by Rex Stout
“So,” I said. “That sonof abitch. Shall I find out about the Midland number?” Wolfe shook his head. “Useless. It would be some little store that merely took a message. Anyway, he has a number of his own.” “Yeah. He didn’t know you knew his name. Neither did I. How did that happen?” “Two years ago I engaged some of Mr Bascom’s men without telling you. He had sounded as if he were a man of resource and resolution, and I didn’t want to get you involved.” “It’s the Zeck with the place in Westchester, of course?” “Yes. I should have signalled you off as soon as I recognized his voice. I tell you nothing because it is better for you to know nothing. You are to forget that you know his name.” “Like that.” I snapped my fingers, and grinned at him. “What the hell? Does he eat human flesh, preferably handsome young men?” “No. He does worse.” Wolfe’s eyes came half-open. “I’ll tell you this. If ever, in the course of my business, I find that I am committed against him and must destroy him, I shall leave this house, find a place where I can work-and sleep and eat if there is time for it-and stay there until I have finished. I don’t want to do that, and therefore I hope I’ll never have to.” “I see. I’d like to meet this bozo. I think I’ll make his acquaintance.” “You will not. You’ll stay away from him.” He made a face. “If this job leads me to that extremity-well, it will or it won’t.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly noon. You’d better go and see if any more answers have arrived. Can’t you telephone?”
CHAPTER Sixteen
There were no more answers. That goes not only for Tuesday noon, but for the rest of the day and evening, and Wednesday morning, and Wednesday after lunch.
Nothing doing.
It didn’t surprise me. The nature of the phone call from the man whose name I had been ordered to forget made it seem likely that there was something peculiar about the subscribers to Track Almanac and What to Expect, which was the name of the political and economic dope sheet published by the late Beula Poole. But even granting that there wasn’t, that as far as they were concerned it was all clean and straight, the two publishers had just been murdered, and who would be good enough to answer such an ad. just to get asked a lot of impertinent questions? In the office after lunch Wednesday I made a remark to that effect to Wolfe, and got only a growl for reply.
“We might at least,” I insisted, “have hinted that they would get their money back or something.” No reply.
“We could insert it again and add that. Or we could offer a reward for anyone who would give us the name of an Orchard or Poole subscriber.” No reply.
“Or I could go up to the Fraser apartment and get into conversation with the bunch, and who knows?” “Yes. Do so.” I looked at him suspiciously. He meant it.
“Now?” “Yes.” “You sure are hard up when you start taking suggestions from me.” I pulled the phone to me and dialled the number. It was Bill Meadows who answered, and he sounded anything but gay, even when he learned it was me. After a brief talk, however, I was willing to forgive him. I hung up and informed Wolfe: “I guess I’ll have to postpone it. Miss Fraser and Miss Koppel are both out.
Bill was a little vague, but I gather that the latter has been tagged by the city authorities for some reason or other, and the former is engaged in trying to remove the tag. Maybe she needs help. Why don’t I find out?” “I don’t know. You might try.” I turned and dialled Watkins 9-8241. Inspector Cramer wasn’t available, but I got someone just as good, or sometimes I think even better, Sergeant Stebbins.
“I need some information,” I told him, “in connection with this fee you folks are earning for Mr Wolfe.” “So do we,” he said frankly. “Got any?” “Not right now. Mr Wolfe and I are in conference. How did Miss Koppel hurt your feelings, and where is she, and if you see Miss Fraser give her my love.” He let out a roar of delight. Purley doesn’t laugh often, at least when he’s on duty, and I resented it. I waited until I thought he might hear me and then demanded: “What the hell is so funny?” “I never expected the day to come,” he declared. “You calling me to ask where your client is. What’s the matter, is Wolfe off his feed?” “I know another one even better. Call me back when you’re through laughing.” “I’m through. Haven’t you heard what the Koppel dame did?” “No. I only know what you tell me.” “Well, this isn’t loose yet. We may want to keep it a while if we can. I don’t know.” “I’ll help to keep it. So will Mr Wolfe.” “That’s understood?” “Yes.” “Okay. Of course they’ve all been told not to leave the jurisdiction. This morning Miss Koppel took a cab to La Guardia. She was nabbed as she was boarding the nine o’clock plane for Detroit. She says she wanted to visit her sick mother in Fleetville, which is eighty miles from Detroit. But she didn’t ask permission to go, and the word we get is that her mother is no sicker than she has been for a year. So we charged her as a material witness. Does that strike you as high-handed? Do you think it calls for a shakeup?” “Get set for another laugh. Where’s Miss Fraser?” “With her lawyer at the D A’s office discussing bail.” “What kind of reasons have you got for Miss Koppel taking a trip that are any better than hers?” “I wouldn’t know. Now you’re out of my class. If you want to go into details like that, Wolfe had better ask the Inspector.” I tried another approach or two, but either Purley had given me all there was or the rest was in another drawer which he didn’t feel like opening. I hung up and relayed the news to Wolfe.
He nodded as if it were no concern of his. I glared at him: “It wouldn’t interest you to have one or both of them stop in for a chat on their way home? To ask why Miss Koppel simply had to go to Michigan would be vulgar curiosity?” “Bah. The police are asking, aren’t they?” Wolfe was bitter. “I’ve spent countless hours with those people, and got something for it only when I had a whip to snap. Why compound futility? I need another whip. Call those newspapers again.” “Am I still to go up there? After the ladies get home?” “You might as well.” “Yeah.” I was savage. “At least I can compound some futility.” I phoned all three papers. Nothing. Being in no mood to sit and concentrate on germination records, I announced that I was going out for a walk, and Wolfe nodded absently. When I got back it was after four o’clock and he had gone up to the plant rooms. I fiddled around, finally decided that I might as well concentrate on something and the germination records were all I had, and got Theodore’s reports from the drawer, but then I thought why not throw away three more nickels. So I started dialling again.
Herald-Tribune, nothing. News, nothing. But the Gazette girl said yes, they had one. The way I went for my hat and headed for Tenth Avenue to grab a taxi, you might have thought I was on my way to a murder.
The driver was a philosopher. “You don’t see many eager happy faces like yours nowadays,3 he told me.
“I’m on my way to my wedding.” He opened his mouth to speak again, then clamped it shut. He shook his head resolutely. “No. Why should I spoil it?” I paid him off outside the Gazette building and went in and got my prize. It was a square pale-blue envelope, and the printed return on the flap said: Mrs W. T. Michaels 890 East End Avenue New York City 28 Inside was a single sheet matching the envelope, with small neat handwriting on it: BOX P304:
Regarding your advertisement, I am not a former subscriber to either of the publications, but I may be able to tell you something. You may write me, or call Lincoln 3-4808, but do not phone before ten in the morning or after five-thirty in the afternoon. That is important.
Hilda Michaels.
It was still forty minutes this side of her deadline, so I went straight to a booth and dialled the number. A female voice answered. I asked to speak to Mrs Michaels.
“This is Mrs Michaels.” “This is the Gazette advertiser you wrote to, BOX P304. I’ve just read- “What’s your name?” She had a tendency to snap.
“My name is Goodwin, Archie Goodwin. I can be up there in fifteen minutes or less-” “No, you can’t. Anyway, you’d better not. Are you connected with the Police Department?” “No. I work for Nero Wolfe. You may ha
ve heard of Nero Wolfe, the detective?” “Of course. This isn’t a convent. Was that his advertisement?” “Yes.He-” “Then why didn’t he phone me?” “Because I just got your note. I’m phoning from a booth in the Gazette building.
You said not-” “Well, Mr Goodman, I doubt if I can tell Mr Wolfe anything he would be interested in. I really doubt it.” “Maybe not,” I conceded. “But he would be the best judge of that. If you don’t want me to come up there, how would it be if you called on Mr Wolfe at his office? West Thirty-fifth Street-it’s in the phone book. Or I could run up now in a taxi and-” “Oh, not now. Not today. I might be able to make it tomorrow-or Friday-” I was annoyed. For one thing, I would just as soon be permitted to finish a sentence once in a while, and for another, apparently she had read the piece about Wolfe being hired to work on the Orchard case, and my name had been in it, and it had been spelled correctly. So I took on weight: “You don’t seem to realize what you’ve done, Mrs Michaels. You-” “Why, what have I done?” “You have landed smack in the middle of a murder case. Mr Wolfe and the police are more or less collaborating on it. He would like to see you about the matter mentioned in his advertisement, not tomorrow or next week, but quick. I think you ought to see him. If you try to put it off because you’ve begun to regret sending this note he’ll be compelled to consult the police, and then what? Then you’ll-” “I didn’t say I regret sending the note.” “No, but the way you-” “I’ll be at Mr Wolf e’s office by six o’clock.” “Good! Shall I come-” I might have known better than to give her another chance to chop me off. She said that she was quite capable of getting herself transported, and I could well believe it.
CHAPTER Seventeen
There was nothing snappy about her appearance. The mink coat, and the dark red woollen dress made visible when the coat had been spread over the back of the red leather chair, unquestionably meant well, but she was not built to co-operate with clothes. There was too much of her and the distribution was all wrong. Her face was so well padded that there was no telling whether there were any bones underneath, and the creases were considerably more than skin deep. I didn’t like her. From Wolfe’s expression it was plain, to me, that he didn’t like her. As for her, it was a safe bet that she didn’t like anybody.
Wolfe rustled the sheet of pale-blue paper, glanced at it again, and looked at her. “You say here, madam, that you may be able to tell me something. Your caution is understandable and even commendable. You wanted to find out who had placed the advertisement before committing yourself. Now you know. There is no need-” “That man threatened me,” she snapped. That’s not the way to get me to tell something-if I have something to tell.” “I agree…Mr Goodwin is headstrong-Archie, withdraw the threat.” I did my best to grin at her as man to woman. 1 take it back, Mrs Michaels. I was so anxious – “If I tell you anything,” she said to Wolfe, ignoring me, “it will be because I want to, and it will be completely confidential. Whatever you do about it, of course I have nothing to say about that, but you will give me your solemn word of honour that my name will not be mentioned to anyone. No one is to know I wrote you or came to see you or had anything to do with it.” Wolfe shook his head. “Impossible. Manifestly impossible. You are not a fool, madam, and I won’t try to treat you as if you were. It is even conceivable that you might have to take the witness stand in a murder trial. I know nothing about it, because I don’t know what you have to tell. Then how could I-” “All right,” she said, surrendering. “I see I made a mistake. I must be home by seven o’clock. Here’s what I have to tell you: somebody I know was a subscriber to that What to Expect that was published by that woman, Beula Poole. I distinctly remember, one day two or three months ago, I saw a little stack of them somewhere-in some house or apartment or office. I’ve been trying to remember where it was, and I simply can’t I wrote you because I thought you might tell me something that would make me remember, and I’m quite willing to try, but I doubt if it will do any good.” “Indeed.” Wolfe’s expression was fully as sour as hers. “I said you’re not a fool. I suppose you’re prepared to stick to that under any circum-” “Yes, I am.” “Even if Mr Goodwin gets headstrong again and renews his threat?” “That!” She was contemptuous.
“It’s very thin, Mrs Michaels. Even ridiculous. That you would go to the bother of answering that advertisement, and coming down here-” “I don’t mind being ridiculous.” Then I have no alternative.” Wolfe’s lips tightened. He released them. “I accept your conditions. I agree, for myself and for Mr Goodwin, who is my agent, that we will not disclose the source of our information, and that we will do our utmost to keep anyone from learning it. Should anyone ascertain it, it will be against our will and in spite of our precautions in good faith. We cannot guarantee, we can only promise, and we do so.” Her eyes had narrowed. “On your solemn word of honour.” “Good heavens. That ragged old patch? Very well. My solemn word of honour.
Archie?” “My solemn word of honour,” I said gravely.
Her head made an odd ducking movement, reminding me of a fat-cheeked owl I had seen at the Zoo getting ready to swoop on a mouse.
“My husband,” she said, lias been a subscriber to that publication, What to Expect, for eight months.” But the Owl had swooped because it was hungry, whereas she was swooping just to hurt. It was in her voice, which was still hers but quite different when she said the word husband.
“And that’s ridiculous,” she went on, “if you want something ridiculous. He hasn’t the slightest interest in politics or industry or the stock market or anything like that. He is a successful doctor and all he ever thinks about is his work and his patients, especially his women patients. What would he want with a thing like that What to Expect? Why should he pay that Beula Poole money every week, month after month? I have my own money, and for the first few years after we married we lived on my income, but then he began to be successful, and now he doesn’t need my money any more. And he doesn’t-” Abruptly she stood up. Apparently the habit had got so strong that sometimes she even interrupted herself. She was turning to pick up her coat.
“If you please,” Wolfe said brusquely. “You have my word of honour and I want some details. What has your husband-” “That’s all,” she snapped. “I don’t intend to answer any silly questions. If I did you’d be sure to give me away, you wouldn’t be smart enough not to, and the details don’t matter. I’ve told you the one thing you need to know, and I only hope-” She was proceeding with the coat, and I had gone to her to help.
“Yes, madam, what do you hope?” She looked straight at him. “I hope you’ve got some brains. You don’t look it.” She turned and made for the hall, and I followed. Over the years I have opened that front door to let many people out of that house, among them thieves, swindlers, murderers, and assorted crooks, but it has never been a greater pleasure than on that occasion. Added to everything else, I had noticed when helping her with her coat that her neck needed washing.
It had not been news to us that her husband was a successful doctor. Between my return to the office and her arrival there had been time for a look at the phone book, which had him as an MD with an office address in the Sixties just off Park Avenue, and for a call to Doc. Vollmer. Vollmer had never met him, but knew his standing and reputation, which were up around the top. He had a good high-bracketed practice, with the emphasis on gynaecology.
Back in the office I remarked to Wolfe: “There goes my pendulum again. Lately I’ve been swinging toward the notion of getting myself a little woman, but good Godalmighty. Brother!” He nodded, and shivered a little. “Yes. However, we can’t reject it merely because it’s soiled. Unquestionably her fact is a fact; otherwise she would have contrived an elaborate support for it.” He glanced at the clock. “She said she had to be home by seven, so he may still be in his office. Try it.” I found the number and dialled it. The woman who answered firmly intended to protect her employer from harassment by a stranger, but I finally sold her.
Wolfe took
it. “Dr Michaels? This is Nero Wolfe, a detective. Yes, sir, so far as I know there is only one of that name. I’m in a little difficulty and would appreciate some help from you.” “I’m just leaving for the day, Mr Wolfe. I’m afraid I couldn’t undertake to give you medical advice on the phone.” His voice was low, pleasant, and tired.
“It isn’t medical advice I need, doctor. I want to have a talk with you about a publication called What to Expect, to which you subscribed. The difficulty is that I find it impractical to leave my house. I could send my assistant or a policeman to see you, or both, but I would prefer to discuss it with you myself, confidentially. I wonder if you could call on me this evening after dinner?” Evidently the interrupting mania in the Michaels family was confined to the wife. Not only did he not interrupt, he didn’t even take a cue. Wolfe tried again: “Would that be convenient, sir?” “If I could have another moment, Mr Wolfe. I’ve had a hard day and am trying to think.” “By all means.” He took ten seconds. His voice came, even tireder: “I suppose it would be useless to tell you to go to hell. I would prefer not to discuss it on the phone. I’ll be at your office around nine o’clock.” “Good. Have you a dinner engagement, doctor?” “An engagement? No. I’m dining at home. Why?” “It just occurred to me-could I prevail on you to dine with me? You said you were just leaving for the day. I have a good cook. We are having fresh pork tenderloin, with all fibre removed, done in a casserole, with a sharp brown sauce moderately spiced. There will not be time to chambrer a claret properly, but we can have the chill off. We shall, of course, not approach our little matter until afterward, with the coffee-or even after that. Do you happen to know the brandy labelled Remisier? It is not common. I hope this won’t shock you, but the way to do it is to sip it with bites of Fritz’s apple pie. Fritz is my cook.” “I’ll be damned. I’ll be there-what’s the address?” Wolfe gave it to him, and hung up.