Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 32 Page 6

  I had tossed my notebook over my shoulder onto my desk. It looked as if we weren’t even going to send a bill for expenses, and in that case I was out $3.80 for the fried chicken I had bought at the Green Fence. “Do you want it all?” I asked.

  “Not I. They. Miss Ballard is taking notes. If it isn’t too extensive.”

  “It isn’t. Two minutes with Simon Jacobs, seven with Kenneth Rennert, one with Jane Ogilvy, and eight with Alice Porter.”

  “Then verbatim.”

  I obliged. Since I had developed that faculty to a point where I could give Wolfe a full and accurate account of a two-hour conversation with three or four people, this little chore was nothing. As I went along I noticed that Mortimer Oshin was lighting no cigarettes, and I was taking it as a compliment until I realized that, being a dramatist, he was sizing up the dialogue. When I finished he reacted first.

  “That Jane Ogilvy speech,” he said. “Of course you’ve dressed it up. Damn good.”

  “No dressing,” I told him. “When I report I merely report.”

  “And you think Kenneth Rennert is not the—the instigator?” Gerald Knapp asked.

  “Right. For the reasons given.”

  “It seems to me,” Philip Harvey said, “that this doesn’t alter the situation any. As Mr. Wolfe described it.” His head moved to take them in. “So now what?”

  They held a committee meeting. What made it a meeting was that when more than three of them talked at once Harvey yelled that he couldn’t hear anybody. After a quarter of an hour the consensus seemed to be that they were in a pickle, and I was thinking that if I were chairman I would ask for a motion to that effect.

  Thomas Dexter raised his voice. “I would like to suggest,” he suggested, “that we take twenty-four hours to consider the matter as it now stands, and meet again tomorrow. It is possible that Mr. Wolfe—”

  “Wait a minute,” Oshin cut in. He had a cigarette going. “I’ve got an idea.” He stretched his neck to see around Gerald Knapp, to look at me. “A question for you, Mr. Goodwin. Which one of those four people needs money most?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘money,’ ” I told him. “A ten-spot or a grand or half a million?”

  “Something in between. Here’s my idea, and I like it. We make one of them an offer. Nero Wolfe makes it for us. Say ten thousand dollars. What the hell, I’d be willing to kick in that much myself. My lawyer thinks I may have to pay Rennert between fifty and a hundred thousand, and if this works Rennert will be done. And you’re in the same position, Miss Wynn, with Alice Porter. She’s going to nick you—”

  “Not the same,” Reuben Imhof objected. “There’s no evidence. Alice Porter has claimed that Miss Wynn plagiarized a story she wrote, but the story hasn’t been produced.”

  “It will be. Miss Wynn, wouldn’t you be willing to pay ten thousand dollars to have Alice Porter stopped? Stopped for good?”

  Amy Wynn looked at Imhof. He patted her on the shoulder. “Stopped how?” he asked Oshin. “What’s your idea?”

  “Very simple. Brilliant but simple. We offer him, or her, twenty thousand dollars to spill it. Who wrote the story he based his claim on, how the manuscript was planted—everything. With evidence to back it up; that should be easy. We also offer to guarantee that he won’t be prosecuted and he won’t be asked to return his share of the loot. You’ve seen all four of them, Mr. Goodwin. Which one would you pick?”

  “Simon Jacobs,” I said.

  “Why him?”

  “Very simple. Not even brilliant. Rennert is going to collect a lot more than twenty grand from you, or thinks he is. The same goes for Alice Porter; she has just made her claim on Amy Wynn. As for Jane Ogilvy, God only knows. She testified in court that she wrote that story, ‘On Earth but Not in Heaven,’ because ‘she was suffocating under the blanket of her father’s bounty and her mother’s devotion and sought another market for her soul, end of quotation. I suppose meaning that she wanted to get hold of some cash, and presumably this operator knew that and obliged her. When she got it she kicked loose and went to Europe, but in a month she came back to the blanket. She might grab at the twenty grand, or she might spurn it. Just talking about her I use words like ‘spurn.’ ”

  “Then that leaves Jacobs.”

  “Right. He probably used up his share of the take long ago. He’s having a hard time placing his stories. He’s living in a dump with his wife and children. I don’t know if he’s in debt, but he probably is, and he’s not the kind of guy who would enjoy being in debt. He might open the bag for twenty grand if he had a tight guarantee that he wouldn’t be prosecuted and he wouldn’t be expected to repay what he got from Richard Echols more than two years ago. He hasn’t got it any more. Of course the guarantee would have to come from Echols.”

  Oshin went to Thomas Dexter. “How about it, Mr. Dexter? You know Echols; you published his book. Of course I’ve met him, but I don’t know him. Will he go along?”

  The publisher passed his hand over his gray hair. “That’s hard to say. I will say this, if Mr. Echols agrees to such an arrangement we at Title House will have no objection. We will concur, provided that Jacobs’ affidavit—I presume it would be in the form of an affidavit—makes it clear that his charge of plagiarism was false. Provided it removes from Title House the stigma of having published a book that was—uh—a fraud. We would engage to make no demand for the return of our contribution to the payment made to Jacobs, or any part of it.”

  “That’s fine. But what about Echols?”

  “I couldn’t say. He is a reasonable and sensible man in many respects. I think it quite possible that he would—uh—acquiesce, if properly approached.”

  “What do you think, Cora?” Philip Harvey asked. “You know him better than anyone here.”

  Cora Ballard pursed her lips. “Sure,” she said, “I know Dick. I helped him with his first book contract twenty years ago, before he had an agent. The publisher wanted thirty per cent of the movie rights and twenty per cent of the first serial, and that was ridiculous. Dick’s a little peculiar in some ways, but he likes to do the right thing and he’s very generous. I’ll ask him about this if you want me to, and see what he says. Actually, what he’ll do, he’ll go straight to Paul Norris, his agent, and ask him what he thinks. Of course I know Paul, and it might be better to take it up with him first. I could see him this afternoon.”

  “That’s the kind of an executive secretary to have,” Gerald Knapp said. “No wonder you authors always get the best of it.”

  Chairman Harvey snorted. “Comic relief. Always welcome. Speaking for myself, if I were Dick Echols I wouldn’t hesitate. Unfortunately I’m not in his class and never will be. I’ve had six books published, and my last one, Why the Gods Laugh, is in its ninth thousand, which is a record for me.” He looked around. “What about Mr. Oshin’s idea? Do we like it?”

  “I do,” Oshin said. “Ten thousand dollars’ worth, and I think Miss Wynn should match it.”

  Amy Wynn looked at Reuben Imhof. “We’ll discuss it,” he told her, and turned to the chairman. “It certainly won’t do any harm for Miss Ballard to sound out Mr. Echols and his agent. If they agree to cooperate, then we can decide whether to go ahead.”

  “In my opinion,” Gerald Knapp said, “we should decide that now. I fully approve of Mr. Oshin’s suggestion and move that we adopt it. If Mr. Echols consents it shouldn’t be necessary to have another meeting. Mr. Wolfe could proceed at once to have the necessary papers drawn and make the offer to Simon Jacobs.”

  “Second the motion,” Oshin said.

  “Further discussion?” Harvey asked. “If not, all in favor raise your hands. It seems to be unanimous. Miss Wynn, when can you let me know whether you will match Mr. Oshin’s ten thousand? Today?”

  “Oh, yes,” she assured him. “Certainly by five o’clock.”

  “Good. If I’m not at home call Miss Ballard at the NAAD. Now, Mr. Wolfe, I hope this has changed your mind. I hope you’ll agree
that we’re making some progress, and of course you and Mr. Goodwin made it possible. Have you any comment?”

  “Yes,” Wolfe said. “I am a detective, not a conveyor of bait. However, since Mr. Goodwin named Mr. Jacobs as the prospective receiver, he and I have a responsibility. If the preparations are satisfactory, we will act.”

  7

  At twenty minutes past four that afternoon Amy Wynn told me, not on the phone, in person, that she would match Oshin’s ten grand.

  The development started shortly after three o’clock with a phone call from Reuben Imhof. Wolfe and I were in the office, having lunched together in the dining room in a slightly improved atmosphere. He was at his desk dictating letters, and I was at mine taking them, when the phone rang and I answered it.

  “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

  “This is Reuben Imhof. I understand that Wolfe never leaves his house on business.”

  “Correct. He doesn’t.”

  “All right, you, then. Come up here quick. My office, Victory Press.”

  “I’m pretty busy. Say in an hour?”

  “No. Now. Nothing I can tell you on the phone. Now!”

  “Okay. Coming. Keep your shirt on.” I hung up and told Wolfe, “Imhof. Something is biting him, he wouldn’t say what, and he wants me quick. Our responsibility?”

  Wolfe grunted. “Confound these interruptions.” We were in the middle of a letter to Lewis Hewitt, describing the results of a cross of C. gaskelliana alba with C. mossiae wageneri. “Very well. Go.”

  I did so. At that time of day taxis are apt to crawl slightly faster on Eighth Avenue than on Tenth, so I headed east. We finally made it to 52nd and Sixth Avenue, and when we turned right and I saw that the whole block was choked I paid the hackie and quit him. The Victory Press address, on Madison in the Fifties, was one of the new concrete and glass boxes, with a green marble lobby and four banks of elevators. As I entered the suite on the thirty-second floor I half expected to find the place in an uproar, from the way Imhof had sounded on the phone, but all was serene. The two people on chairs in the reception room, one of them with a bulging briefcase on his lap, merely looked patient, and the bright-eyed receptionist at the desk merely lifted her brows as I approached. However, when I told her my name she said Mr. Imhof was expecting me and used the phone, and in a moment an attractive young woman entered through an arch and asked me to follow her, please; and being, as I have said, a trained observer, naturally I noticed that she had restless hips.

  Reuben Imhof’s room was an ideal setting for discussing the terms of a book contract with a member of the NAAD. Surely an author wouldn’t be fussy about little things with a man who had a desk like that, and such fine comfortable chairs, and four windows on two sides, and genuine oil paintings on the walls, and real old Persian rugs. Having taken that in with a quick glance around, I crossed to the desk. Imhof, behind it, kept his seat and his hands. From his look he was in no mood to shake hands with William Shakespeare or Mark Twain if one of them had suddenly entered. He didn’t greet me at all. Instead, he spoke to the young woman who had ushered me in. “Don’t go, Judith. Sit down. Look at this, Goodwin.”

  I didn’t hop. It may be true that, as a friend once told me, I have no more social grace than a conceited tiger, but Amy Wynn, being a member of the committee, was one-sixth of our client and not to be ignored. So before looking at the object Imhof had on his desk I turned to the chair where Amy Wynn was sitting and told her good afternoon. She nodded, just barely. Then I looked at the object.

  It was some sheets of paper, 8½; by 11. The one on top was headed “Opportunity Knocks,” and below that, “by Alice Porter.” In the upper right-hand corner was a date, June 3, 1957. The text that followed was double-spaced. I lifted the edges to the last sheet: twenty-seven pages. There were no creases from folding.

  “By God,” Imhof said.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I doubt if He had a hand in it. Probably not by Alice Porter, either. Where was it?”

  “In a cabinet in the filing room down the hall. In a folder marked ‘Amy Wynn.’ ”

  “Who found it?”

  “Miss Frey, my secretary.” He aimed a thumb at the attractive young woman. “Miss Judith Frey.”

  “When?”

  “About ten minutes before I phoned you. Miss Wynn was here with me. We were discussing the contents of a letter I wrote her last week, and I sent for Miss Frey and asked her to bring the carbon. She brought the whole folder, because, she said, of something that was in it. The ‘something’ was that. She says it wasn’t in the folder last Wednesday, five days ago, the last time she had occasion to go to it. I want to ask you something. Do you remember that this morning Mortimer Oshin said Miss Wynn was in the same position with Alice Porter as he was with Kenneth Rennert, and I said it wasn’t the same because the story hadn’t been produced, and he said, ‘It will be’? Not ‘It may be,’ ‘It will be.’ Remember that?”

  “Nuts.” I moved a chair around and sat. “People say things. How much have you handled it?”

  “Not much. I glanced through it. So did Miss Wynn.”

  “It probably doesn’t matter. Whoever put it there has probably heard of fingerprints. Who has access to that room?”

  “Everybody here.”

  “How many?”

  “In this department, executive and editorial, thirty-two. Altogether, more than a hundred, but people in other departments never go to that room.”

  “But they could?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there always somebody in that room? Someone stationed there?”

  “No one is stationed there, but people are always going and coming.”

  “Then an outsider could just walk in?”

  “I suppose he could.” Imhof leaned forward. “Look, Goodwin. I got you here immediately. This is hot. Nero Wolfe is supposed to be the best there is, or you and he together are. We want you to get this sonofabitch, and get him quick. Miss Wynn wants you to, and so do I.”

  “Him or her.”

  “Okay. But quick. By God!” He hit the desk with his fist. “Planting it here in this office! What are you going to do? What do you want me to do?”

  I crossed my legs. “It’s a little complicated. Mr. Wolfe already has a client, the Joint Committee on Plagiarism, of which you and Miss Wynn are members. There could be a conflict of interest. For instance, considering this case alone, independently, possibly the best course would be to forget that this thing was found. Burn it or let me stash it. But the committee wouldn’t like that because it may be helpful in stopping this plagiarism racket for good, which is what they want. How many people know this thing has been found?”

  “Three. Miss Wynn, Miss Frey, and I. And you. Four.”

  “How long has Miss Frey been with you?”

  “About a year.”

  “Then you don’t know her very well.”

  “I know her well enough. She was recommended by my former secretary when she left to get married.”

  I looked at Judith Frey and back at Imhof. “There are two obvious questions about her. One, did she put that thing in the folder herself? Two, granting that she didn’t, could she be trusted to forget that she found it if you asked her to? If not, it would be very risky—”

  “I didn’t, Mr. Goodwin.” Miss Frey had a clear, strong voice. “I can see why you ask that, but I didn’t. And if my employer asked me to do anything I couldn’t be trusted to do, I would quit.”

  “Good for you.” I returned to Imhof. “But actually I’m just talking. Even if you decide you can trust Miss Frey to keep her mouth shut and burn that thing, what about me? I have seen it. I will of course report to Mr. Wolfe, and he will act in the interest of his client, the committee, and you may find—”

  “We’re not going to burn it,” Amy Wynn blurted. Her nose was twitching. Her eyes were red. Her hands, in her lap, were fists. She went on, “I never saw that thing before, and nobody can prove I did! I hate this! I
hate it!”

  I moved to her. “Naturally you do, Miss Wynn. And after all, you’re the one that will get soaked if Alice Porter gets away with it. Would you like to know what I would advise you to do?”

  “I certainly would.”

  “This is just off the cuff. After I report to Mr. Wolfe he may change it. First, let me take that manuscript. I’ll try it for fingerprints, but that’s probably hopeless. Mr. Wolfe will compare it with the others. Second, say nothing about it to anyone. You have no lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Third, don’t communicate with Alice Porter. If you get a letter from her, don’t answer it. If she calls you on the phone, hang up. Fourth, let Mr. Wolfe handle this as a part of what he has already been hired for. He can’t question everyone who works here himself, or anyhow he won’t, but he has a couple of good men who will do it for him—provided Mr. Imhof will cooperate.”

  “Cooperate hell,” Imhof said. “I’m in this as much as she is. Are you through?”

  “No.” I stayed with Amy Wynn. “Fifth and last, I think there’s at least an even chance that Mortimer Oshin’s idea will work. From the look on Simon Jacobs’ face when I asked him if he would do an article on how it felt to have his story stolen, I think he’s hating himself. I think he did it because he was hard up and had a family and had to have cash, and he wishes he hadn’t and would be glad to get it off his chest, and if he can spit it out without fear of going to jail, and get paid besides, I think he will. That’s only what I think, but I saw his face. If I’m right this whole thing will be cracked wide open. And the bait ought to be as juicy as possible, and twenty thousand is twice as juicy as ten. So fifth, I strongly advise you to tell me now that we can make it twenty.”