Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 02

by The League of Frightened Men

  “Uh-huh. I suppose you got her confidence by giving her some orchids.”

  “No. But as a matter of fact, I promised her some. Make a note of that for tomorrow. I got her confidence by telling her the truth, that the conviction of her husband for murder would cost me many thousands of dollars. You see, what happened—what time is it?— Good. She was convinced, as was Chapin himself, that I was responsible for his predicament. Not knowing the nature of my agreement with his friends, he thought I had framed him. Having seen me, he could not of course suppose that I myself had performed the acrobatics in the foyer. Do you know who did that? You. Yes, indeed, you did the killing, I merely devised it. Mrs. Chapin, believing that, seized an opportunity. With you and Pitney Scott fast asleep, she went through your pockets, took his cap and jacket, sat down and wrote a note, and drove the taxicab here. She handed the envelope to Fritz at the door and returned to the cab. The note was brief and quite clear, I can quote it verbatim: Archie Goodwin will be dead in two hours unless you get in my taxi and go where I drive you. And it was signed with her name, Dora Chapin. Admirably forthright. What persuaded me that some sort of action was called for was the presence in the envelope of the leather case you had seemed to like.”

  He paused for a glass of beer. I grunted, and thought I ought to say something, but all I could think of was, “Yeah, I liked it. And you’ve still got it.”

  He nodded, and resumed. “The only aspect of the episode that was really distressing came from Mrs. Chapin’s romantic idea of what constitutes a remote and secluded spot. Since I was committed to follow her, a bush in a corner of Central Park would have done her just as well, but that infernal female ass bounced that cab far beyond the limits of the city. I learned subsequently that she had in mind an isolated wood somewhere on the edge of Long Island Sound where she and her husband had gone last summer to have a picnic. It became unendurable. I lowered the glass between us and shouted at the back of her ear that if she did not stop within three minutes I would call for help at every passing car and every visible human being. I convinced her. She turned into a byroad and soon stopped under a clump of trees.

  “This will amuse you. She had a weapon. A kitchen knife!—By the way, that carving she exhibited to us last Wednesday was done on her own initiative; her husband disapproved. At that time the game was still on of establishing Mr. Chapin in the minds of his friends as a dangerous and murderous fellow, without involving him in any demonstrable guilt. He already suspected that I might uncover him, and his wife’s bloody neck was a red herring, though her own idea.—Well. She could not very well have expected to kill me with a knife, since none could be long enough to reach a vital spot; I suppose no gun was available, or perhaps she mistrusts them as I do. Perhaps she meant merely to hack me into acquiescence; and of course she had in reserve my anxiety as to the peril of your situation. At all events, her purpose was to force me to reveal the skulduggery by which her husband had been entrapped. I was to write it. She had pen and paper with her. That attention to detail endeared her to me.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  He drank beer. “Nothing much. You know my fondness for talking. It was an excellent opportunity. She was calm from the outset. She and I have much in common—for instance, our dislike of perturbation. It would have been instructive to see her using the knife on the back of her neck that day, I would wager she did it much as one trims a chop. After I had explained the situation to her, we discussed it. The moment arrived when it seemed pointless to continue our conference in that cold, dark forbidding spot, and besides, I had learned what had happened to you. She seemed so uncertain as to what she had used to flavor your coffee that I thought it best to reach a telephone with as little delay as possible.—Ah! Mr. Hibbard, I trust the long afternoon has been fairly tolerable.”

  Hibbard walked in, looking a little groggy, still wearing my brown necktie. Behind him came Fritz, to announce dinner.

  Chapter 21

  They piled in early. By nine o’clock ten of them had already arrived, checked off on my list, and I was doing the honors. Four of them I hadn’t seen before: Collard and Gaines from Boston, Irving from Philadelphia and Professor Mollison of Yale. Mike Ayers, stony sober on arrival, helped me get drinks around. At nine sharp Leopold Elkus joined the throng. I had no idea what Wolfe had told him to get him there; anyway there he was, and what he wanted to drink was a glass of port, and I restrained an impulse to tell him there was no nitroglycerin in it. He recognized me and acted gracious. Some more came, among them Augustus Farrell, who had phoned on Saturday that he was back from Philadelphia and had landed the commission for Mr. Allenby’s library. Wolfe, surmising that what he was really phoning about was the twenty bucks due him for Wednesday’s work, had had me mail him a check.

  They didn’t seem as subdued as they had a week before. They took to the drinks with more gusto, and gathered in groups and talked, and two or three of them even came up to me and got impatient. Collard, the Boston textile man who owned the cliff that Judge Harrison had fallen off of, told me he hoped to see the last act of the opera, and I said I was sorry but I myself had had to give up that hope long ago. I overheard Elkus telling Ferdinand Bowen that it appeared likely that Nero Wolfe was in an advanced stage of megalomania, and tried to get Bowen’s reply but missed it.

  There were fifteen of them present at a quarter past nine, which was the time Wolfe had told me he would make his entrance.

  It was a good entrance all right. He did it in perfect style. I was watching for him, not to miss it. He came in, three paces in, and stood there, until they had all turned to look at him and the talking had stopped. He inclined his head and used his resonance: “Good evening, gentleman.” Then he faced the door and nodded at Fritz, who was standing on the threshold. Fritz moved aside, and Andrew Hibbard walked in.

  That started the first uproar. Pratt and Mike Ayers were the quickest to react. They both yelled “Andy!” and jumped for him. Others followed. They encircled him, shouted at him, grabbed his hands and pounded him on the back. They had him hemmed in so that I couldn’t see any of him, to observe what kind of psychology he was taking it with. It was easy to imagine, hearing them and looking at them, that they really liked Andy Hibbard. Maybe even Drummond and Bowen liked him; you’ve got to take the bitter along with the sweet.

  Wolfe had eluded the stampede. He had got to his desk and lowered himself into his chair, and Fritz had brought him beer. I looked at him, and was glad I did, for it wasn’t often he felt like winking at me and I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it. He returned my look and gave me the wink, and I grinned at him. Then he drank some beer.

  The commotion went on a while longer. Mike Ayers came over to Wolfe’s desk and said something which I couldn’t hear on account of the noise, and Wolfe nodded and replied something. Mike Ayers went back and began shooing them into chairs, and Cabot and Farrell helped him. They subsided. Pratt took Hibbard by the arm and steered him to one of the big armchairs, and then sat down next to him and took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

  Wolfe started the ball rolling. He sat pretty straight, his forearms on the arms of his chair, his chin down, his eyes open on them.

  “Gentlemen. Thank you for coming here this evening. Even if we should later come to disagreement, I am sure we are in accord as to the felicitous nature of our preamble. We are all glad that Mr. Hibbard is with us. Mr. Goodwin and I are gratified that we were able to play the Stanley to his Livingstone. As to the particular dark continent that Mr. Hibbard chose to explore, and the method of our finding him, those details must wait for another occasion, since we have more pressing business. I believe it is enough at present to say that Mr. Hibbard’s disappearance was a venture on his own account, a sally in search of education. That is correct, Mr. Hibbard?”

  They all looked at Hibbard. He nodded. “That’s correct.”

  Wolfe took some papers from his drawer, spread them out, and picked one up. “I have here, gentlemen, a copy of the memorandu
m of our agreement. One of my undertakings herein was to remove from you all apprehension and expectation of injury from the person or persons responsible for the disappearance of Andrew Hibbard. I take it that that has been accomplished? You have no fear of Mr. Hibbard himself?—Good. Then that much is done.” He paused to look them over, face by face, and went on. “For the rest, it will be necessary to read you a document.” He put the memorandum down and picked up another paper, sheets clipped to a brown paper jacket. “This, gentlemen, is dated November twelfth, which is today. It is signed with the name of Paul Chapin. At the top it is headed, CONFESSION OF PAUL CHAPIN REGARDING THE DEATHS OF WILLIAM R. HARRISON AND EUGENE DREYER AND THE WRITING AND DISPATCHING OF CERTAIN INFORMATIVE AND THREATENING VERSES. It reads as follows—”

  Cabot the lawyer butted in. He would. He interrupted: “Mr. Wolfe. Of course this is interesting, but in view of what has happened’ do you think it’s necessary?”

  “Quite.” Wolfe didn’t look up. “If you will permit me:

  “I Paul Chapin, of 208 Perry Street, New York City, hereby confess that I was in no way concerned in the death of Judge William R. Harrison. To the best of my knowledge and belief his death was accidental.

  I further confess that I was in no way concerned in the death of Eugene Dreyer. To the best of my knowledge and belief he committed suicide.

  I further confess—”

  There was an explosive snort from Mike Ayers, and mutterings from some of the others. Julius Adler’s mild sarcastic voice took the air: “This is drivel. Chapin has maintained throughout—”

  Wolfe stopped him, and all of them. “Gentlemen! Please. I ask your indulgence. If you will withhold comments until the end.”

  Drummond squeaked, “Let him finish,” and I made a mental note to give him an extra drink. Wolfe continued:

  “I further confess that the verses received by certain persons on three separate occasions were composed, typed and mailed by me. They were intended to convey by inference the information that I had killed Harrison, Dreyer and Hibbard, and that it was my purpose to kill others. They were typed on the typewriter in the alcove of the smoking-room at the Harvard Club, a fact which was discovered by Nero Wolfe. That ends my confession. The rest is explanation, which I offer at Nero Wolfe’s request.

  The idea of the verses, which came to me after Harrison’s death, was at first only one of the fantasies which occupy a mind accustomed to invention. I composed them. They were good, at least for one purpose, and I decided to send them. I devised details as to paper, envelopes and typing which would leave no possibility to proving that they had been sent by me. They worked admirably, beyond my expectations.

  Three months later the death of Dreyer, and the circumstances under which it occurred, offered another opportunity which of course was irresistible. This was more risky than the first, since I had been present at the gallery that afternoon, but careful consideration convinced me that there was no real danger. I typed the second verses, and sent them. They were even more successful than the first ones. I need not try to describe the satisfaction it gave me to fill with trepidation and terror the insolent breasts which for so many years had bulged their pity at me. They had called themselves the League of Atonement—Oh yes, I knew that. Now at last atonement had in fact begun.

  I supplemented the effect of the verses verbally, with certain of my friends, whenever a safe opportunity offered, and this was more fertile with Andrew Hibbard than with anyone else. It ended by his becoming so terrified that he ran away. I do not know where he is; it is quite possible that he killed himself. As soon as I learned of his disappearance I decided to take advantage of it. Of course if he reappeared the game was up, but I had not supposed that I could continue the business indefinitely, and this was too good a chance to be missed. I sent the third verses. The result was nothing short of magnificent, indeed it proved to be too magnificent. I had never heard of Nero Wolfe. I went to his office that evening for the pleasure of seeing my friends, and to look at Wolfe. I saw that he was acute and intuitive, and that my diversion was probably at an end. An attempt was made by my wife to impress Wolfe, but it failed.

  There are other points that might be touched upon, but I believe none of them require explanation. I would like to mention, though, that my testimony on the witness-stand regarding my reason for writing my novel Devil Take the Hindmost, was in my opinion a superlative bit of finesse, and Nero Wolfe agrees with me.

  I will add that I am not responsible for the literary quality of this document. It was written by Nero Wolfe.

  Paul Chapin.”

  Wolfe finished, dropped the confession on the table, and leaned back. “Now, gentlemen. If you wish to comment.”

  There were mumblings. Ferdinand Bowen, the stockbroker, spoke up: “It seems to me Adler has commented for all of us. Drivel.”

  Wolfe nodded. “I can understand that viewpoint. In fact, I suppose that under the circumstances it is inevitable. But let me expound my own viewpoint. My position is that I have met my obligations under the memorandum and that the payments are due.”

  “My dear sir!” It was Nicholas Cabot. “Preposterous.”

  “I think not. What I undertook to do was to remove your fear of Paul Chapin. That’s what it amounts to, with the facts we now have. Well: as for Andrew Hibbard, here he is. As for the deaths of Harrison and Dreyer, it should have been obvious to all of you, from the beginning, that Chapin had nothing to do with them. You had known him all his mature life. I had merely read his books; but I was aware last Monday evening, when you gentlemen were here, that Chapin could not possibly commit a premeditated murder, and not even an impromptu one unless suddenly demented. And you, Mr. Hibbard, a psychologist! Have you read Chapin’s books? Why are they so concerned with murder and the delight of it? Why does every page have its hymn to violence and the brute beauty of vehement action? Or, to change heroes, why did Nietzsche say, Thou goest to woman, forget not thy whip? Because he had not the temerity to touch a woman with the tip of a goose-feather. The truth is that Paul Chapin did murder Harrison and Dreyer, and all of you. He has murdered you, and will doubtless do so again, in his books. Let him, gentlemen, and go on breathing.

  “No. Harrison and Dreyer and Hibbard are out of it. Consult the memorandum. There remains only the matter of the warnings. Chapin admits he sent them, and tells you how and why and where. The trilogy is done. There will be no sequels, and even if there were I should not suppose they would alarm you. If he should desire to use the same typewriter again he would have to come to this office for it, for it rests there on Mr. Goodwin’s desk.”

  They all looked, and I moved out of the way so they could see it. Wolfe drank beer, and wiped his lips. He resumed:

  “I know, of course, where the trouble lies. Paul Chapin is in the Tombs charged with the murder of Dr. Burton. If that had not happened, if Dr. Burton were here with us this evening alive and well, I have no doubt that all of you would acquiesce in my position. I have done the work I was engaged for. But as it is, you are confused; and what confuses you is this, that whereas you formerly had no security at all against Paul Chapin’s injurious designs, you now have more than you need. I offer you the security I undertook to get for you, but you are no longer interested in it because you already have something just as good: namely, that Chapin is going to be electrocuted and can no longer murder you even in books.—Mr. Cabot, I ask you as a lawyer, is that exposition of the situation correct? What do you think of it?”

  “I think …” Cabot pursed his lips, and after a moment went on, “I think it is remarkably ingenious rubbish.”

  Wolfe nodded. “I would expect you to. I take it, gentlemen, that Mr. Cabot’s opinion is approximately unanimous. Yes?—So it becomes necessary for me to introduce a new consideration. This: that Chapin did not kill Dr. Burton, that I can establish his innocence, and that if tried he will be acquitted.”

  That started the second uproar. It began as a muttering of incredulity and astonishment; it
was Leopold Elkus that put the noise in it. He jumped out of his chair and ran around Wolfe’s desk to get at him and grabbed his hand and began pumping it. He seemed to be excited; he was yelling at Wolfe something about justice and gratitude and how great and grand Wolfe was; I didn’t hear anything about megalomania. The others, busy with their own remarks, didn’t pay any attention to him. Mike Ayers, roaring with laughter, got up and went to the table for a drink. I got up too, thinking I might have to go and haul Elkus off of Wolfe, but he finally trotted back to the others, gesticulating and still talking. Wolfe lifted his hand at them:

  “Gentlemen! If you please. I seem to have startled you. Similarly, I suppose, the police and the District Attorney will be startled, though they should not be. You of course expect me to support my statement with evidence, but if I do that I must ask you for more impartiality than I observe at the moment on most of your faces. You cannot be at the same time juridical and partisan, at least not with any pretense at competence.

  “I offer these items. First, at a few minutes before seven on Saturday evening Paul Chapin answered the telephone in his apartment. It was Dr. Burton, who asked Chapin to come to see him immediately. A little later Chapin left to go to Ninetieth Street, arriving there at seven-thirty. But there was something wrong with that telephone call, namely, that Dr. Burton never made it. For that we have the word of his wife, who says that her husband telephoned no one around that time Saturday. It seems likely, therefore, that there was somewhere a third person who was taking upon himself the functions of fate.—I know, Mr. Adler. And I think I perceive, Mr. Bowen, that your face carries a similar expression. You would ask if I am gullible enough to believe Mr. Chapin. I am not gullible, but I believe him. He told his wife of the telephone call, and she told me; and there is the switchboard operator at the Chapin apartment house.