Wolfe said patiently, “Dr. Burton has just been telling me the exegesis of Chapin’s marriage and the former occupation of his wife. I thought perhaps—”
“Oh, he has.” Farrell shot a glance at Burton. “Then what are you asking me for?”
“Don’t be testy, Mr. Farrell; let me save your life in amity. That was the basis of your remark?”
“Of course. But what the devil have Lorrie Burton’s private affairs got to do with it? Or mine or anybody’s? I thought what we are going to pay you for is to stop—”
He broke off. He looked around at the others and his face got red. He finished to Wolfe in a completely different tone, “Forgive me. I forgot for a moment.”
“Forgot what?”
“Nothing of any importance. Only that I’m out of it. In your total of fifty-odd thousand, you’ve got me down for ten dollars. Your sources of information are up-to-date. Have you any idea what architects have been up against the past four years? Even good ones. I did the new city hall at Baltimore in 1928. Now I couldn’t get—you’re not thinking of doing any building, Mr. Wolfe? A telephone stand or a dog kennel or anything? I’d be glad to submit designs—Oh, the devil. Anyway, I forgot I’m just here ex-officio, I’m not paying my way.—Come on, Lorrie, come and finish your drink. You ought to be home in bed, you’re sagging worse than I am.” He took Burton’s arm.
Moving off, they halted for Wolfe: “Mr. Farrell. I am under the same necessity of earning your ten dollars as Mr. Collard’s nine thousand. If you have comments—”
“Hell no. I haven’t even got a comment. Nor am I even contributing ten bucks to the pot of retribution, I’m taking it out in Scotch.”
George Pratt said to Cabot, “Come on, Nick, have a little refreshment,” and they followed the other two. Alex Drummond was left alone at the corner of Wolfe’s desk; he jerked to join the procession, then jerked back. He looked at Wolfe with his bright little eyes, stepped closer to him, and made his voice low:
“Uh—Mr. Wolfe. I imagine your sources of information are pretty good.”
Wolfe said without looking at him, “They are superlative.”
“I imagine so. Gus Farrell hasn’t really been up against it for more than a couple of months, but I notice you are aware of it. Uh—I wonder if you would be willing to enlighten me regarding another item on your list. Just curiosity.”
“I haven’t engaged to satisfy your curiosity.”
“No. But I was wondering. Why have you got Gaines down for eight thousand and Burton for seven thousand and so on, and Ferd Bowen for only twelve hundred? He’s something in Wall Street—I mean really something. Isn’t he? The firm of Galbraith and Bowen …” Drummond made his voice a little lower. “Frankly, it’s more than curiosity … he handles a few little investments for me …”
Wolfe looked at him and looked away again. I thought for a minute he wasn’t going to reply at all, but he did, with his eyes shut. “Don’t bother to disparage your investments. It can have no effect on the amount of your payment to me, for that has already been calculated and recorded. As for your question, my sources of information may be superlative, but they are not infallible. If Mr. Bowen ventures to object that I have belittled him, I shall consider his protest with an open mind.”
“Of course,” Drummond agreed. “But if you could just tell me in confidence—”
“If you will excuse me.” Wolfe opened his eyes, got his chin up, and raised his voice a little. “Gentlemen. Gentlemen? Could I have a word with you?”
They approached his desk, three or four from the corner the bookshelves made, and the wet contingent from the alcove table. Two or three still in chairs stayed there. Drummond, his hide too thick to show any red from Wolfe’s sandpapering, trotted around to the far side. Mike Ayers flopped into a chair again, stretching out his legs; his mouth gaped wide in a free-for-all yawn, then suddenly he clamped his lips tight with a look of indignant and wary surprise. I had a notion to go and move him off the rug, but decided he was going to hold it. Wolfe was handing it to them in his handsome manner:
“The hour is getting late, and I would not wish to detain you beyond necessity. I take it that we are in agreement—”
Arthur Kommers interrupted, “I ought to leave in a minute to catch the midnight back to Philadelphia. Do you want my initials on that thing?”
“Thank you, sir. Not at present. There is a phrase to be deleted. I shall ask Mr. Cabot to prepare copies in his office tomorrow morning and send them to me for distribution.” He sent a glance at the lawyer, and Cabot nodded. “Thank you.—In that connection, Mr. Farrell, I wish to make a proposal to you. You are broke, but you have a fairly intelligent face. To be broke is not a disgrace, it is only a catastrophe. You can help me. For instance, you can take, or send, copies of the memorandum to those members of the league not present this evening, and arrange for their co-operation. I will pay you twenty dollars a day. There will be other little jobs for you.”
The architect was staring at him. “You’re quite a guy, Mr. Wolfe. By God if you’re not. But I’m not a detective.”
“I shall keep my demands modest, and expect no intrepidity.”
“All right.” Farrell laughed. “I can use twenty dollars.”
“Good. Report here tomorrow at eleven.—Now, Dr. Burton. Your lifelong acquaintance with Paul Chapin places you in a special position, for my purpose. Could you dine with me tomorrow evening?”
Without hesitation, Burton shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shall be engaged.”
“Could you call on me after dinner? Forgive me for not asking permission to call on you instead. My disinclination to leave my home has a ponderable basis.”
But Burton shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfe, I can’t come.” He hesitated, and went on, “More frankly, I won’t. It’s softness in me. I’m not as soft about it as Andy Hibbard and Leo Elkus. I answered yes to the question you put this evening, though you made it as raw as possible. Of course you did that purposely. I answered yes, and I’ll pay my share, but that’s as far as I’ll go. I will not confer on ways and means of exposing Paul Chapin’s guilt and getting him convicted and electrocuted.—Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I don’t pretend to be standing on a principle, I’m perfectly aware it’s only a temperamental prejudice. I wouldn’t move a finger to protect Paul or save him from the consequences of his crimes. In fact, in so far as the thing may be considered a personal issue between him and myself, I am ready to defeat him by a violence equal to his own.”
“You are ready?” Wolfe had opened his eyes on him. “You mean you are prepared?”
“Not specially.” Burton looked irritated. “It is of no importance whatever. I always seem to talk too much when Paul Chapin is concerned; I wish to the Lord I’d never heard of him. As far as that goes, of course we all do. I only meant … well, for years I’ve kept an automatic pistol in the drawer of my study-table. One evening last week Paul came to see me. For years, of course, he was welcome at my house, though he seldom came. On this occasion, on account of recent events, I told the butler to keep him in the reception hall; and before I went to the reception hall I took the pistol from the drawer and stuck it in my pocket.— That was all I meant; I would be perfectly willing to use personal violence if the circumstances required it.”
Wolfe sighed. “I regret your soft spot, Dr. Burton. But for that you might, for instance, tell us which evening Mr. Chapin went to see you and what it was he wanted.”
“That wouldn’t help you.” Burton was brusque. “It was personal—that is, it was only neurotic nonsense.”
“So, they say, was Napoleon’s dream of empire. Very well, sir. By all means cling to the tattered shreds of humanity that are left you; there are enough of us in that respect quite unclothed. I must somehow manage my enterprise without stripping you. I would like as ask, gentlemen: which of you were most intimate with Mr. Hibbard?”
They looked at each other. George Pratt said, “We all saw Andy off and on.” Ju
lius Adler put in, “I would say that among us Roland Erskine was his closest friend. I would boast that I was next.”
“Erskine the actor?” Wolfe glanced at the clock. “I was thinking he might join us after the theater, but scarcely at this hour. He is working, I believe.”
Drummond said, “He’s in The Iron Heel, he has the lead.”
“Then he couldn’t dine. Not at a civilized hour.” Wolfe looked at Julius Adler. “Could you come here at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon and bring Erskine with you?”
“Perhaps.” The lawyer looked annoyed. “I suppose I could manage it. Couldn’t you come to my office?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Believe me, I am; but knowing my habits as I do, it seems extravagantly improbable. If you could arrange to bring Mr. Erskine—”
“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.—You had better run, Mr. Kommers, or you’ll miss your train. Another reason, and one of the best, for staying at home.—Gentlemen, so far as our business is concerned I need not further detain you. But in connection with my remark to Mr. Kommers it occurs to me that no publication either before or since the invention of printing, no theological treatise and no political or scientific creed, has ever been as narrowly dogmatic or as offensively arbitrary in its prejudices as a railway timetable. If any of you should care to remain half an hour or so to help me enlarge upon that …”
Byron the magazine editor, who had stuck in his shell all evening, suddenly woke up. He got up from his chair and slipped his head in between a couple of shoulders to see Wolfe. “You know, that idea could be developed into a first-rate little article. Six hundred to seven hundred words, about. The Tyranny of the Wheel, you could call it, with a colored margin of trains and airplanes and ocean liners at top speed—of course liners don’t have wheels, but you could do something about that—if I could persuade you, Mr. Wolfe—”
“I’m afraid you could only bewilder me, Mr. Byron.”
Cabot the lawyer smiled. “I never saw a man less likely to be bewildered, even by Eddie Byron. Good night, Mr. Wolfe.” He picked up the memorandum and folded it and put it in his pocket. “I’ll send you these in the morning.”
They got moving. Pratt and Farrell went and got Mike Ayers to his feet and slapped him around a little. Byron started trying to persuade Wolfe again and was pulled off by Adler. Kommers had gone. The others drifted to the hall, and I went out and stood around while they got their hats and coats on. Bowen and Burton went off together, as they had come. I held the door for Pratt and Farrell to get Mike Ayers through; they were the last out.
After I had shut the door and bolted it I went to the kitchen for a pitcher of milk. Fritz was sitting there reading that newspaper printed in French, with his butler shoes still on, in spite of how he loved to put on his slippers after dinner on account of things left on his toes and feet by the war to remember it by. We said what we always said under those circumstances. He said, “I could bring your milk, Archie, if you would just tell me,” and I said, “If I can drink it I can carry it.”
In the office, Wolfe sat back with his eyes closed. I took the milk to my desk and poured a glass and sat down and sipped at it. The room was full of smoke and the smell of different drinks and chairs were scattered around and cigar and cigarette ashes were all over the rugs. It annoyed me, and I got up and opened a window. Wolfe said, “Close it,” and I got up and closed it again. I poured another glass of milk.
I said, “This bird Chapin is a lunatic, and it’s long past midnight. I’m damn good and sleepy.”
Wolfe kept his eyes shut, and also ignored me in other ways. I said, “Do you realize we could earn all that jack and save a lot of trouble just by having a simple little accident happen to Paul Chapin? Depression prices on accidents like that run from fifty bucks up. It’s smart to be thrifty.”
Wolfe murmured, “Thank you, Archie. When I exhaust my own expedients I shall know where to turn.—A page in your notebook.”
I opened a drawer and took out a book and pencil.
“Phone Mr. Cabot’s office at nine o’clock and make sure that the memorandums will be here by eleven, ready for Mr. Farrell. Ask where the reports from the Bascom Agency are and arrange to get them. The men will be here at eight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send one of them to get the reports. Put three of them on Paul Chapin, first thing. We want a complete record of his movements, and phone anything of significance.”
“Durkin and Keems and Gore?”
“That is your affair. But Saul Panzer is to get his nose onto Andrew Hibbard’s last discoverable footstep. Tell him to phone me at eleven-thirty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put Cather onto Chapin’s past, outside the circle of our clients, especially the past two years. As complete as possible. He might succeed in striking an harmonious chord with Dora Chapin.”
“Maybe I could do that myself. She’s probably a lulu.”
“I suspect that of being a vulgarization of the word allure. If she is alluring, resist the temptation for the moment. Your special province will be the deaths of Harrison and Dreyer. First read the Bascom reports, then proceed. Wherever original investigation is indicated and seems still feasible after the lapse of time, undertake it. Use men as necessary, but avoid extravagance. Do not call upon any of our clients until Mr. Farrell has seen them.—That’s all. It’s late.”
Wolfe opened his eyes, blinked, and closed them again. But I noticed that the tip of his finger was doing a little circle on the arm of the chair. I grinned:
“Maybe we’ve got this and that for tomorrow and next day, but maybe right now you’re troubled by the same thing I am. Why is this Mr. Chapin giving hip room to a Civil War gat with the hammer nose filed off so that it’s about as murderous as a beanshooter?”
“I’m not troubled, Archie.” But his finger didn’t stop. “I’m wondering whether another bottle of beer before going to bed would be judicious.”
“You’ve had six since dinner.”
“Seven. One upstairs.”
“Then for God’s sake call it a day. Speaking of Chapin’s cannon, do you remember the lady dope-fiend who carried a box of pellets made out of flour in her sock, the usual cache, and when they took that and thought she was frisked, she still had the real thing in the hem of her skirt? Of course I don’t mean that Chapin had another gun necessarily, I just mean, psychologically …”
“Good heavens.” Wolfe pushed back his chair, not of course with violence, but with determination. “Archie. Understand this. As a man of action you are tolerable, you are even competent. But I will not for one moment put up with you as a psychologist. I am going to bed.”
Chapter 8
I had heard Wolfe, at various times, make quite a few cracks about murder. He had said once that no man could commit so complicated a deed as a premeditated murder and leave no opening. He had also said that the only way to commit a murder and remain safe from detection, despite any ingenuity in pursuit and trusting to no luck, was to do it impromptu; await your opportunity, keep your wits about you, and strike when the instant offered; and he added that the luxury of the impromptu murder could be afforded only by those who happened to be in no great hurry about it.
By Tuesday evening I was convinced of one thing about the death of Wm. R. Harrison, Federal judge from Indianapolis: that if it had been murder at all it had been impromptu. I would like to say another thing right here, that I know when I’m out of my class. I’ve got my limitations, and I never yet have tried to give them the ritz. Paul Chapin hadn’t been in Nero Wolfe’s office more than three minutes Monday night when I saw he was all Greek to me; if it was left to me to take him apart he was sitting pretty. When people begin to get deep and complicated they mix me up. But pictures never do. With pictures, no matter how many pieces they’ve got that don’t seem to fit at first, I’m there forty ways from Sunday. I spent six hours Tuesday with the picture of Judge Harrison’s death—reading the Basco
m reports, talking with six people including thirty minutes on long distance with Fillmore Collard, and chewing it along with two meals—and I decided three things about it: first, that if it was murder it was impromptu; second, that if anybody killed him it was Paul Chapin; and third, that there was as much chance of proving it as there was of proving that honesty was the best policy.
It had happened nearly five months back, but the things that had happened since, starting with the typewritten poems they had got in the mail, had kept their memories active. Paul Chapin had driven up to Harvard with Leopold Elkus, the surgeon, who had gone because he had a son graduating. Judge Harrison had come on from Indianapolis for the same reason. Drummond had been there, Elkus told me, because each year the doubt whether he had really graduated from a big university became overwhelming and he went back every June to make sure. Elkus was very fond of Drummond, the way a taxi-driver is of a cop. Cabot and Sidney Lang had been in Boston on business, and Bowen had been a house-guest at the home of Theodore Gaines; presumably they were hatching some sort of a financial deal. Anyway, Fillmore Collard had got in touch with his old classmates and invited them for the week-end to his place near Marblehead. There had been quite a party, more than a dozen altogether.
Saturday evening after dinner they had strolled through the grounds, as darkness fell, to the edge of a hundred-foot cliff at the base of which the surf roared among jagged rocks. Four, among them Cabot and Elkus, had stayed in the house playing bridge. Paul Chapin had hobbled along with the strollers. They had separated, some going to the stables with Collard to see a sick horse, some back to the house, one or two staying behind. It was an hour or so later that they missed Harrison, and not until midnight did they become really concerned. Daylight came before the tide was out enough for them to find his cut and bruised body at the foot of the cliff, wedged among the rocks.
A tragic accident and a ruined party. It had had no significance beyond that until the Wednesday following, when the typewritten poem came to each of them. It said a good deal for Paul Chapin’s character and quality, the fact that none of them for a moment doubted the poem’s implications. Cabot said that what closed their minds to any doubt was the similarity in the manner of Harrison’s death to the accident Chapin had suffered from many years before. He had fallen from a height. They got together, and considered, and tried to remember. After the interval of four days there was a good deal of disagreement. A man named Meyer, who lived in Boston, had stated Saturday night that he had gone off leaving Harrison seated on the edge of the cliff and had jokingly warned him to be ready to pull his parachute cord, and that no one else had been around. Now they tried to remember about Chapin. Two were positive that he had limped along after the group strolling to the house, that he had come up to them on the veranda, and had entered with them. Bowen thought he remembered seeing him at the stables. Sidney Lang had seen him reading a book soon after the group returned, and was of the opinion that he had not stirred from his seat for an hour or more.
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