And Be a Villain

by Rex Stout

  “I’ll be damned. I’ll be there—what’s the address?”

  Wolfe gave it to him, and hung up.

  “I’ll be damned too,” I declared. “A perfect stranger? He may put horse-radish on oysters.”

  Wolfe grunted. “If he had gone home to eat with that creature things might have been said. Even to the point of repudiation by her and defiance by him. I thought it prudent to avoid that risk.”

  “Nuts. There’s no such risk and you know it. What you’re trying to avoid is to give anyone an excuse to think you’re human. You were being kind to your fellow man and you’d rather be caught dead. The idea of the poor devil going home to dine with that female hyena was simply too much for your great big warm heart, and you were so damn impetuous you even committed yourself to letting him have some of that brandy of which there are only nineteen bottles in the United States and they’re all in your cellar.”

  “Bosh.” He arose. “You would sentimentalize the multiplication table.” He started for the kitchen, to tell Fritz about the guest, and to smell around.

  Chapter 18

  AFTER DINNER FRITZ BROUGHT us a second pot of coffee in the office, and also the brandy bottle and big-bellied glasses. Most of the two hours had been spent, not on West Thirty-fifth Street in New York, but in Egypt. Wolfe and the guest had both spent some time there in days gone by, and they had settled on that for discussion and a few arguments.

  Dr. Michaels, informally comfortable in the red leather chair, put down his coffee cup, ditched a cigarette, and gently patted his midriff. He looked exactly like a successful Park Avenue doctor, middle-aged, well-built and well-dressed, worried but self-assured. After the first hour at the table the tired and worried look had gone, but now, as he cocked an eye at Wolfe after disposing of the cigarette, his forehead was wrinkled again.

  “This has been a delightful recess,” he declared. “It has done me a world of good. I have dozens of patients for whom I would like to prescribe a dinner with you, but I’m afraid I’d have to advise you not to fill the prescription.” He belched, and was well-mannered enough not to try to cheat on it. “Well. Now I’ll stop masquerading as a guest and take my proper role. The human sacrifice.”

  Wolfe disallowed it. “I have no desire or intention to gut you, sir.”

  Michaels smiled. “A surgeon might say that too, as he slits the skin. No, let’s get it done. Did my wife phone you, or write you, or come to see you?”

  “Your wife?” Wolfe’s eyes opened innocently. “Has there been any mention of your wife?”

  “Only by me, this moment. Let it pass. I suppose your solemn word of honor has been invoked—a fine old phrase, really, solemn word of honor—” He shrugged. “I wasn’t actually surprised when you asked me about that blackmail business on the phone, merely momentarily confused. I had been expecting something of the sort, because it didn’t seem likely that such an opportunity to cause me embarrassment—or perhaps worse—would be missed. Only I would have guessed it would be the police. This is much better, much.”

  Wolfe’s head dipped forward, visibly, to acknowledge that compliment. “It may eventually reach the police, doctor. There may be no help for it.”

  “Of course, I realize that. I can only hope not. Did she give you the anonymous letters, or just show them to you?”

  “Neither. But that ‘she’ is your pronoun, not mine. With the understood—I have no documentary evidence, and have seen none. If there is some, no doubt I could get it.” Wolfe sighed, leaned back, and half closed his eyes. “Wouldn’t it be simpler if you assume that I know nothing at all, and tell me about it?”

  “I suppose so, damn it.” Michaels sipped some brandy, used his tongue to give all the membranes a chance at it, swallowed, and put the glass down. “From the beginning?”

  “If you please.”

  “Well … it was last summer, nine months ago, that I first learned about the anonymous letters. One of my colleagues showed me one that he had received by mail. It strongly hinted that I was chronically guilty of—uh, unethical conduct—with women patients. Not long after that I became aware of a decided change in the attitude of one of my oldest and most valued patients. I appealed to her to tell me frankly what had caused it. She had received two similar letters. It was the next day—naturally my memory is quite vivid on this—that my wife showed me two letters, again similar, that had come to her.”

  The wrinkles on his forehead had taken command again. “I don’t have to explain what that sort of thing could do to a doctor if it kept up. Of course I thought of the police, but the risk of possible publicity, or even spreading of rumor, through a police inquiry, was too great. There was the same objection, or at least I thought there was, to hiring a private investigator. Then, the day after my wife showed me the letters—no, two days after—I had a phone call at my home in the evening. I presume my wife listened to it on the extension in her room—but you’re not interested in that. I wish to God you were—” Michaels abruptly jerked his head up as if he had heard a noise somewhere. “Now what did I mean by that?”

  “I have no idea,” Wolfe murmured. “The phone call?”

  “It was a woman’s voice. She didn’t waste any words. She said she understood that people had been getting letters about me, and if it annoyed me and I wanted to stop it I could easily do so. If I would subscribe for one year to a publication called What to Expect—she gave me the address—there would be no more letters. The cost would be ten dollars a week, and I could pay as I pleased, weekly, monthly, or the year in advance. She assured me emphatically that there would be no request for renewal, that nothing beyond the one year’s subscription would be required, that the letters would stop as soon as I subscribed, and that there would be no more.”

  Michaels turned a hand to show a palm. “That’s all. I subscribed. I sent ten dollars a week for a while—eight weeks—and then I sent a check for four hundred and forty dollars. So far as I know there have been no more letters—and I think I would know.”

  “Interesting,” Wolfe murmured. “Extremely.”

  “Yes,” Michaels agreed. “I can understand your saying that. It’s what a doctor says when he runs across something rare like a lung grown to a rib. But if he’s tactful he doesn’t say it in the hearing of the patient.”

  “You’re quite right, sir. I apologize. But this is indeed a rarity—truly remarkable! If the execution graded as high as the conception … what were the letters like, typed?”

  “Yes. Plain envelopes and plain cheap paper, but the typing was perfect.”

  “You said you sent a check. That was acceptable?”

  Michaels nodded. “She made that clear. Either check or money order. Cash would be accepted, but was thought inadvisable on account of the risk in the mails.”

  “You see? Admirable. What about her voice?”

  “It was medium in pitch, clear and precise, educated—I mean good diction and grammar—and matter-of-fact. One day I called the number of the publication—as you probably know, it’s listed—and asked for Miss Poole. It was Miss Poole talking, she said. I discussed a paragraph in the latest issue, and she was intelligent and informed about it. But her voice was soprano, jerky and nervous, nothing like the voice that had told me how to get the letters stopped.”

  “It wouldn’t be. That was what you phoned for?”

  “Yes. I thought I’d have that much satisfaction at least, since there was no risk in it.”

  “You might have saved your nickel.” Wolfe grimaced. “Dr. Michaels, I’m going to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t want to, but though the question is intrusive it is also important. And it will do no good to ask it unless I can be assured of a completely candid reply or a refusal to answer at all. You would be capable of a fairly good job of evasion if you were moved to try, and I don’t want that. Will you give me either candor or silence?”

  Michaels smiled. “Silence is so awkward. I’ll give you a straight a
nswer or I’ll say ‘no comment.’”

  “Good. How much substance was there in the hints in those letters about your conduct?”

  The doctor looked at him, considered, and finally nodded his head. “It’s intrusive, all right, but I’ll take your word for it that it’s important. You want a full answer?”

  “As full as possible.”

  “Then it must be confidential.”

  “It will be.”

  “I accept that. I don’t ask for your solemn word of honor. There was not even a shadow of substance. I have never, with any patient, even approached the boundaries of professional decorum. But I’m not like you; I have a deep and intense need for the companionship of a woman. I suppose that’s why I married so early—and so disastrously. Possibly her money attracted me too, though I would vigorously deny it; there are bad streaks in me. Anyway, I do have the companionship of a woman, but not the one I married. She has never been my patient. When she needs medical advice she goes to some other doctor. No doctor should assume responsibility for the health of one he loves or one he hates.”

  “This companionship you enjoy—it could not have been the stimulus for the hints in the letters?”

  “I don’t see how. All the letters spoke of women patients—in the plural, and patients.”

  “Giving their names?”

  “No, no names.”

  Wolfe nodded with satisfaction. “That would have taken too much research for a wholesale operation, and it wasn’t necessary.” He came forward in his chair to reach for the push button. “I am greatly obliged to you, Dr. Michaels. This has been highly distasteful for you, and you have been most indulgent. I don’t need to prolong it, and I won’t. I foresee no necessity to give the police your name, and I’ll even engage not to do so, though heaven only knows what my informant will do. Now we’ll have some beer. We didn’t get it settled about the pointed arches in the Tulun mosque.”

  “If you don’t mind,” the guest said, “I’ve been wondering if it would be seemly to tip this brandy bottle again.”

  So he stayed with the brandy while Wolfe had beer. I excused myself and went out for a breath of air, for while they were perfectly welcome to do some more settling about the pointed arches in the Tulun mosque, as far as I was concerned it had been attended to long ago.

  It was past eleven when I returned, and soon afterward Michaels arose to go. He was far from being pickled, but he was much more relaxed and rosy than he had been when I let him in. Wolfe was so mellow that he even stood up to say good-by, and I didn’t see his usual flicker of hesitation when Michaels extended a hand. He doesn’t care about shaking hands indiscriminately.

  Michaels said impulsively, “I want to ask you something.”

  “Then do so.”

  “I want to consult you professionally—your profession. I need help. I want to pay for it.”

  “You will, sir, if it’s worth anything.”

  “It will be, I’m sure. I want to know, if you are being shadowed, if a man is following you, how many ways are there of eluding him, and what are they, and how are they executed?”

  “Good heavens.” Wolfe shuddered. “How long has this been going on?”

  “For months.”

  “Well.—Archie?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Glad to.”

  “I don’t want to impose on you,” Michaels lied. He did. “It’s late.”

  “That’s okay. Sit down.”

  I really didn’t mind, having met his wife.

  Chapter 19

  THAT, I THOUGHT to myself as I was brushing my hair Thursday morning, covered some ground. That was a real step forward.

  Then, as I dropped the brush into the drawer, I asked aloud, “Yeah? Toward what?”

  In a murder case you expect to spend at least half your time barking up wrong trees. Sometimes that gets you irritated, but what the hell, if you belong in the detective business at all you just skip it and take another look. That wasn’t the trouble with this one. We hadn’t gone dashing around investigating a funny sound only to learn it was just a cat on a fence. Far from it. We had left all that to the cops. Every move we had made had been strictly pertinent. Our two chief discoveries—the tape on the bottle of coffee and the way the circulation department of What to Expect operated—were unquestionably essential parts of the picture of the death of Cyril Orchard, which was what we were working on.

  So it was a step forward. Fine. When you have taken a step forward, the next thing on the program is another step in the same direction. And that was the pebble in the griddle cake I broke a tooth on that morning. Bathing and dressing and eating breakfast, I went over the situation from every angle and viewpoint, and I had to admit this: if Wolfe had called me up to his room and asked for a suggestion on how I should spend the day, I would have been tongue-tied.

  What I’m doing, if you’re following me, is to justify what I did do. When he did call me up to his room, and wished me a good morning, and asked how I had slept, and told me to phone Inspector Cramer and invite him to pay us a visit at eleven o’clock, all I said was:

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was another phone call which I had decided to make on my own. Since it involved a violation of a law Wolfe had passed I didn’t want to make it from the office, so when I went out for a stroll to the bank to deposit a check from a former client who was paying in installments, I patronized a booth. When I got Lon Cohen I told him I wanted to ask him something that had no connection with the detective business, but was strictly private. I said I had been offered a job at a figure ten times what he was worth, and fully half what I was, and, while I had no intention of leaving Wolfe, I was curious. Had he ever heard of a guy named Arnold Zeck, and what about him?

  “Nothing for you,” Lon said.

  “What do you mean, nothing for me?”

  “I mean you don’t want a Sunday feature, you want the lowdown, and I haven’t got it. Zeck is a question mark. I’ve heard that he owns twenty Assemblymen and six district leaders, and I’ve also heard that he is merely a dried fish. There’s a rumor that if you print something about him that he resents your body is washed ashore at Montauk Point, mangled by sharks, but you know how the boys talk. One little detail—this is between us?”

  “Forever.”

  “There’s not a word on him in our morgue. I had occasion to look once, several years ago—when he gave his yacht to the Navy. Not a thing, which is peculiar for a guy that gives away yachts and owns the highest hill in Westchester. What’s the job?”

  “Skip it. I wouldn’t consider it. I thought he still had his yacht.”

  I decided to let it lay. If the time should come when Wolfe had to sneak outdoors and look for a place to hide, I didn’t want it blamed on me.

  Cramer arrived shortly after eleven. He wasn’t jovial, and neither was I. When he came, as I had known him to, to tear Wolfe to pieces, or at least to threaten to haul him downtown or send a squad with a paper signed by a judge, he had fire in his eyes and springs in his calves. This time he was so forlorn he even let me hang up his hat and coat for him. But as he entered the office I saw him squaring his shoulders. He was so used to going into that room to be belligerent that it was automatic. He growled a greeting, sat, and demanded:

  “What have you got this time?”

  Wolfe, lips compressed, regarded him a moment and then pointed a finger at him. “You know, Mr. Cramer, I begin to suspect I’m a jackass. Three weeks ago yesterday, when I read in the paper of Mr. Orchard’s death, I should have guessed immediately why people paid him ten dollars a week. I don’t mean merely the general idea of blackmail; that was an obvious possibility; I mean the whole operation, the way it was done.”

  “Why, have you guessed it now?”

  “No. I’ve had it described to me.”

  “By whom?”

  “It doesn’t matter. An innocent victim. Would you like to have me describe it to you?”

  “Sure. Or the other way around.”


  Wolfe frowned. “What? You know about it?”

  “Yeah, I know about it. I do now.” Cramer wasn’t doing any bragging. He stayed glum. “Understand I’m saying nothing against the New York Police Department. It’s the best on earth. But it’s a large organization, and you can’t expect everyone to know what everybody else did or is doing. My part of it is Homicide. Well. In September nineteen forty-six, nineteen months ago, a citizen lodged a complaint with a precinct detective sergeant. People had received anonymous letters about him, and he had got a phone call from a man that if he subscribed to a thing called Track Almanac for one year there would be no more letters. He said the stuff in the letters was lies, and he wasn’t going to be swindled, and he wanted justice. Because it looked as if it might be a real job the sergeant consulted his captain. They went together to the Track Almanac office, found Orchard there, and jumped him. He denied it, said it must have been someone trying to queer him. The citizen listened to Orchard’s voice, both direct and on the phone, and said it hadn’t been his voice on the phone, it must have been a confederate. But no lead to a confederate could be found. Nothing could be found. Orchard stood pat. He refused to let them see his subscription list, on the ground that he didn’t want his customers pestered, which was within his rights in the absence of a charge. The citizen’s lawyer wouldn’t let him swear a warrant. There were no more anonymous letters.”

  “Beautiful,” Wolfe murmured.

  “What the hell is so beautiful?”

  “Excuse me. And?”

  “And nothing. The captain is now retired, living on a farm in Rhode Island. The sergeant is still a sergeant, as he should be, since apparently he doesn’t read the papers. He’s up in a Bronx precinct, specializing in kids that throw stones at trains. Just day before yesterday the name Orchard reminded him of something! So I’ve got that. I’ve put men onto the other Orchard subscribers that we know about, except the one that was just a sucker—plenty of men to cover anybody at all close to them, to ask about anonymous letters. There have been no results on Savarese or Madeline Fraser, but we’ve uncovered it on the Leconne woman, the one that runs a beauty parlor. It was the same routine—the letters and the phone call, and she fell for it. She says the letters were lies, and it looks like they were, but she paid up to get them stopped, and she pushed us off, and you too, because she didn’t want a stink.”