by Ellery Queen
I did get back for lunch, just barely. Including the time he took to study the document I had brought, Ross kept me a solid two hours and a half. When I left he knew nearly everything I did, but not quite; I omitted a few items that were immaterial as far as he was concerned—for instance, that Wolfe had sent Saul Panzer somewhere to do something. Since I couldn’t tell him where, to do what, there was no point in mentioning it.
I would have preferred to buy my lunch somewhere, say at Rusterman’s, rather than sit through a meal with Wolfe, but he would be the one to gripe, not me, if he didn’t know where I was. Entering his house, and hearing him in the dining room speaking to Fritz, I went first to the office, and there on my desk under a paperweight were four sawbucks. Leaving them there, I went to the dining room and said good morning, though it wasn’t.
Wolfe nodded and went on dishing shrimps from a steaming casserole. “Good afternoon. That forty dollars on your desk can be returned to the safe. Saul had no expenses and I gave him sixty dollars for his six hours.”
“His daily minimum is eighty.”
“He wouldn’t take eighty. He didn’t want to take anything, since this is our personal affair, but I insisted. This shrimp Bordelaise is without onions but has some garlic. I think an improvement, but Fritz and I invite your opinion.”
“I’ll be glad to give it. It smells good.” I sat. That was by no means the first time the question had arisen whether he was more pigheaded than I was strong-minded. I was supposed to explode. I was supposed to demand to know where and how Saul had spent the six hours, and he would then be good enough to explain that he had got an idea last night in my absence, and, not knowing where I was, he had had to call Saul. So I wouldn’t explode. I would eat shrimp Bordelaise without onions but with garlic and like it.
Obviously, whatever Saul’s errand had been, it had been a washout, since he had returned, reported, and been paid off. So it was Wolfe’s move, since he had refused to see the three candidates when they came and rang the bell, and I would not explode. Nor would I report on last night or this morning unless and until he asked for it.
Back in the office after lunch, he got settled in his favorite chair with My Life in Court, and I brought a file of cards from the cabinet and got busy with the germination records. At one minute to four he put his book down and went to keep his date with the orchids. It would have been a pleasure to take the Marley .32 from the drawer and plug him in the back.
I was at my desk, looking through the evening edition of the Gazette that had just been delivered, when I heard a noise I couldn’t believe. The elevator. I looked at my watch: half past five. That was unprecedented. He never did that. Once in the plant rooms he stuck there for the two hours, no matter what. If he had a notion that couldn’t wait he buzzed me on the house phone, or Fritz if I wasn’t there. I dropped the paper and got up and stepped to the hall. The elevator jolted to a stop at the bottom, the door opened, and he emerged.
“The corn,” he said. “Has it come?”
For Pete’s sake. Being finicky about grub is all right up to a point, but there’s a limit. “No,” I said. “Unless Saul brought it.”
He grunted. “A possibility occurred to me. When it comes—if it comes—no. I’ll see for myself. The possibility is remote, but it would be—”
“Here it is,” I said. “Good timing.” A man with a carton had appeared on the stoop. As I started to the front the doorbell rang, and as I opened the door Wolfe was there beside me. The man, a skinny little guy in pants too big for him and a bright-green shirt, spoke. “Nero Wolfe?”
“I’m Nero Wolfe.” He was on the sill. “You have my corn?”
“Right here.” He put the carton down and let go of the cord.
“May I have your name, sir?”
“My name’s Palmer. Delbert Palmer. Why?”
“I like to know the names of men who render me a service. Did you pick the corn?”
“Hell, no. McLeod picked it.”
“Did you pack it in the carton?”
“No, he did. Look here, I know you’re a detective. You just ask questions from habit, huh?”
“No, Mr. Palmer. I merely want to be sure about the corn. I’m obliged to you. Good day, sir.” He bent over to slip his fingers under the cord, lifted the carton, and headed for the office. Palmer told me distinctly, “It takes all kinds,” turned, and started down the steps, and I shut the door.
In the office Wolfe was standing eying the carton, which he had put on the seat of the red-leather chair. As I crossed over he said without looking up, “Get Mr. Cramer.”
It’s nice to have a man around who obeys orders no matter how batty they are and saves the questions for later. That time the questions got answered before they were asked. I went to my desk, dialed Homicide South, and got Cramer, and Wolfe, who had gone to his chair, took his phone.
“Mr. Cramer? I must ask a favor. I have here in my office a carton which has just been delivered to me. It is supposed to contain corn, and perhaps it does, but it is conceivable that it contains dynamite and a contraption that will detonate it when the cord is cut and the flaps raised. My suspicion may be groundless, but I have it.
“I know this is not your department, but you will know how to proceed. Will you please notify the proper person without delay?. . .That can wait until we know what’s in the carton. . .Certainly. Even if it contains only corn I’ll give you all relevant information. . .No, there is no ticking sound. If it does contain explosive there is almost certainly no danger until the carton is opened. . .Yes, I’ll make sure.”
He hung up, swiveled, and glared at the carton. “Confound it,” he growled, “again. We’ll get some somewhere before the season ends.”
The first city employee to arrive, four or five minutes after Wolfe hung up, was one in uniform. Wolfe was telling me what Saul’s errand had been when the doorbell rang, and since I resented the interruption I trotted to the front, opened the door, saw a prowl car at the curb, and demanded rudely, “Well?”
“Where’s that carton?” he demanded back.
“Where it will stay until someone comes who knows something.” I was shutting the door but his foot was there.
“You’re Archie Goodwin,” he said. “I know about you. I’m coming in. Did you yell for help or didn’t you?”
He had a point. An officer of the law doesn’t have to bring a search warrant to enter a house whose owner has asked the police to come and get a carton of maybe dynamite. I gave him room to enter, shut the door, took him to the office, pointed to the carton, and said, “If you touch it and it goes off we can sue you for damages.”
“You couldn’t pay me to touch it,” he said. “I’m here to see that nobody does.”
He glanced around, went over by the big globe, and stood, a good fifteen feet away from the carton. With him there, the rest of the explanation of Saul’s errand had to wait, but I had something to look at to pass the time—a carbon copy, one sheet, which Wolfe had taken from his desk drawer and handed me, of something Saul had typed on my machine during my absence Thursday evening.
The second city employee to arrive, at ten minutes to six, was Inspector Cramer. When the bell rang and I went to let him in, the look on his face was one I had seen before. He knew Wolfe had something fancy by the tail, and he would have given a month’s pay before taxes to know what. He tramped to the office, saw the carton, turned to the cop, got a salute but didn’t acknowledge it, and said, “You can go, Schwab.”
“Yes, sir. Stay out front?”
“No. You won’t be needed.”
Fully as rude as I had been, but he was a superior officer. Schwab saluted again and went. Cramer looked at the red-leather chair. He always sat there, but the carton was on it. I moved up one of the yellow ones, and he sat, took his hat off, dropped it on the floor, and asked Wolfe, “What is this, a gag?”
Wolfe shook his head. “It may be a bugaboo, but I’m not crying wolf. I can tell you nothing until we know what’s in
the carton.”
“The hell you can’t. When did it come?”
“One minute before I telephoned you.”
“Who brought it?”
“A stranger. A man I had never seen before.”
“Why do you think it’s dynamite?”
“I think it may be. I reserve further information until—”
I missed the rest because the doorbell rang and I went. It was the bomb squad, two of them. They were in uniform, but one look and you knew they weren’t flatties—if nothing else, their eyes. When I opened the door I saw another one down on the sidewalk, and their special bus, with its made-to-order enclosed body, was double-parked in front.
I asked, “Bomb squad?” and the shorter one said, “Right,” and I convoyed them to the office. Cramer, on his feet, returned their salute, pointed to the carton, and said, “It may be just corn. I mean the kind of corn you eat. Or it may not. Nero Wolfe thinks not. He also thinks it’s safe until the flaps are opened, but you’re the experts. As soon as you know, phone me here. How long will it take?”
“That depends, Inspector. It could be an hour, or ten hours—or it could be never.”
“I hope not never. Will you call me here as soon as you know?”
“Yes, sir.”
The other one, the taller one, had stooped to press his ear against the carton and kept it there. He raised his head, said, “No comment,” eased his fingers under the carton’s bottom, a hand at each side, and came up with it. I said, “The man who brought it carried it by the cord,” and got ignored. They went, the one with the carton in front, and I followed to the stoop, watched them put it in the bus, then I returned to the office. Cramer was in the red-leather chair, and Wolfe was speaking.
“But if you insist, very well. My reason for thinking it may contain an explosive is that it was brought by a stranger. My name printed on it was as usual, but naturally such a detail would not be overlooked. There are a number of people in the metropolitan area who have reason to wish me ill, and it would be imprudent—”
“My God, you can lie.”
Wolfe tapped the desk with a fingertip. “Mr. Cramer. If you insist on lies you’ll get them. Until I know what’s in that carton. Then we’ll see.” He picked up his book, opened to his place, and swiveled to get the light right.
Cramer was stuck. He looked at me, started to say something, and vetoed it. He couldn’t get up and go because he had told the Bomb Squad to call him there, but an Inspector couldn’t just sit. He took a cigar from a pocket, looked at it, put it back, arose, came to me, and said, “I’ve got some calls to make.” Meaning he wanted my chair, which was a good dodge since it got some action; I had to move.
He stayed at the phone nearly half an hour, making four or five calls, none of which sounded important, then got up and went over to the big globe and started studying geography. Ten minutes was enough for that and he switched to the bookshelves. Back at my desk, leaning back with my legs crossed, my hands clasped behind my head, I noted which books he took out and looked at.
Now that I knew who had killed Ken Faber, little things like that were interesting. The one he looked at longest was The Coming Fury by Bruce Catton. He was still at that when the phone rang. I turned to get it, but by the time I had it to my ear he was there. A man asked for Inspector Cramer and I handed it to him and permitted myself a grin as I saw Wolfe put his book down and reach for his phone. He wasn’t going to take hearsay, even from an Inspector.
It was a short conversation; Cramer’s end of it wasn’t more than twenty words. He hung up and went to the red-leather chair. “Okay,” he growled. “If you had opened that carton they wouldn’t have found all the pieces. You didn’t think it was dynamite, you knew it was. Talk.”
Wolfe, his lips tight, was breathing deep. “Not me,” he said. “It would have been Archie or Fritz, or both of them. And of course my house. The possibility occurred to me, and I came down, barely in time. Three minutes later. . .Pfui. That man is a blackguard.”
He shook his head, as if getting rid of a fly. “Well. Shortly after ten o’clock last evening I decided how to proceed, and I sent for Saul Panzer. When he came—”
“Who put that dynamite in that carton?”
“I’m telling you. When he came I had him type something on a sheet of paper and told him to drive to Duncan McLeod’s farm this morning and give it to Mr. McLeod. Archie. You have the copy.”
I took it from my pocket and went and handed it to Cramer. He kept it, but this is what it said:
MEMORANDUM FROM NERO WOLFE TO DUNCAN MCLEOD
I suggest that you should have in readiness acceptable answers to the following questions if and when they are asked:
1. When did Kenneth Faber tell you that your daughter was pregnant and he was responsible?
2. Where did you go when you drove away from your farm Tuesday afternoon around two o’clock—perhaps a little later—and returned around seven o’clock, late for milking?
3. Where did you get the piece of pipe? Was it on your premises?
4. Do you know that your daughter saw you leaving the alley Tuesday afternoon? Did you see her?
5. Is it true that the man with the bulldozer told you Monday night that he would have to come Wednesday instead of Thursday?
There are many other questions you may be asked; these are only samples. If competent investigators are moved to start inquiries of this nature, you will of course be in a difficult position, and it would be well to anticipate it.
Cramer looked up and aimed beady eyes at Wolfe. “You knew last night that McLeod killed Faber.”
“Not certain knowledge. A reasoned conclusion.”
“You knew he left his farm Tuesday afternoon. You knew his daughter saw him at the alley. You knew—”
“No. Those were conclusions.” Wolfe turned a palm up. “Mr. Cramer. You sat there yesterday morning and read a document sworn to by Mr. Goodwin and me. When you finished it you knew everything that I knew, and I have learned nothing since then. From the knowledge we shared I had concluded that McLeod had killed Faber. You haven’t. Shall I detail it?”
“Yes.”
“First, the corn. I presume McLeod told you, as he did me, that he had Faber pick the corn because he had to dynamite some stumps and rock.”
“Yes.”
“That seemed to me unlikely. He knows how extremely particular I am, and also the restaurant. We pay him well, more than well; it must be a substantial portion of his income. He knew that young man couldn’t possibly do that job. It must have been something more urgent than stumps and rocks that led him to risk losing such desirable customers. Second, the pipe. It was chiefly on account of the pipe that I wanted to see Mr. Heydt, Mr. Maslow, and Mr. Jay. Any man—”
“When did you see them?”
“They came here Wednesday evening, at Miss McLeod’s request. Any man, sufficiently provoked, might plan to kill, but very few men would choose a massive iron bludgeon for a weapon to carry through the streets. Seeing those three, I thought it highly improbable that any of them would. But a countryman might, a man who does rough work with rough and heavy tools.”
“You came to a conclusion on stuff like that?”
“No. Those details were merely corroborative. The conclusive item came from Miss McLeod. You read that document. I asked her—I’ll quote from memory. I said to her, ‘You know those men quite well. You know their temperaments. If one of them, enraged beyond endurance by Mr. Faber’s conduct, went there and killed him, which one? It wasn’t a sudden fit of passion, it was planned. From your knowledge of them, which one?’ How did she answer me?”
“She said, They didn’t.’”
“Yes. Didn’t you think that significant? Of course I had the advantage of seeing and hearing her.”
“Sure it was significant. It wasn’t the reaction you always get to the idea that some close friend has committed murder. It wasn’t shock. She just stated a fact. She knew they hadn’t.”
; Wolfe nodded. “Precisely. And I saw and heard her. And there was only one way she could know they hadn’t, with such certainty in her words and voice and manner: She knew who had. Did you form that conclusion?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you go on? If she hadn’t killed him herself but knew who had, and it wasn’t one of those three men—isn’t it obvious?”
“You slipped that in, if she hadn’t killed him herself. Why hadn’t she?”
A corner of Wolfe’s mouth went up. “There it is, your one major flaw: a distorted conception of the impossible. You will reject as inconceivable such a phenomenon as a man being at two different spots simultaneously, though any adroit trickster could easily contrive it; but you consider it credible that that young woman—even after you had studied her conversation with Mr. Goodwin and me—that she concealed that piece of pipe on her person and took it there with the intention of crushing a man’s skull with it. Preposterous. That is inconceivable.”
He waved it away. “Of course that’s academic, now that that wretch has betrayed himself by sending me dynamite instead of corn, and the last step to my conclusion was inevitable. Since she knew who had killed Faber but wouldn’t name him, and it wasn’t one of those three, it was her father; and since she was certain—I heard and saw her say, They didn’t’—she had seen him there. I doubt if he knew it, because—But that’s immaterial. So much for—”
He stopped because Cramer was up, coming to my desk. He picked up the phone, dialed, and in a moment said, “Irwin? Inspector Cramer. I want Sergeant Stebbins.” After another moment: “Purley? Get Carmel, the sheriffs office. Ask him to get Duncan McLeod and hold him, and no mistake. . .Yes, Susan McLeod’s father. Send two-men to Carmel and tell them to call in as soon as they arrive. Tell Carmel to watch it, McLeod is down for murder and he may be rough. . .No, that can wait. I’ll be there soon—half an hour, maybe less.”
