Fer-De-Lance

by Rex Stout

  On the way back I reflected that it was just as well the motor cop hadn’t favored me with his attention after all.

  When I got to the number on Pearl Street and left the elevator at the tenth floor, I discovered that E.D. Kimball & Company wasn’t only selling chicken feed to backyard poultry kings. It had a suite that took up half the floor, with its name on doors everywhere and a double one covered with the names of exchanges all over the country for an entrance. The clock on the wall said a quarter to ten; if the Century was on time it was already at Grand Central, and Kimball might be expected in fifteen or twenty minutes.

  I spoke to a girl at a desk, and after using the telephone she took me to an inside room and left me with a square-jawed guy who had his feet on the window sill looking at the morning paper. He said, “Just a minute,” and I sat down. After a little he threw the paper on his desk and turned around.

  “Mr. E.D. Kimball will be here pretty soon,” I said. “I know he’ll be busy catching up with the week he’s been away. But before he gets started on that I need ten minutes with him on an urgent personal matter. I’m a private detective; here’s my card. He never heard of me; I work for Nero Wolfe. Can you fix it for me?”

  “What do you want? Tell me what you want.”

  I shook my head. “It really is personal, and it’s damn urgent. You’ll just have to trust my honest young face. If you think it’s a racket phone the Metropolitan Trust Company at Thirty-fourth Street. They’ll tell you that I make a little change in my spare time tending baby carriages.”

  Square jaws grinned. “I don’t know. Mr. Kimball has a dozen appointments, the first one is ten-thirty. I’m his secretary, I know more about his business than he does. You’d better tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, it has to be him.”

  “All right, I’ll see what I can do. Go on out front-no, wait here. Want to look at the paper?”

  He tossed me the paper and got up and gathered some mail and stuff together and left the room with them. At a quick early breakfast I had taken a glance at the front page but hadn’t had time for more. Turning through, I saw that the Barstow case was already back to page seven, and not much of it there. Anderson was saying that “progress was being made in the investigation.” Dear old progress, I thought, you haven’t changed a bit since I saw you last except you’re covered with wrinkles and your teeth are falling out. The coroner had nothing definite on the poison, but soon would have. There had never been, in any paper that I had seen, any hint of a suspicion that it was a family job; and now, I thought, there never would be. But this piece took another little crack at Dr. Bradford, and I knew it would be a long time before he would be able to look coronary thrombosis in the face without swallowing hard. I turned to the sports page.

  The door opened, and the secretary was there.

  “Mr. Goodwin. This way.”

  In the next room but one, a big room with windows on two sides, a lot of old furniture and a ticker going in a corner, a man sat at a desk. He was smooth-shaven, his hair was turning gray, and while he wasn’t fat there was size to him. He looked worried but amused, as if someone had just told him a funny story but he had a toothache. I wondered whether it was the worry or the amusement that came from what the secretary had told him about me, but found out on acquaintance that it was neither one, he always looked that way.

  The secretary said, “This is the man, Mr. Kimball.”

  Kimball grunted and asked me what I wanted. I said that my business was strictly personal. Kimball said, “In that case you’d better take it up with my secretary so I won’t have the bother of turning it over to him.” He laughed and the secretary smiled and I grinned.

  I said, “I only asked for ten minutes, so if you don’t mind I’ll get started. Nero Wolfe would like to have you call at his office this morning at eleven o’clock.”

  “Goodness gracious!” The amusement was on top. “Is Nero Wolfe the King of England or something?”

  I nodded. “Something. I’ll tell you, Mr. Kimball, you’ll get this quicker and easier if you let me do it my own way. Just humor me. On Sunday, June fourth, Peter Oliver Barstow died suddenly while he was playing golf with his son and you and your son. On Thursday the eighth you left for Chicago. On Sunday the eleventh the results of an autopsy were announced. I suppose it was in the Chicago papers?”

  “Oh, that’s it.” The worry had ascended. “I knew that would be a nuisance when I got back. I read a lot of poppycock about poison and a needle and whatnot.” He turned to his secretary. “Blaine, didn’t I write you this would be a nuisance when I returned?”

  The secretary nodded. “Yes, sir. You have an appointment at eleven-thirty with a representative of the Westchester District Attorney. I hadn’t had time to mention it.”

  I kept my grin inside. “It’s not poppycock, Mr. Kimball. Barstow was killed by a poisoned needle shot out of the handle of a golf driver. That’s wrapped up. Now come with me a minute. Here you are at the first tee, ready to shoot. All four of you with your caddies.-No, don’t wander off somewhere, stay with me, this is serious. Here you are. Larry Barstow drives. Your son Manuel drives. Peter Oliver Barstow is ready to drive; you are standing near him; remember? His ball rolls off its tee and your caddy fixes it because his caddy is off hunting a ball. Remember? He is ready to drive but hasn’t got his driver because his caddy is off with his bag. You say, ‘Use mine,’ and your caddy straightens up from fixing his ball and hands him your driver. Remember? He drives with your driver, and then jumps and begins rubbing his belly because a wasp stung him. It was that wasp that came out of your driver that killed him. Twenty minutes later he was dead.”

  Kimball was listening to me with a frown, with the worry and amusement both gone. He went on frowning. When he finally spoke all he said was, “Poppycock.”

  “No,” I said. “You can’t make it poppycock just by pronouncing it. Anyway, poppycock or not, it was your driver Barstow used on the first tee. You remember that?”

  He nodded. “I do. I hadn’t thought of it, but now that you remind me I recall the scene perfectly. It was just as you-”

  “Mr. Kimball!” The secretary was secretarying. “It would be better perhaps if you-that is, upon reflection-”

  “Better if I what?-Oh. No, Blaine. I knew this would be a nuisance, I knew it very well. Certainly Barstow used my driver. Why shouldn’t I say so? I barely knew Barstow. Of course the poisoned needle story is a lot of poppycock, but that won’t keep it from being a nuisance.”

  “It’ll be worse than a nuisance, Mr. Kimball.” I hitched my chair toward him. “Look here. The police don’t know yet that Barstow used your driver. The District Attorney doesn’t know it. I’m not suggesting that you hide anything from them, they’ll find it out anyway. But whether you think the poisoned needle is poppycock or not, they don’t. They know that Barstow was killed by a needle that came out of his driver on the first tee, and when they find out that it was your driver he used, what are they going to do? They won’t arrest you for murder just like that, but they’ll have you looking in the dictionary for a better word than nuisance. My advice is, see Nero Wolfe. Take your lawyer along if you want to, but see him quick.”

  Kimball was pulling at his lip. He let his hand fall. At length he said, “Goodness gracious.”

  “Yes, sir, all of that.”

  He looked at his secretary. “You know, Blaine, I have no respect for lawyers.”

  “No, sir.”

  Kimball got up. “This is a fine to-do. I have told you before, Blaine, that there is just one thing in the world I am good at. Trading. I am a good trader, and that is surprising when you consider how soft I am really. Soft-hearted. With the more personal aspects of life I do not know how to deal.” He was moving back and forth behind his desk. “Yes, this appears to be more than a nuisance. Goodness gracious. What would you do, Blaine?”

  I glared at the secretary. He hesitated. “If you care to go to see this Nero Wolfe, I could go with you. If I were yo
u I would take a lawyer.”

  “What appointments have I?”

  “The usual sort of thing, nothing important. At eleven-thirty the man from the Westchester District Attorney.”

  “Oh, I would miss him. Well, tell him anything. How’s the ticker?”

  “Firm at the opening. Cotton easing off.”

  Kimball turned to me. “Where is this Nero Wolfe? Bring him here.”

  “Impossible, Mr. Kimball. He is-” But Wolfe had once found out that I had told a man he was infirm, and I didn’t want that to happen again. “He is an eccentric genius. It’s only up on Thirty-fifth Street. I’ve got my car down below and I’d be glad to run you up.”

  Kimball said, “I’ve only met one genius in my life; he was an Argentine cowboy. A gaucho. All right. Wait for me in the front office.”

  Back in the front room I had first entered, I sat on the edge of a chair. Meeting E.D. Kimball and looking at him and talking with him had somehow cleared my mind. I saw plainly what I should have realized the night before, that the minute it came out that it was Kimball’s driver that had been turned into what Wolfe called a lethal toy, and the minute Kimball himself arrived on the scene, we were probably turning into the homestretch. It was the same as if you found a man murdered and by some kind of hocus-pocus were able to bring him back to life long enough to ask him who killed him, and get his answer. That’s what E.D. Kimball was, a man who had been murdered and was still living. I had to get him up to Wolfe’s place and lock the door, and get him there quick, before Corbett got a chance at him-or, as far as that was concerned, anyone else. Anyone at all. How did I know but what it was the secretary, Square-jaw Blaine, who had had that driver made and found opportunity to get it into Kimball’s bag? At that moment, as I sat there on the edge of the chair, Blaine might be sticking a knife into Kimball as he had into Carlo Maffei���

  It was ten-fifty. I got up and began walking up and down the linoleium. Anderson’s man-I was sure it would be Corbett-was due at half past eleven, and he might take it into his thick head to come early and wait. I had just decided to ask the girl at the desk to phone into Blaine for me, when the inner door opened and Kimball appeared with his hat on. I was pretty glad to see him. He nodded at me and I jumped to the entrance door to open it for him.

  As we got into the elevator I observed, “Mr. Blaine isn’t coming.”

  Kimball shook his head. “He’s needed here more than I need him. I like your face. I find I usually do like a man’s face, and it pays every time. Trust is one of the finest things in the world, trust in your fellow man.”

  Yes, I thought to myself, I’ll bet a successful trader like you can use up lots of trust.

  It was only half a block to where I had parked the roadster. I cut across as far west as I could get to avoid the traffic, and it was still short of eleven-fifteen when I was ushering Kimball in ahead of me at Wolfe’s door.

  I took Kimball to the front room and asked him to wait there a minute, then returned to the entrance and made sure the latch was caught. Then I went to the kitchen. Fritz was making cherry tarts; a pan was just out of the oven and I nabbed one and stuffed it in and darned near burned my tongue off. I told Fritz, “One guest for lunch and don’t put any poison in it. And be careful who you let in; if there’s any doubt, call me.”

  In the office, Wolfe was at his desk. As soon as I saw him I stopped, exasperated, for he was cleaning house. He had only one drawer in his desk, a wide shallow one in the middle, and since he had begun having his beer in bottles instead of brought up from the basement in a pitcher, he had formed the habit, every time he opened a bottle, of pulling the drawer out and dropping the bottle cap in there. Fritz wasn’t supposed to open any drawers in the office, and I knew Wolfe had some sort of a nutty notion that he was saving the bottle caps for something so I had let them alone. Now, when I entered, he had the drawer half out and was scattering the caps all over the desk, arranging them in piles.

  I said, “Mr. E.D. Kimball is in the front room. Do you want him to come in and help you?”

  “The devil.” Wolfe looked around at his piles, and at me helplessly. He sighed. “Can’t he wait a while?”

  “Of course, sure. How would next week do?”

  He sighed again. “Confound it. Bring him in.”

  “With that junk scattered all over the desk?-Oh, all right, I told him you’re eccentric.” I had kept my voice lowered; now I lowered it some more to let him know how Kimball had shaped up and what I had said to him. He nodded, and I went to get Kimball.

  Kimball had his worried-amused look back on again. I introduced him and pulled a chair around for him, and after they had exchanged a few words I said to Wolfe, “If you won’t need me, sir, I’ll get on to those reports.” He nodded, and I got fixed at my desk with papers all around and half underneath a pad which I used for a notebook on such occasions. I had got my signs so abbreviated that I could get down every word of some pretty fast talk and still give the impression to a careless eye that I was just shuffling around looking for last week’s delicatessen bill.

  Wolfe was saying, “You are perfectly correct, Mr. Kimball. A man’s time is his own only by sufferance. There are many ways in which he may be dispossessed: flood, famine, war, marriage-not to speak of death, which is the most satisfactory of all because it closes the question finally.”

  “Goodness gracious.” Kimball was fidgety. “I do not see why that should make it satisfactory.”

  “You came very near finding out, a week ago last Sunday.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “You are a busy man, Mr. Kimball, and you have just returned to your office after a week’s absence. Why, under those circumstances, did you take time this morning to come to see me?”

  Kimball stared at him. “That’s what I want you to tell me.”

  “Good. You came because you were confused. That is not a desirable condition for a man in the extreme of danger, as you are. I see no indication in your face of alarm or fear, merely confusion. That is astonishing, knowing as I do what Mr. Goodwin has told you. He has informed you that on June fourth, twelve days ago, it was nothing but inadvertence that killed Peter Oliver Barstow, and the same inadvertence saved your life. You met his statement with incredulity, crudely expressed. Why?”

  “Because it’s nonsense.” Kimball was impatient. “Rubbish.”

  “Before, you said poppycock. Why?”

  “Because it is. I didn’t come here to argue about that. If the police get into difficulties trying to explain something they don’t happen to understand and want to make up any sort of a fancy tale to cover themselves, that’s all right, I believe in letting every man handle his own business his own way, but they don’t need to expect me to take any stock in it, and they can leave me out of it. I’m a busy man with something better to do. You’re wrong, Mr. Wolfe, I didn’t come to see you because I was confused, and I certainly didn’t come to give you a chance to try to scare me. I came because the police apparently are trying to mix me up in a fancy tale that might give me lot of trouble and publicity I don’t want, and your man gave me to understand you could show me how to avoid it. If you can, go ahead and I’ll pay you for it. If you can’t, say so, and I’ll find better advice.”

  “Well.” Wolfe leaned back in his chair and let his half-shut eyes study the broker’s face. Finally he shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t show you how to escape trouble, Mr. Kimball. I might with good fortune show you how to escape death. Even that is uncertain.”

  “I have never expected to escape death.”

  “Do not quibble. I mean of course unpleasant and imminent death. I shall be frank with you, sir. If I do not at once bid you good day and let you depart on your business, it is not because of my certain knowledge that you are confronting death like a fool. I refrain from contributing to certain Christian enterprises because I think that no man should be saved by coercion. But here I am guided by self-interest. Mrs. Barstow has offered a reward of fifty thousand dollars for the disc
overy of her husband’s murderer. I intend to discover him; and to do so I need only learn who it was that tried to kill you on June fourth and will proceed to do so within a reasonable time if means are not found of preventing him. If you will help me, it will be convenient for both of us; if you will not, it may well be that only through some misstep or mischance in his successful second attempt shall I be able to bring him to account for his abortive first one. Naturally it would be all the same to me.”

  Kimball shook his head. But he didn’t get up; instead, he was settling into his chair. Still he showed no sign of alarm, he merely looked interested. He said, “You’re a good talker, Mr. Wolfe. I don’t think you’re going to be of any use to me, since you seem to like fancy tales as well as the police, but you’re a good talker.”

  “Thank you. You like good talking?”

  Kimball nodded. “I like everything good. Good talking, and good trading, and good manners, and good living. I don’t mean high living, I mean good. I’ve tried to live a good life myself, and I like to think everyone else does. I know some can’t, but I think they try to. I was thinking of that in the car a little while ago, riding up here with your man. I’m not saying that the tale he told me made no impression on me at all; of course it did. When I told him it was poppycock I meant it, and I still mean it, but nevertheless it got me thinking. What if somebody had tried to kill me? Who would it be?”

  He paused, and Wolfe murmured at him, “Well, who would it be?”

  “Nobody.” Kimball was emphatic.

  I thought to myself, if this guy turns out like Barstow, so lovable a mosquito wouldn’t bite him, I’m through.

  Wolfe said, “I once met a man who had killed two other men because he had been bettered in a horse trade.”

  Kimball laughed. “I’m glad he wasn’t in grain. If his method of averaging down was universal I would have been killed not once, but a million times. I’m a good trader, it’s the one thing I’m proud of. What I love is wheat. Of course what you love is a fancy tale and a good murder, and that’s all right, that’s your business. What I love is wheat. Do you know there are seven-hundred-million bushels of wheat in the world? And I know where every one of them is this minute. Every one.”