THE SECOND CONFESSION A Nero Wolfe Mystery
by Rex Stout
CHAPTER One
“I didn't mind it at all.” our visitor said gruffly but affably. “It's a pleasure.” He glanced around. “I like rooms that men work in. This is a good one.” I was still swallowing my surprise that he actually looked like a miner, at least my idea of one, with his big bones and rough weathered skin and hands that would have been right at home around a pick handle. Certainly swinging a pick was not what he got paid for as chairman of the board of the Continental Mines Corporation, which had its own building down on Nassau Street not far from Wall.
I was also surprised at the tone he was using. When, the day before, a masculine voice had given a name on the phone and asked when Nero Wolfe could call at his office, and I had explained why I had to say never, and it had ended by arranging an appointment at Wolfe's office for eleven the next morning. I had followed up with a routine check on a prospective client by calling Lon Cohen at the Gazette. Lon had told me that the only reason James U. Sperling didn't bite ears off was because he took whole heads and ate them bones and all. But there he was, slouching in the red leather chair near the end of Wolfe's desk like a big friendly roughneck, and I've just told you what he said when Wolfe started the conversation by explaining that he never left the office on business and expressing a regret that Sperling had had to come all the way to our place on West Thirty-fifth Street nearly to Eleventh Avenue. He said it was a pleasure!
“It will do,” Wolfe murmured in a gratified tone. He was behind his desk, leaning back in his custom-made chair, which was warranted safe for a quarter of a ton and which might some day really be put to the test if its owner didn't level off. He added, “If you'll tell me what your problem is perhaps I can make your trip a good investment.” Seated at my own desk, at a right angle to Wolfe's and not far away, I allowed myself a mild private grin. Since the condition of his bank balance did not require the use of sales pressure to snare a client, I knew why he was spreading the sugar. He was merely being sociable because Sperling had said he liked the office. Wolfe didn't like the office, which was on the first floor of the old brownstone house he owned. He didn't like it, he loved it, and it was a good thing he did, since he was spending his life in it—except when he was in the kitchen with Fritz, or in the diningroom across the hall at mealtime, or upstairs asleep, or in the plant rooms up on the roof, enjoying the orchids and pretending he was helping Theodore with the work.
My private grin was interrupted by Sperling firing a question at me: “Your name's Goodwin, isn't it? Archie Goodwin?” I admitted it. He went to Wolfe.
“It's a confidential matter.” Wolfe nodded. “Most matters discussed in this office are. That's commonplace in the detective business. Mr Goodwin and I are used to it.” “It's a family matter.” Wolfe frowned, and I joined him. With that opening it was a good twenty-to-one shot that we were going to be asked to tail a wife, and that was out of bounds for us. But James U. Sperling went on.
“I tell you that because you'd learn it anyhow.” He put a hand to the inside breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a bulky envelope. “These reports will tell you that much. They're from the Bascom Detective Agency. You know them?” “I know Mr Bascom.” Wolfe was still frowning. “I don't like ground that's been tramped over.” Sperling went right on by. “I had used them on business matters and found them competent, so I went to Bascom with this. I wanted information about a man named Rony, Louis Rony, and they've been at it a full month and they haven't got it, and I need it urgently. Yesterday I decided to call them off and try you. I've looked you up, and if you've earned your reputation “I should have come to you first.” He smiled like an angel, surprising me again, and convincing me that he would stand watching. “Apparently you have no equal.” Wolfe grunted, trying not to look pleased. “There was a man in Marseilles—but he's not available and he doesn't speak English, What information do you want about Mr Rony?” “I want proof that he's a Communist. If you get it and get it soon, your bill can be whatever you want to make it.” Wolfe shook his head. “I don't take jobs on those terms. You don't know he's a Communist, or you wouldn't be bidding so high for proof. If he isn't, I can't very well get evidence that he is. As for my bill being whatever I want to make it, my bills always are. But I charge for what I do, and I can do nothing that is excluded by circumstance. What I dig up is of necessity contingent on what has been buried, but the extent of my digging isn't, nor my fee.” “You talk too much,” Sperling said impatiently but not impolitely.
“Do I?” Wolfe cocked an eye at him. “Then you talk,” He nodded sidewise at me.
“Your notebook, Archie.” The miner waited until I had it ready, open at a fresh page, and then spoke crisply, starting with a spelling lesson. “L-o-u-i-s. R-o-n-y. He's in the Manhattan phone book, both his law office and his home, his apartment—and anyway, it's all in that.” He indicated the bulky envelope, which he had tossed on to Wolfe's desk. “I have two daughters. Madeline is twenty-six and Gwenn is twenty-two. Gwenn was smart enough to graduate with honours at Smith a year ago, and I'm almost sure she's sane, but she's too damn curious and she turns her nose up at rules. She hasn't worked her way out of the notion that you can have independence without earning it. Of course it's all right to be romantic at her age, but she overdoes it, and I think what first attracted her to this man Rony was his reputation as a champion of the weak and downtrodden, which he has got by saving criminals from the punishment they deserve.” “I think I've seen his name,” Wolfe murmured. “Haven't I, Archie?” I nodded. “So have I. It was him that got What's-her-name, that baby peddler, out from under a couple of months ago. He seems to be on his way to the front page.” “Or to jail,” Sperling snapped, and there was nothing angelic about his tone. “I think I handled this wrong, and I'm damned sure my wife did. It was the same old mistake, and God only knows why parents go on making it. We even told her, and him too, that he would no longer be admitted into our home, and of course you know what the reaction was to that. The only concession she made, and I doubt if that was to us, was never to come home after day-light.” “Is she pregnant?” Wolfe inquired.
Sperling stiffened. “What did you say?” His voice was suddenly as hard as the hardest ore ever found in any mine. Unquestionably he expected it to crush Wolfe into pretending he hadn't opened his mouth, but it didn't.
“I asked if your daughter is pregnant. If the question is immaterial I withdraw it, but surely it isn't preposterous unless she also turns her nose up at natural laws.” “She is my daughter,” Sperling said in the same hard tone. Then suddenly his rigidity gave way. All the stiff muscles loosened, and he was laughing. When he laughed he roared, and he really meant it. In a moment he controlled it enough to speak. “Did you hear what I said?” he demanded.
Wolfe nodded. “If I can believe my ears.” “You can.” Sperling smiled like an angel. “I suppose with any man that's one of his tenderest spots, but I might be expected to remember that I am not just any man. To the best of my knowledge my daughter is not pregnant, and she would have a right to be astonished if she were. That's not it. A little over a month ago my wife and I decided to correct the mistake we had made, and she told Gwenn that Rony would be welcome at our home as often as she wanted him there. That same day I put Bascom on to him. You're quite right that I can't prove he's a Communist or I wouldn't have had to come to you, but I'm convinced that he is.” “What convinced you?” “The way he talks, the way I've sized him up, the way he practises his profession—and there are things in Bascom's reports, you'll see that when you read them—” “But Mr Bascom got no pro
of.” “No. Damn it.” “Whom do you call a Communist? A liberal? A pink intellectual? A member of the party? How far left do you start?” Sperling smiled. “It depends on where I am and who I'm talking to. There are occasions when it may be expedient to apply the term to anyone left of centre.
But to you I'm using it realistically. I think Rony is a member of the Communist Party.” “If and when you get proof, what are you going to do with it?” “Show it to my daughter. But it has to be proof. She already knows what I think; I told her long ago. Of course she told Rony, and he looked me in the eye and denied it.” Wolfe grunted. “You may be wasting your time and money. Even if you get proof, what if it turns out that your daughter regards a Communist card as a credential for romance?” “She doesn't. Her second year in college she got interested in communism and went into it, but it didn't take her long to pull out. She says it's intellectually contemptible and morally unsound. I told you she's smart enough.” Sperling's eyes darted to me and went back to Wolfe. “By the way, what about you and Goodwin? As I said, I looked you up, but is there any chance I'm putting my foot in it?” “No,” Wolfe assured him. “Though of course only the event can certify us. We agree with your daughter.” He looked at me. “Don't we?” I nodded. “Completely. I like the way she put it The best I can do is ‘a Commie is a louse’ or something like that.” Sperling looked at me suspiciously, apparently decided that I merely had IQ trouble, and returned to Wolfe, who was talking.
“Exactly what,” he was asking, “is the situation? Is there a possibility that your daughter is already married to Mr Rony?” “Good God no!” “How sure are you?” “I'm sure. That's absurd—but of course you don't know her. There's no sneak in her—and anyhow, if she decides to marry him she'll tell me—or her mother—before she tells him. That's how she'd do it—” Sperling stopped abruptly and set his jaw. In a moment he let it loose and went on, “And that's what I'm afraid of, every day now. If she once commits herself it's all over. I tell you it's urgent. It's damned urgent!” Wolfe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Sperling regarded him a while, opened his mouth and closed it again, and looked at me inquiringly. I shook my head at him. When, after another couple of minutes, he began making and unmaking fists with his big bony hands, I reassured him.
“It's okay. He never sleeps in the daytime. His mind works better when he can't see me.” Finally Wolfe's lids went up and he spoke. “If you hire me,” he told Sperling, “it must be clear what for. I can't engage to get proof that Mr Rony is a Communist, but only to find out if proof exists,” and, if it does, get it if possible. I'm willing to undertake that, but it seems an unnecessary restriction. Can't we define it a little better? As I understand it, you want your daughter to abandon all thought of marrying Mr Rony and stop inviting him to your home. That's your objective. Right?” “Yes.” “Then why restrict my strategy? Certainly I can try for proof that he's a Communist, but what if he isn't? Or what if he is but we can't prove it to your daughter's satisfaction? Why limit the operation to that one hope, which must be rather forlorn if Mr Bascom has spent a month at it and failed? Why not hire me to reach your objective, no matter how—of course within the bounds permitted to civilized man? I would have a much clearer conscience in accepting your retainer, which will be a cheque for five thousand dollars.” Sperling was considering. “Damn it, he's a Communist' “I know. That's your fixed idea and it must be humoured. I'll try that first.
But do you want to exclude all else?” “No. No, I don't.” “Good. And I have—yes, Fritz?” The door to the hall had opened and Fritz was there.
“Mr Hewitt, sir. He says he has an appointment. I seated him in the front room.”
“Yes.” Wolfe glanced at the clock on the wall. “Tell him I'll see him in a few minutes.” Fritz went, and Wolfe returned to Sperling.
“And I have correctly stated your objective?” “Perfectly.” “Then after I've read Mr Bascom's reports I'll communicate with you. Good day, sir. I'm glad you like my office—” “But this is urgent! You shouldn't waste an hour!” “I know.” Wolfe was trying to stay polite. “That's another characteristic of matters discussed in this office—urgency. I now have an appointment, and shall then eat lunch, and from two to four I shall be working with my plants. But your affair need not wait on that. Mr Goodwin will read the reports immediately, and after lunch he will go to your office to get all required details—say two o'clock?” James U. Sperling didn't like it at all. Apparently he was set to devote the day to arranging to save his daughter from a fate worse than death, not even stopping for meals. He was so displeased that he merely grunted an affirmative when, as I let him out the front door, I courteously reminded him that he was to expect me at his office at 2.15 and that he could save himself the trouble of mailing the cheque by handing it to me then. I took time out for a brief survey of the long black Wethersill limousine waiting for him at the curb before I returned to the office.
The door to the front room was open and Wolfe's and Hewitt's voices came through. Since their mutual interest was up in the plant rooms and they wouldn't be using the office, I got the bulky envelope Sperling had left on Wolfe's desk and made myself comfortable to read Bascom's reports.
CHAPTER Two
A couple of hours later, at five to two, Wolfe returned his empty coffee cup to the saucer, pushed his chair back, got all of him upright, walked out of the dining-room, and headed down the hall toward his elevator. I, having followed, called to his half an acre of back, “How about three minutes in the office first?” He turned. “I thought you were going to see that man with a daughter.” “I am, but you won't talk business during meals, and I read Bascom's reports, and I've got questions.” He was stuck, because it was only one fifty-seven and his sacred schedule didn't justify his departure for the plant rooms for three minutes yet. But he shot a glance at the door to the office, saw how far away it was, growled, “All right, come on up,” and turned and made for the elevator.
If he has his rules, so do I, and one of mine is that a three-by-four private elevator with Wolfe in it does not need me too, so I took the stairs. One flight up was Wolfe's bedroom and a spare. Two flights up was my bedroom and another spare. The third flight put me on the roof. There was no dazzling blaze of light, as in winter, since this was June and the shade slats were all rolled down, but there was a blaze of colour from the summer bloomers, especially in the middle room. Of course I saw it every day, and I had business on my mind, but even so I slowed up as I passed a bench of white and yellow Dendrobium bensoniae that were just at their peak.
Wolfe was in the potting room, taking his coat off, with a scowl all ready for me.
“Two things,” I told him curtly. “First, Bascom not only—” He was outer. “Did Mr Bascom get any lead at all to the Communist Party?” “No. But he—” “Then he got nothing for us.” Wolfe was rolling up his shirt sleeves. “We'll discuss his reports after I've read them. Did he have good men on it?” “He sure did. His best.” “They why should I hire an army to stalk the same phantom, even with Mr Sperling's money? You know what that amounts to, trying to track a Communist down, granting that he is one—especially when what is wanted is not presumption, but proof. Bah. A will-o'-the-wisp. I defined the objective and Mr Sperling agreed. See him and get details, yes. Get invited to his home, socially. Meet Mr Rony, and form an opinion of him. More important, form one of the daughter, as intimately and comprehensively as possible. Make appointments with her. Seize and hold her attention. You should be able to displace Mr Rony in a week, a fortnight at the most—and that's the objective.” “I'll be damned.” I shook my head reproachfully. “You mean make a pass at her.” “Your terms are yours, and I prefer mine. Mr Sperling said his daughter is excessively curious. Transfer her curiosity from Mr Rony to you.” “You mean break her heart.” “You can stop this side of tragedy.” “Yeah, and I can stop this side of starting.” I looked righteous and outraged.
“You've gone a little too far. I like being a detective, and
I like being a man, with all that implies, but I refuse to degrade whatever glamour I may—” “Archie!” He snapped it.
“Yes, sir.” “With how many young women whom you met originally through your association with my business have you established personal relationships?” “Between five and six thousand. But that's not— “I'm merely suggesting that you reverse the process and establish the personal relationship first. What's wrong with that?” “Everything.” I shrugged. “Okay. Maybe nothing. It depends. I'll take a look at her.” “Good. You're going to be late.” He started for the supply shelves.
I raised my voice a little. “However, I've still got a question, or two, rather.
Bascom's boys had a picnic trying to tail Rony. The first time out, before anything could have happened to make him suspicious, he had his nose up and pulled a fade. From then on not only did they have to use only the best, but often even that wasn't good enough. He knew the whole book and some extra chapters. He may or may not be a Communist, but he didn't learn all that in Sunday school.” “Pfui. He's a lawyer, isn't he?” Wolfe said contemptuously. He took a can of Elgetrol from the shelf and began shaking it. “Confound it, let me alone.” “I will in a minute. The other thing, three different times, times when they didn't lose him, he went into Bischoff's Pet Shop on Third Avenue and stayed over an hour, and he doesn't keep any pets.” Wolfe stopped shaking the can of Elgetrol. He looked at it as if he didn't know what it was, hesitated, put the can back on the shelf, and looked at me.
“Oh,” he said, not curtly. “He did?” “Yes, sir.” Wolfe looked around, saw the oversized chair in its place, and went to it and sat down.
I wasn't gratified at having impressed him. In fact, I would have preferred to pass the chance up, but I hadn't dared. I remembered too well a voice—a hard, slow, precise voice, cold as last week's corpse—which I had heard only three times altogether, on the telephone. The first time had been in January 1946, and the second and third had been more than two years later, while we were looking for the poisoner of Cyril Orchard. Furthermore, I remembered the tone of Wolfe's voice when he said to me, when we had both hung up after the second phone call, “I should have signalled you off, Archie, as soon as I recognized his voice. I tell you nothing because it is better for you to know nothing. You are to forget that you know his name. If ever, in the course of my business, I find that I am committed against him and must destroy him, I shall leave this house, find a place where I can work—and sleep and eat if there is time for it—and stay there until I have finished.” I have seen Wolfe tangle with some tough bozos in the years I've been with him, but none of them has ever had him talking like that.
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe - Second Confession Page 1
