by Rex Stout
"You usually do. Well … confidentially, I would say no. He has ability, no doubt of that, but in my opinion he might take a wrong line in a case where—a Negro killing a white woman. I mean charged with killing her. If I were Dunbar Whipple, I would want a different kind of man. Of course I may be completely wrong, but—"
"Enough, Mr. Parker, wrong or not. Thank you. You won't be quoted." Wolfe hung up and turned. "Archie. Did Dunbar Whipple kill Susan Brooke?"
I know him so well. Anyone might suppose he was showing off to Cramer, showing him how eccentric and unique he was, but no. He merely wanted to know what I would say. If we had been alone I would have told him that one would get him ten that Dunbar was innocent, but with Cramer there I preferred to skip the odds.
"No," I said.
He nodded. "Get Mr. Whipple."
Before turning to the phone I shot a glance at Cramer. Chin down, eyes narrowed, and lips tight, he was glued to Wolfe. He knows him fairly well too, and he suspected what was coming.
It would have cramped Wolfe's style a little if Whipple hadn't been at home, but he was. He answered the phone. I started to tell him that Mr. Wolfe wanted to speak to him, but Wolfe was at his phone and cut in.
"This is Nero Wolfe, Mr. Whipple. Can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"I owe you an apology. You were right, and I was wrong. I have just learned that your son is being held on a charge of murder. I am convinced that the charge is unfounded. If you want my services on your son's behalf, I offer them without fee. My previous undertaking to discharge my obligation to you was fatuous; I should have said no. Now I say yes."
Silence. Then: "His lawyer phoned an hour ago that he would probably be home by eight o'clock."
"His lawyer was wrong. I have more accurate information. Do you accept my offer?"
"Yes. Of course. We'll pay all we can."
"You'll pay nothing. My self-esteem needs repairs. But there's a question: the approval of your son and his lawyer."
"They'll approve. I know they will. But how did you learn—are you sure …"
"Yes. A policeman is sitting here in the chair you sat in. When you have the approval of your son and his lawyer, let me know and I'll proceed. I must talk with you and the lawyer."
"Of course. I knew this—I knew it would happen, but now that—now that—"
"Yes. Some time has been lost. Let me know." He hung up and swiveled.
Cramer asked, cold and slow, "What kind of a goddam play is this?"
Wolfe pinched his nose. "I believe I have never told you of an experience I had years ago at a place in West Virginia. I wanted to leave and come home, and I wanted a certain favor from a certain man. A young colored man made it possible for me to realize both desires. His name was Paul Whipple. I hadn't seen him since until ten days ago—no, eleven. Now I'll even the score."
"The hell you will. You can't possibly know that Dunbar Whipple didn't kill that girl. The only way you could know that would be if you thought you knew who did kill her."
"I haven't the slightest idea who killed her."
"I don't believe you. It's obvious that when Goodwin was checking on her he dug up something that you intend to use to pull one of your goddam fancy stunts. You're not going to. I told you that if you had taken him on Goodwin would have been wanted downtown, and now I'm telling you that I'm taking you too. To the district attorney." He rose. "If you want it done right, you're under arrest as a material witness. Come on."
Wolfe, in no hurry, put his hands on the desk rim to push his chair back, arose, and got the edge of his vest between thumbs and forefingers to pull it down. "We shall of course stand mute and get bail tomorrow. May we have two minutes to call Mr. Parker? Get him, Archie."
I slanted my eyes up at Cramer, waiting politely for permission, since I was under arrest. He stood and breathed for ten seconds. He spoke. "You told Whipple that the charge against his son is unfounded. Let's hear you reply to what I said, that if you say Dunbar Whipple didn't kill her you think you know who did."
"I did reply. I have no idea who killed her."
"Then why didn't he?"
"I am not obliged to account for a conclusion I have formed. But I tell you on my word of honor—a phrase I respect, as you know—that the conclusion has no evidential basis. I know nothing of the circumstances that led to the death of Susan Brooke that you don't know; indeed, I know much less than you do. I offer a suggestion. I am now committed to act in the interest of Mr. Whipple, I would like to proceed without delay, and I would rather not spend tonight and part of tomorrow in custody, mute or not. I'm going to ask Mr. Goodwin to type a full report, with all conversations verbatim, of his investigation of Susan Brooke, and I offer to send you a copy of it, with his affidavit. That should satisfy you."
"What about you?"
"Dismiss me. All my knowledge of the matter will be contained in Mr. Goodwin's report. Still my word of honor."
"When will I get the report?"
"I can't say. How long will it take, Archie?"
"It depends," I told him. "If you want it all, every word, say forty hours. Three days and evenings. I talked with many people about many things. If you want only what could possibly be relevant, ten or twelve hours should do it. The affidavit could cover it."
"Tomorrow afternoon," Cramer said. "By five o'clock."
"Maybe, but no guarantee."
He regarded Wolfe, opened his mouth and closed it again, about-faced, and was going. Wolfe raised his voice to tell his back, "We are under arrest!"
"Balls," Cramer said without stopping. As I got up and went to the hall to see that he was outside when the door shut, I was thinking that you couldn't blame him for being rude. He was facing the fact that they were slapping the big one on a man that Nero Wolfe had decided to take on. I didn't offer to help him with his hat and coat; it wouldn't have been appreciated. When he was out and the door shut I stepped back in the office. Wolfe was back in his chair, looking sour.
I went to my desk and sat. "At least twelve hours," I said. "I might as well be in jail." I swiveled, got out paper and carbons, and swung the typewriter around.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Starting that damn report."
"Why don't you badger me first?"
"Waste of time. Anyway, didn't I say no?"
"Yes. Why?"
I swiveled to face him. "You know why, since you phoned Whipple. When he barked at you, 'What did you do, what did you do.' I thought to myself, so he didn't kill her. If he had killed her of course he would be putting on an act, but that act was just too good. Only a genius could be that good, and I've never seen any genius besides you. Then when he told me I knew who killed her. Then when he apologized to you. Do I have to go on?"
"No. It was manifest. He couldn't possibly have been dissembling. You're aware that the report is required not only for Mr. Cramer. I must have it."
"Sure. Proceeding as usual. Giving me a long, mean, extremely difficult job."
I turned and got at the paper and carbons.
Chapter 6
IT TOOK ELEVEN hours plus, four hours Thursday evening and most of Friday. Thirty-two pages and the affidavit. That may seem slow, but for most of it I had no notes. At a quarter past four Friday afternoon I put it in an envelope with a label addressed to Inspector Cramer, took it to a notary public on Eighth Avenue to have the affidavit made official, and then, in a taxi, to Homicide South on 20th Street. I also took a taxi back. It was a nice sunny winter day for a walk, but the Gazette was on the stands and there was an item in it which I wanted to enjoy at leisure.
There had been interruptions. Whipple had phoned late Thursday evening to say that Oster, the lawyer, had been glad to hear that he would have Nero Wolfe's help and had approved on behalf of his client. At eight-thirty Friday morning, already at my desk, I was buzzed by Wolfe on the house phone from his room and instructed to call Lon Cohen and tell him that if he cared to send a reporter to 35th Street we would have an item that migh
t be printable; and furthermore I was told to send the reporter up to the plant rooms if he came between nine and eleven. He came a little after ten, and Fritz took him up in the elevator. That wasn't unprecedented but it was out of the ordinary. It was too bad I couldn't tell Dunbar Whipple that, in the interest of a Negro, Wolfe was making an exception he had rarely made in the interest of any white man. I wondered then, and I still do, whether words had anything to do with it, knowing how he is about words. As he had told me, discussing words one evening at the dinner table, negro means black in Spanish and nero means black in Italian. And he had been born in Montenegro, Black Mountain. Maybe something buried in him but not dead, in his cesspool and/or garden.
Of the other phone calls I need to report only one, shortly after lunch, from Oster, when it was arranged that he and Whipple would come at six o'clock for a conference.
In the cab returning from 20th Street I read the item three times. It was on page 3, with the headline: Nero Wolfe Sits In. Not bad. About anyone else it would probably have been Steps In. God knows he sits. It went:
Nero Wolfe, the well-known private detective, is working on the Susan Brooke murder case. He announced today that he has been engaged by Harold R. Oster, attorney for Dunbar Whipple, who has been charged with the murder (see page 1), to investigate certain aspects of the affair.
According to the record, not one of Wolfe's clients has ever been convicted of murder. Asked this morning by a Gazette reporter if he didn't feel that in this case he was endangering his record, he replied with a flat no. He said that he has good reason to believe that Dunbar Whipple is innocent, and he is confident that, working with Oster, he will be able to procure evidence that will clear him.
He declined to disclose his reasons for believing that Whipple is innocent or the nature of the evidence he expects to get. But for some people the mere fact that he is willing to have it known publicly that he is engaged in the defense of Whipple will be significant. Others will say that there is always a first time.
No picture of the well-known detective, though there were a dozen shots of him in the Gazette morgue. I'd have to write a letter to the editor.
When I entered the old brownstone and went to the office I noticed something. The Gazette is delivered there every day around five o'clock, and it wasn't on my desk, and I wanted the extra copy. I went to the kitchen and asked Fritz if he had it, and he said no, Wolfe had phoned down from the plant rooms to bring it up. More out of the ordinary. He likes to see his name in the paper as well as you do, but he always waits until he comes down to the office. As I got the milk from the refrigerator and poured a glass I was thinking that if you stick around long enough you'll see everything.
Whipple and Oster arrived early. One of the many Wolfe-made rules in that house is that when a client and his lawyer are both present the client gets the red leather chair, but that time it wasn't followed. Oster shot a glance around and went straight to it. He was tall and broad, with skin the color of dark honey, the kind Wolfe prefers—I mean honey—and he moved like a man who is in charge and intends to stay in charge. I was curious to see what would happen if Wolfe tried to shift him to the yellow chair.
He didn't bother. The sound came of the elevator jolting to a stop, and he entered. The Gazette was in his hand. He nodded left and right and headed between them for his desk, but Oster was up with a hand out. Wolfe halted, shook his head, said distinctly, "My wrist," and went to his chair.
Oster sat down and asked, "Hurt your wrist?"
"Long ago." Wolfe looked at the client. "Have you seen your son, Mr. Whipple?"
Whipple said he had.
"And he accepts my offer?"
"I have accepted it," Oster said. He had the kind of deep baritone that bounces off of walls. "I'm his attorney and I make the decisions."
Wolfe ignored him. "I wish to make sure," he told Whipple, "that your son knows I am working for him and approves. Have you told him—"
"That's impertinent!" Oster cut in. "You know damn well, Wolfe, that a counselor acts for his client. If you don't, you're a lot more ignorant than a man like you ought to be. I'm surprised. I'm astonished, and I may have to reconsider my acceptance of your offer."
Wolfe regarded him. "Are you through, Mr. Oster?"
"I said I may have to reconsider."
"I mean are you through speaking?"
"I'm through with that."
"Good. I goaded you deliberately. I'm aware of the status of a counselor. What concerns me is my status. In order to do a satisfactory job for Mr. Whipple, I must begin with an assumption which you will almost certainly reject. Knowing that we would inevitably clash, I thought it well to show you at once that I am arbitrary and contumelious. If there must be a clash, let's have it and see what happens. My initial assumption is that Dunbar Whipple did not kill Susan Brooke, but that she was killed by someone who works for or with the Rights of Citizens Committee. That is—"
"You're damn right I reject it." Oster turned to Whipple. "He's impossible. Listen to him. Impossible!"
"You're a bungler," Wolfe said, not clashing, just stating a fact.
Oster goggled at him, speechless.
"Even if you repudiate my assumption," Wolfe said, "as the man responsible for Dunbar Whipple's defense you should want to know why I make it. It's tentative, merely a place to start; I must start somewhere. The most pointed known fact about the murderer is that he knew about that apartment, and that Miss Brooke was there or probably was. Since her money and jewelry were not taken, he was not a random marauder; moreover, he didn't try to pose as one by taking them. I don't suppose there were many people who knew of the apartment; apparently, from accounts and hints in the newspapers, there were very few. In an effort to find them, the most likely place should be tried first. I have a question. Dunbar Whipple is your client. If you could clear him only by exposing the real culprit, and if the culprit were someone connected with the organization of which you are the counsel, and if you had it in your power to expose him, would you do so?"
Of course he had to say yes. He added, "But that's three ifs."
"Not the first one, though I said 'if.' Come, Mr. Oster, let's be realistic. Yesterday at this hour a police inspector was sitting in that chair, and we talked at length. I believe that your client is in grave jeopardy unless we produce a substitute. Don't you?"
"Was it Cramer?"
"Yes."
"That damned Cossack."
"Not by definition." Wolfe flipped it aside. "I won't press you for an answer; your reputation for acumen is answer enough." Vinegar, then butter. "Dunbar Whipple entered that apartment shortly after nine o'clock and remained there continuously until the police arrived some forty minutes later; he says so. The only feasible method of proving that Susan Brooke died before he arrived is to produce the person who killed her. Let's find him. The ROCC is not the place to look, certainly. Your report, Archie?"
I got it from a drawer. He asked, "You have an extra copy?"
I nodded. "I made three."
"Give it to Mr. Oster. That, sir, is a complete report, omitting nothing that could possibly be pertinent, of the investigation of Susan Brooke undertaken by me at the request of Mr. Paul Whipple. I haven't studied it yet, but I shall. I suggest that you do the same. Any hint it contains, however slight, will of course be considered. But as soon as possible I must see—"
He stopped short. He slapped the desk blotter. "Confound it. I'm a ninny. I haven't asked you: have you in mind a ready and cogent defense?"
Oster was flipping the pages of the report. He looked up. "Not … I wouldn't say … not ready, no."
"Have you any knowledge or suspicion, however vague, of the identity of the murderer?"
"No."
"Have you, Mr. Whipple?"
"No," Whipple said. "Absolutely none. But I have a question. Not just curiosity, my son wants to know, and I told him I'd ask you. A lawyer will defend a man even if he thinks he's guilty, but you won't. You must think, you must b
e fairly sure, that my son is innocent. He wants to know why."
"Does it matter?"
"It does to him."
"Pfui. Tell him because he's a Negro and Susan Brooke was a white girl. That should satisfy him. To satisfy you: partly the absence of a known motive for him, but mostly what he said and did in this room Tuesday afternoon. Either it was an inspired performance or he is innocent, and I don't think he is inspired. I think he's a callow stripling. Please tell him so." Wolfe went back to Oster. "I tried baiting a hook this morning. Have you seen today's Gazette?"
"No."
Wolfe picked it up from his desk and stretched his arm. "Here. It's open to the page. Third column, my name in the headline."
Oster took it and read it, taking his time, and reached to hand it to Whipple. "Damn it, you're worse than arbitrary," he told Wolfe. "You know damn well you should have cleared it with me. Bait? Where's the hook?"
Wolfe nodded. "I'm merely showing you that the assumption you reject is not exclusive. As for the bait and hook, I thought it worth trying. It's barely possible that someone, satisfied and apparently secure because the police have settled on Dunbar Whipple, will be disquieted by the news that I am taking a hand and will do something. Remote, certainly."
"It certainly is. How conceited can you get? Understand this, Wolfe: you're under my direction. I'm glad to have this report; that's fine. But anything you do must first have my approval. Understand?"
Wolfe shook his head. "I don't work that way, but let it pass for the moment. For what I intend to do first I need not only your approval but your assistance. Tomorrow evening at nine o'clock I would like to see, here, the entire staff of the office of the Rights of Citizens Committee. Including Mr. Henchy, the executive director."
Oster smiled, a broad smile. "Listen, Wolfe. You began by trying to get a rise out of me, and you got it. Once is enough. Go soak your head."
"Not now. I'm using it. If you don't approve and won't help, I'll get those people here myself. I must see them."
"If you try that, you're through." Oster stood up. "In fact, you're through now. You're out." He turned to Whipple. "Come on, Paul. He's impossible. Come on."