Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 32 Read online

  Her nose twitched. “You mean I agree to pay ten thousand dollars.”

  “Right. Provided Richard Echols does his part.”

  She looked at Imhof. “Should I?”

  Imhof spoke to me. “That’s what we were discussing earlier. We hadn’t decided. I was inclined to be against it. But now, by God, I’m for it. I’m for it so much that I’ll commit Victory Press right now to pay half of it. Five thousand. And five thousand from you, Amy?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Reuben.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the bastard that planted that thing here in my office. Do you want it in writing?”

  “No.” I stood up. “I’ll go and see if Mr. Wolfe approves the advice I gave you. You’ll be hearing from him. I need some sheets of glossy paper and a stamp pad. For sets of prints of you three so I can eliminate them. And some large envelopes.”

  That took some time, getting three sets of legible prints with an ordinary stamp pad, and it was nearly five o’clock when I got away, with Imhof doing me the honor of escorting me to the elevator. I decided to walk it. It would take only a few minutes more than a creeping taxi, and my legs needed stretching. After mounting the stoop and letting myself in, I stepped to the end of the hall to stick my head in the kitchen and let Fritz know I was back, and then went to the office, put the envelopes on my desk, and got brushes and powder and other items from a drawer of a cabinet. I couldn’t qualify as a fingerprint expert in a courtroom, but for private purposes I will do.

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock he started for his desk, saw the clutter on mine, stopped, and demanded, “What have you got there?”

  I swiveled. “Very interesting. I’ve done the first nine pages of this manuscript, ‘Opportunity Knocks,’ by Alice Porter, and there’s no sign of a print, let alone an identifiable one, except Amy Wynn’s and Miss Frey’s and Imhof’s. That justifies the assumption that it was either carefully wiped or was only handled with gloves on. In that case—”

  “Where did you get it?” He was at my elbow, surveying the clutter.

  I told him, including the dialogue. When I got to where Imhof had said there were thirty-two people in the executive and editorial departments of Victory Press, he went to his desk and sat. At the end I said, “If you want to make any changes in the advice I gave her, I have her home phone number. As I told her, it was off the cuff and subject to your approval.”

  He grunted. “Satisfactory. You realize, of course, that this may be merely an added complication, not an advance.”

  “Sure. Some person unknown somehow got a key to that office and sneaked in after hours and put it in Amy Wynn’s folder. As before, possibly, in Ellen Sturdevant’s bureau drawer and Marjorie Lippin’s trunk. The only difference is that this is hot—as Imhof said.”

  “It’s recent,” he conceded. “Give me the nine pages you have finished with.”

  I took them to him and returned to my desk and started on page ten. Fritz, responding to a summons, brought beer, and Wolfe opened the bottle and poured. Page ten had nothing. Page eleven had only two useless smudges, one on the front and one on the back, near a corner. Page twelve had a fair right thumb and a poor right index finger of Reuben Imhof. I was on page thirteen when Wolfe’s voice came. “Give me the rest of it.”

  “I’ve only done three more pages. I want—”

  “I want all of it. I’ll take care.”

  I took it to him, taking care, and then went to the kitchen to see how Fritz was getting on with the braised duckling stuffed with crabmeat, because I didn’t want to sit and watch Wolfe smearing up the last fifteen pages. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe in fingerprints; it’s just that they are only routine and therefore a genius can’t be expected to bother about them. However, by going to the kitchen I merely transferred from one genius to another. When I offered to spread the paste on the cheesecloth which was to be wrapped around the ducklings, Fritz gave me exactly the kind of look Wolfe has given me on various and numerous occasions. I was perched on a stool, making pointed comments to Fritz about the superiority of teamwork, when there was a bellow from the office.

  “Archie!”

  I went. Wolfe was leaning back with his palms on the chair arms. “Yes, sir?”

  “This is a complication. It was written by Alice Porter.”

  “Sure. It says so at the top.”

  “Don’t be flippant. You fully expected, and so did I, to find that it had been written by the same person as the other three. It wasn’t. Pfui!”

  “Well, well, as Kenneth Rennert would say. Of course you’re sure?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And also sure that Alice Porter did write it?”

  “Yes.”

  I went to my chair and sat. “Then she decided to do one on her own, that’s all. Obviously. That doesn’t help any, but it doesn’t hinder either. Does it?”

  “It may. It makes it extremely likely that the one we’re after, the one we must find and expose, had no hand in this, and therefore we should waste no time or effort on it. Miss Wynn is not our client, and neither is Mr. Imhof. They are merely members of that committee. Of immediate concern is the fact that they were under a misapprehension when they agreed to contribute ten thousand dollars to the bait for Simon Jacobs. They assumed that this is another operation by the same person, and it isn’t. We must tell them so, and when we do they will probably decline to make the contribution.”

  “Yeah.” I scratched my nose. I scratched my cheek. “Yeah. So they will. You work too hard. You read too much. I don’t suppose you could forget you read the damn thing? Just forget it for twenty-four hours, say?”

  “No, and neither could you. You’ll have to phone them at once. Is it out of the question to offer Simon Jacobs as little as ten thousand?”

  I shook my head. “No, not out of the question. I’d start at ten anyhow, but I’d like it better if I knew I could boost it. He might even take five. I could start at five.”

  “Very well. Call Miss Wynn. I’ll speak with her.”

  I swiveled, but as I reached for the phone it rang. It was Philip Harvey. He asked for Wolfe, and Wolfe took his receiver, I stayed on.

  “Yes, Mr. Harvey? This is Nero Wolfe.”

  “I have good news, Mr. Wolfe. Thanks to Cora Ballard. She has it all fixed with Richard Echols. She saw Paul Norris, his agent, and she saw him, and I’ve just had a talk with Echols, and it’s all set. Dexter’s lawyer will draw the necessary papers in the morning, one for Echols to sign and one for Title House, and they’ll be ready by noon. I’ve spoken with Mortimer Oshin, and he wants to know whether you want the ten thousand in cash or a certified check.”

  “Cash would be better, I think.”

  “All right, I’ll tell him. What about Amy Wynn? Is she coming across?”

  “It’s uncertain. There has been a development. The manuscript of the story on which Alice Porter bases her claim was found this afternoon in a file in the office of the Victory Press.”

  “No! I’ll be damned! In Imhof’s office? Wonderful! Marvelous! Then of course she will. She’ll have to.”

  “She may. There are complexities, now unresolved, which I’ll report on later. In any case, it will probably be best to give Jacobs only half of the agreed amount now, and the other half later, contingent on his satisfactory cooperation. If Miss Wynn won’t supply it, someone will. Your committee will see to that.”

  “I suppose so. I can’t promise it.”

  “I don’t ask you to. I will engage to put it up to Mr. Knapp, Mr. Dexter, and Mr. Imhof. They couldn’t possibly wriggle out of it.”

  “Ha! You don’t know how publishers can wriggle. They’re experts. They’re champions.”

  “That will make it all the more satisfying to pin them. Satisfying both to you and to me—if it proves to be necessary. Ten thousand may be enough. I will be responsible for any commitments I make.”

  Wolfe hung up and turned to me. “Get Miss Wynn.”
/>
  8

  At half past five the next day, Tuesday, I entered the vestibule of the tenement at 632 West 21st Street and pressed the button by Simon Jacobs’ name. In my breast pocket were two documents, one signed by Richard Echols and the other signed by Thomas Dexter for Title House. Both were notarized. In my side pocket was a neat little package containing five thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and Cs. Another five thousand was distributed among other pockets, not in packages.

  I could have been there two hours earlier but for the fact that no hurricane had hit town. Nothing less than a hurricane would make Wolfe cancel his afternoon session in the plant rooms, from four to six, and it had been decided that instead of trying to hook Jacobs myself I was to bring him to 35th Street and watch Wolfe do it, chiefly because it would be desirable to have a witness. I was not to be visible; I would be stationed in the alcove at the end of the hall with my notebook, at the hole in the wall, concealed by a trick picture on the office side, through which I could both see and hear. I had the documents and money with me because it might take more than words to get Jacobs to come.

  There had been no snags. Shortly after twelve Cora Ballard, the executive secretary of NAAD, had come in person with the documents. She had brought them instead of sending them because she wanted to brief us on Simon Jacobs, whom she had known for nearly thirty years, ever since he had joined NAAD in 1931. He had always been a little odd, but she had always regarded him as honest and honorable, so much so that when he had accused Richard Echols of plagiarism she had had a faint suspicion that there might be something to it, but had abandoned it when she tried to get in touch with him and he wouldn’t talk. He was proud and touchy and he loved his wife and kids, and her advice was not to threaten him or try to get tough with him but just show him the money and the documents and put it on a basis of common sense. All of which might have been very helpful if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had already been dead about fourteen hours.

  No, no snags. It couldn’t be called a snag that Amy Wynn and Reuben Imhof had withdrawn their offer to sweeten the pot, since that had been expected. While Wolfe and I were at lunch a messenger had arrived with the ten thousand dollars’ worth of lettuce from Mortimer Oshin.

  So at five-thirty I pressed the button in the vestibule, the click came, and I opened the door and entered. I was ready for the garlic and took a deep breath as I headed for the stairs. My opening line was on my tongue. Three flights up I turned to the front, and there, at the open door where Mrs. Jacobs and the boy had awaited me on my previous visit, I was again awaited, but not by them. In the dim light I took two steps before I recognized him, then stopped. We spoke simultaneously, and spoke the same words.

  “Not you,” we said.

  I knew. As Jane Ogilvy would have put it, a fact felt though not perceived. The presence there of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Homicide West might have meant any one of a dozen things—one of the kids had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, or Jacobs had killed his wife, or one of them was merely being questioned about some other death by violence—but I knew. It had to be. That was why I said, “Not you.”

  “I’ve been here five minutes,” Purley said. “Just five minutes, and here you come. Jumping Jesus!”

  “I’ve only been here five seconds,” I said, “and here you are. I came to see a man named Simon Jacobs on business. Please tell him I’m here.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “A private kind.”

  His jaw worked. “Look, Goodwin.” He has been known to call me Archie, but in different circumstances. “I come here on a job. If I’m somewhere on a job and someone asks me who is the last person on God’s earth I would want to show up, I would name you. What I’d like, I’d like to tell you to go somewhere and scratch your ass with your elbow. A man’s body is found. He was murdered. We get him identified. I go to where he lived to ask some questions, and I no sooner get started than the bell rings and I go to the door, and it’s you, and you say you came to see him on business. When you come to see a corpse on business, I know what to expect. I’m asking you, what kind of business?”

  “I told you. Private and personal.”

  “When did you learn Jacobs had been killed? And how? He was identified only an hour ago.”

  “Just now. From you.” I had joined him at the door. “Let’s take a short cut, Sergeant. The long way would be for you to bark at me a while, getting upset because I won’t unload, and then you would take me to Homicide West, only a short walk, which you have no right to do, so I would get upset, and then Inspector Cramer would go to see Mr. Wolfe, and so on. The short way would be for me to phone Mr. Wolfe and get his permission to tell you why I came to see Jacobs, which he would probably give because there’s no reason why he shouldn’t and it may be connected with his death. You know damn well that without his permission I tell you nothing.”

  “You admit it’s connected.”

  “Nuts. You’re not the DA and we’re not in court. Of course Mr. Wolfe will want some details—when and how he was killed, and by whom, if you know.”

  Purley opened his mouth and shut it again. When I have facts he needs, he would like to force them out by jumping up and down on my belly, but for that I would have to be lying on my back.

  “With me listening,” he said.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Okay. The body was found at two o’clock this afternoon behind a bush in Van Cortlandt Park. It had been dragged across the grass from the edge of the road, so it was probably taken there in a car. There was one stab wound in the chest with a broad blade. No weapon found. The ME says between nine o’clock and midnight. Probably nothing taken. Eighteen dollars in his wallet. You can call Wolfe on the phone in here.”

  “Any leads?”

  “No.”

  “When or where he went last night, or who with?”

  “No. I was asking his wife when you came. She says she doesn’t know. The phone’s in his room, where he worked. Where he wrote. He wrote stories.”

  “I know he did. What time did he go out?”

  “Around eight o’clock. If he had an appointment he made it on the phone and she didn’t know anything about it. So she says. I just got started with her. I brought her here from the morgue after she identified the body. She says he told her he was going to see somebody and might be late, and that was all. If Wolfe wants to know what he had in his stomach he’ll have to wait until—”

  “Don’t be flippant. Where’s the phone?”

  We went inside and he shut the door and led the way down the narrow hall to a door on the left. It was a small room with one window, a table with a typewriter, shelves with books and magazines, and a row of drawers. There were two chairs, and on one of them was Mrs. Jacobs. I said she wasn’t a crone when I saw her five days before, but she was now. I wouldn’t have known her. As we entered her eyes came to us. She focused on me, staring, and blurted, “It was you!”

  “What?” Purley asked her. “Do you know this man?”

  “I’ve seen him.” She was on her feet. “He was here last week. His name’s Goodwin. My husband saw him just for a minute, and after he left Simon told me if he ever came again to shut the door on him.” She was trembling all over. “I knew from the way—”

  “Take it easy, Mrs. Jacobs.” Purley had her arm. “I know this Goodwin. I’ll handle him, don’t worry. You can tell me about it later.” He was easing her out. “You go and lie down a while. Drink something. Drink some hot tea.…”

  He got her to the hall. In a moment he returned, shut the door, and turned. “So you’ve been here before.”

  “Sure. With Mr. Wolfe’s permission I’ll confess everything.”

  “There’s the phone.”

  I sat at the table and dialed, and after five rings had Fritz, who always answers when Wolfe is up with the orchids. I told him to buzz the plant rooms, and after a wait Wolfe’s voice came. “Yes?”

  “I have to report another complication. I’
m in Simon Jacobs’ apartment, the room he wrote stories in. Sergeant Stebbins is with me. He is investigating the murder of Simon Jacobs, whose body was found at two o’clock this afternoon behind a bush in Van Cortlandt Park. Stabbed. Between nine and twelve last night. Body taken there in a car. No leads. No anything.”

  “Confound it!”

  “Yes, sir. Stebbins was here when I arrived, and naturally he is curious. Are there any details I should save?”

  Silence. Ten seconds, then: “No. There’s nothing worth saving.”

  “Right. Tell Fritz to save some of that shashlik for me. I’ll be home when I get there.” I hung up and told Purley, “He says there’s nothing worth saving. Shall I just tell it or would you rather grill me?”

  “Try telling it,” he said, and got the chair the widow had vacated, sat, and got out his notebook.

  9

  Thomas Dexter of Title House squared his shoulders and set his long, bony jaw. “I don’t care how you look at it, Mr. Harvey,” he said. “I know how I look at it. I’m not condemning Mr. Wolfe or the members of this committee, or even myself, but I have a feeling of guilt, I regard myself as guilty of incitation to murder. Unwittingly, yes, but what are wits for? I should have considered the possible consequences of signing that agreement not to prosecute Simon Jacobs.”

  It was noon the next day, Wednesday. If you are fed up with committee meetings, so was Wolfe and so was I, but that’s one disadvantage of having a committee for a client. And it was no longer merely a Joint Committee on Plagiarism. Within two hours after I had supplied the details to Stebbins they had all been visited by city employees. Knapp had been interrupted in the middle of a bridge game. Oshin had been found at dinner at Sardi’s. Imhof and Amy Wynn had been called from a conference with three other executives of Victory Press. Dexter and Harvey and Cora Ballard had received the callers at home. Harvey had elicited these details from them so Wolfe would realize the gravity of the situation.