and Nathaniel Parker was there. As I shook hands with him Mandelbaum warned me not to leave the jurisdiction, and I said I wanted it in writing, and he said to go to hell, and I said I didn’t know that was in the jurisdiction, and Parker steered me out.
Down on the sidewalk I asked him, “How high am I priced this time?”
“No bail, Archie. No warrant. I persuaded Mandelbaum that the circumstances didn’t call for it, and promised that you will be available when needed.”
I was a little disappointed because being out on bail is good for the ego. It gives you a sense of importance, of being wanted; it makes you feel that people care. However, I didn’t reproach Parker; he had acted for the best. We took a taxi together uptown, but he said he had a dinner appointment and didn’t get out when we reached the old brownstone on West 35th Street. So I thanked him for the rescue and the lift. As I crossed the sidewalk to the stoop my wrist watch said 6:23.
Wolfe, at his desk reading a book, lifted his eyes to grunt a greeting and returned them to the book. I went to my desk to see if there were any memos for me, found none, sat, and inquired, “Anything happen?”
He said no, without looking up.
“Parker said to give you his regards. I am not under bail. He talked Mandelbaum out of it.”
He grunted.
“They’ve decided that Jarrell’s private affairs are no longer private. They’ll be after you any time, in the morning at the latest. Do you want a report?”
He said no, without looking up.
“Any instructions?”
He lifted his eyes, said, “I’m reading, Archie,” and lowered them back to the book.
The best thing to throw at him would have been the typewriter, but I didn’t own it. Next best would have been the telephone, but I didn’t own that, either, and the cord wasn’t long enough. I got up and left, mounted the two flights to my room, showered, decided not to shave, put on a clean shirt and a lighter suit,
and was sewing buttons on pajamas when Fritz called up that dinner was ready.
It was at the table that I caught on that something was up. Wolfe wasn’t being crusty because the outlook was dark; he was being smug because he had tasted blood, or was expecting to. He always enjoyed his food, whether in spite of circumstances or in harmony with them, and after ten thousand meals with him I knew all the shades. The way he spread pate on a cracker, the way he picked up the knife to slice the filet of beef in aspic, the way he used his fork on the salad, the way he made his choice from the cheese platter-no question about it, he had something or somebody by the tail, or at least the tail was in sight.
I was thinking that when we were back in the office with coffee he might think it was time to let me have a taste too, but no. After taking three sips he picked up his book. That was a little too much, and I was deciding whether to go after him head on or take him from the flank, when the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. In view of Wolfe’s behavior I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the whole gang, all seven of them, with a joint confession in triplicate signed and ready to deliver, but it was merely a middle-aged man in a light brown suit and no hat whom I had never seen before.
When I opened the door he spoke before I did. “Is this Nero Wolfe’s house?”
“Right.”
“Are you Archie Goodwin?”
“Right again.”
“Okay.” He extended a hand with a little package. “This is for Nero Wolfe.”
I took it and he turned and was going. I told him to wait, but he called over his shoulder, “No receipt,” and kept going. I looked at the package. It was the size of a box of kitchen matches, wrapped in brown paper, fastened with Scotch tape, and if it bore any name or address it was in invisible ink.
I shut the door and returned to the office and told Wolfe, “The man who handed me this said it was for you, but I don’t know how he knew. There’s no name on it. It doesn’t tick. Shall I open it under water?”
“As you please. It’s hardly large enough to be dangerous.”
That seemed optimistic, remembering the size of the capsule that had once exploded in that office inside a metal percolator, blowing the percolator lid at the wall, missing Wolfe’s head by an inch. However, I could stand it if he could. I got out my knife to cut the tape, removed the paper wrapping, and disclosed a cardboard box with no label. Putting it on the desk midway between us, which was only fair, I eased the lid off. Cotton. I lifted the cotton, and there was more cotton, with an object resting in its center. Bending over for a close-up, I straightened and announced, “A thirty-eight bullet. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Extremely.” He reached for the box and gave it a look. “Very interesting. You’re sure it’s a thirty-eight?”
“Yes, sir. Quite a coincidence.”
“It is indeed.” He put the box down. “Who brought it?”
“A stranger. Too bad I didn’t invite him in.”
“Yes. Of course there are various possibilities-among them, that some prankster sent it.”
“Yeah. So I toss it in the wastebasket?”
“I don’t think so. There is at least one other possibility that can’t be ignored. You’ve had a long day and I dislike asking it, but you might take it to Mr. Cramer, tell him how we got it, and suggest that it be compared with the bullets that killed Mr. Eber and Mr. Brigham.”
“Uh-huh. In time, say in a week or so, that might have occurred to me myself. My mind’s not as quick as yours.” I replaced the top layer of cotton and put the lid on. “I’d better take the wrapping paper too. If the bullet matches, and it just might, he’ll want it. Incidentally, he’ll want me too. If I take him a thirty-eight bullet, with that suggestion, and with that story of how we got it, I’ll have to shoot my way out if you want to see me again tonight.”
“The devil.” He was frowning, “You’re quite right. That won’t do.” He thought a moment. “Your notebook. A letter to Mr. Cramer.”
I got at my desk and took notebook and pen.
He dictated: “Dear Mr. Cramer. I send you herewith a package which was delivered at my door a few minutes ago. It bore no name or address, but the messenger told Mr. Goodwin it was for me and departed. It contains a bullet which Mr. Goodwin says is a thirty-eight. Doubtless it is merely a piece of tomfoolery, but I thought it best to send it to you. You may think it worthwhile to have the bullet compared with those that killed Mr. Eber and Mr. Brigham. Then discard it. Don’t bother to return it. Sincerely.”
“By mail?” I asked.
“No. Take it, please. Immediately. Hand it in and return at once.”
“Glad to.” I pulled the typewriter around.
Chapter 16
THAT MONDAY NIGHT may not have been the worst night Fritz ever spent, for he has had some tough ones, but it was bad enough. When I had got back after delivering the package at 20th Street, a little after ten o’clock, Wolfe had called him to the office.
“Some instructions, Fritz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Archie and I will go up to bed shortly, but we are not here and will not be here. You will answer the phone. You do not know where we are or when we will return. You do not know exactly when we left. You may be bullyragged, by Mr. Cramer or others, but you will maintain that position. You will take messages if any are given, to be delivered to us when we return. You will ignore the doorbell. You will open no outside door, stoop or basement or back, under any circumstances whatever. If you do, a search warrant may be thrust at you and the house will be overrun. A contingency might arise that will make you consider it necessary to disturb Archie or me, but I think not and hope not. Bring my breakfast an hour early, at seven o’clock. Archie will have his at seven also. I shall be sorry if you fail of a proper night’s sleep, but it can’t be helped. You can take a nap tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Fritz swallowed. “If there is danger, may I suggest-” He stopped and started over. “I know you are reluctant to leave the house, that is understood, but there are times when it is better to leave a house, at least for a short time. Especially in your profession.” He looked at me. “You know that, Archie.”
Wolfe reassured him, “No, Fritz, there is no danger. On the contrary, this is the preamble to triumph. You understand the instructions?”
He said he did, but he wasn’t happy. For years he had been expecting the day to come when Wolfe would be dragged out of the house in handcuffs, not to mention me, and he was against it. He gave me a reproachful look, which God knows I didn’t deserve, and left, and Wolfe and I, not being there anyway, went up to bed.
Seven o’clock is much too early a breakfast hour unless you’re a bird or a bird watcher, but I made it to the kitchen by 7:08. My glass of orange juice was there, but Fritz wasn’t, and the phone was ringing. It was a temptation to take it and see how well I could imitate Fritz’s voice, but I let it ring. By the time Fritz came it had given up. I told him he must have been late taking Wolfe’s breakfast tray up, and he said no, he had got it there on the dot at seven, but had stayed to report on the night.
While I dealt with toast, bacon, fresh strawberry omelet, and coffee, he reported to me, referring to notes. The first call from Lieutenant Rowcliff had come at 11:32, and he had been so empathic that Fritz had hung up on him. The second had been at 11:54, less emphatic but stubborner. At 12:21 Cramer had called, and had got both personal and technical, explaining the penalties that could be imposed on a man, Fritz for instance, for complicity in withholding evidence and obstructing justice in a murder investigation. At 12:56 the doorbell had started to ring, and at 1:03 pounding on the front door had begun. From 1:14 to a little after six peace had reigned, but at 6:09 Cramer had phoned, and at 6:27 the doorbell had started up again, and through the one-way glass panel Sergeant Stebbins had been visible. He had kept at it for five minutes and was now in a police car with a colleague out at the curb.
I got up, went to the font door for a look, came back, requested mor
e toast, and poured more coffee. “He’s still there,” I told Fritz, “and there’s one danger. As you know, Mr. Wolfe can’t bear the idea of a hungry man in his house, and while Stebbins isn’t actually in the house he’s there in front and wants to be, and he looks hungry. If Mr. Wolfe sees him and suspects he hasn’t had breakfast there’ll be hell to pay. Could I borrow a little wild thyme honey?”
I was on the last bite of toast and honey and the last inch of coffee when the sound of Wolfe’s elevator came, and by the time I was through swallowing and got to the office he was there behind his desk. We said good morning.
“So,” I said, “it wasn’t a prankster.”
“Apparently not.” With the edge of a blotter he was flipping from his desk pad dust that wasn’t there. “Get Mr. Cramer.”
I got at the phone and dialed, and soon had him, and Wolfe took it. I held my receiver an inch from my ear, expecting a blast, but it had gone beyond that. Cramer’s voice was merely hoarse with fury.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“I’m on an errand, no matter where. I’m calling to ask about the bullet I sent you. Does it match the others?”
“You know damn well it does. You knew it when you sent it. This is the rawest-”
“No, I suspected it, but I didn’t know it. That was what I had to know before I divulged where it came from. That was why I arranged to keep its source anonymous until I knew. I would like to have it explicitly. Was the bullet I sent you fired from the same gun as those that killed Eber and Brigham?”
“By God.” Cramer knew darned well he shouldn’t use profanity on the phone, so he must have been upset. “You arranged! I’ll arrange you! I’ll arrange for you to-”
“Mr. Cramer! This is ridiculous. I’m supplying the solution of an extremely bothersome case, and you sputter at me. If you must sputter, wait until you have the facts. Will you please answer my question?”