Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe - Second Confession

by The Second Confession (lit)

  The day was cloudy and windy, not one of June's best samples, though no rain fell. When we were approaching Stony Acres and reached the spot on the secondary road where Rony and I had been assaulted by highwaymen, I stopped to show Wolfe the terrain, and told him Saul had reported that the take from Rony had been three hundred and twelve bucks, and was awaiting instructions for disposal.

  Wolfe wasn't interested in the terrain. “Are we nearly there?” Tes, sir. A mile and a half.” “Go ahead.” When we rolled up to the front entrance of the mansion, we were honoured. It was not the sad looking guy in a mohair uniform who appeared and came to us, but James U. Sperling himself. He was not smiling. He spoke through the open car window.

  “What does this mean?” He couldn't be blamed for not knowing that Wolfe would never stay in a vehicle any longer than he had to, since their acquaintance was brief. Before replying, Wolfe pushed the door open and manipulated himself out on to the gravel.

  Meanwhile Sperling was going on. “I tried to get you on the phone, but by the time I got the number you had left. What are you trying to do? You know damn well I don't want this.” Wolfe met his eye. Tfou looked me up, Mr Sperling. You must know that I am not harebrained. I assure you that I can justify this move, but I can do so only by proceeding with it. When I have explained matters to you and your family, we'll see if you can find any alternative to approval. I'll stake my reputation that you can't.” Sperling wanted to argue it then and there, but Wolfe stood pat, and seeing that he had to choose between letting us come on in and ordering us off the place, the Chairman of the Board preferred the former. He and Wolfe headed for the door. Since no help had shown up, I took the car around the house to a gravelled plaza in the rear, screened by shrubbery, left it there, and made for the nearest entrance, which was the west terrace. As I was crossing it a door opened and there was Madeline. I told her hello.

  She inspected me with her head cocked to one side and the big dark eyes half open. “You don't look so battered.” “No? I am. Internal injuries. But not from the hold-up. From—” I waved a hand.

  “You ought to know.” “I'm disappointed in you.” Her eyes went open. “Why didn't you shoot them?” “My mind was elsewhere. You ought to know that too. We can compare notes on that some other time. Thank you very much for stalling it until it was too late for your father to head us off. Also thank you for taking my word for it that this is the best we can do for Gwenn. How many names have I got here now and where do they fit in?” “Oh, you're Archie everywhere. I explained that much to Webster and Paul and Connie too, because they'll eat lunch with us and it would have been too complicated, and anyway with Nero Wolfe here—they're not halfwits. Incidentally, you've made lunch late; we usually have it at one, so come on. How's your appetite?” I told her I'd rather show her than tell her, and we went in.

  Lunch was served in the big dining-room. Wolfe and I were the only ones with neckties on, though the day was too chilly for extremes like shorts. Sperling had a striped jacket over a light blue silk shirt open at the neck. Jimmy and Paul Emerson were sporting dingy old coat sweaters, one brown and one navy.

  Webster Kane varied it with a wool shirt with loud red and yellow checks. Mrs Sperling was in a pink rayon dress and a fluffy pink sweater, unbuttoned; Connie Emerson was in a dotted blue thing that looked like a dressing-gown but maybe I didn't know, Gwenn in a tan shirt and slacks, and Madeline in a soft but smooth wool dress of browns and blacks that looked like a PSI fabric.

  So it was anything but a formal gathering, but neither was it free and easy.

  They ate all right, but they all seemed to have trouble deciding what would be a good thing to talk about. Wolfe, who can't stand a strained atmosphere at meals, tried this and that with one and another, but the only line that got anywhere at all was a friendly argument with Webster Kane about the mechanism of money and a book by some Englishman which nobody else had ever heard of, except maybe Sperling, who may have known it by heart but wasn't interested.

  When that was over and we were on our feet again, there was no loitering around.

  The Emersons, with Paul as sour as ever and Connie not up to form in her dressing-gown, if she will excuse me, went in the direction of the living-room, and Webster Kane said he had work to do and went the other way. The destination of the rest of us had apparently been arranged. With Sperling in the lead, we marched along halls and across rooms to arrive at the library, the room with books and a stock ticker where I had wangled the master key and had later phoned Saul Panzer. Wolfe's eyes, of course, immediately swept the scene to appraise the chairs, which Sperling and Jimmy began herding into a group; and, knowing he had had a hard night, I took pity on him, grabbed the best and biggest one, and put it in the position I knew he would like. He gave me a nod of appreciation as he got into it, leaned back and closed his eyes, and sighed.

  The others got seated, except Sperling, who stood and demanded, “All right, justify this. You said you could.”

  CHAPTER Seven

  Wolfe stayed motionless for seconds. He raised his hands to press his fingertips against his eyes, and again was motionless. Finally he let his hands fall to the chair arms, opened the eyes and directed them at Gwenn.

  “You look intelligent, Miss Sperling.” “We're all intelligent,” Sperling snapped. “Get on.” Wolfe looked at him. “It's going to be long-winded, but I can't help it. You must have it all. If you try prodding me you'll only lengthen it. Since you head a large enterprise, sir, and therefore are commander-in-chief of a huge army, surely you know when to bullyrag and when to listen. Will you do me a favour?

  Sit down. Talking to people who are standing makes my neck stiff.” “I want to say something,” Gwenn declared.

  Wolfe nodded at her. “Say it.” She swallowed. “I just want to be sure you know that I know what you're here for. You sent that man'—she flashed a glance at me which gave me a fair idea of how my personal relationship with her stood as of now—”to snoop on Louis Rony, a friend of mine, and that's what this is about.” She swallowed again. “I'll listen because my family—my mother and sister asked me to, but I think you're a cheap filthy little worm, and if I had to earn a living the way you do I'd rather starve!” It was all right, but it would have been better if she had ad libbed it instead of sticking to a script that she had obviously prepared in advance. Calling Wolfe little, which she wouldn't have done if she had worded it while looking at him, weakened it.

  Wolfe grunted. “If you had to earn a living the way I do, Miss Sperling, you probably would starve. Thank you for being willing to listen, no matter why.” He glanced around. “Does anyone else have an irrepressible comment?” “Get on,” said Sperling, who was seated.

  “Very well, sir. If at first I seem to wander, bear with me. I want to tell you about a man. I know his name but prefer not to pronounce it, so shall call him X. I assure you he is no figment; I only wish he were. I have little concrete knowledge of the immense properties he owns, though I do know that one of them is a high and commanding hill not a hundred miles from here on which, some years ago, he built a large and luxurious mansion. He has varied and extensive sources of income. All of them are illegal and some of them are morally repulsive.

  Narcotics, smuggling, industrial and commercial rackets, gambling, waterfront blackguardism, professional larceny, blackmailing, political malfeasance—that by no means exhausts his curriculum, but it sufficiently indicates its character.

  He has, up to now, triumphantly kept himself invulnerable by having the perspicacity to see that a criminal practising on a large scale over a wide area and a long period of time can get impunity only by maintaining a gap between his person and his crimes which cannot be bridged; and by having unexcelled talent, a remorseless purpose, and a will that cannot be dented or deflected.

  Sperling jerked impatiently in his chair. Wolfe looked at him as a sixth-grade teacher looks at a restless boy, moved his eyes for a roundup of the whole audience, and went on: “If you think I am desc
ribing an extraordinary man, I am indeed. How, for instance, does he maintain the gap? There are two ways to catch a criminal: one, connect him with the crime itself; or two, prove that he knowingly took a share of the spoils. Neither is feasible with X. Take for illustration a typical crime—anything from a triviality like pocket picking or bag snatching up to a major raid on the public treasury. The criminal or gang of criminals nearly always takes full responsibility for the operation itself, but in facing the problem of disposal of the loot, which always appears, and of protection against discovery and prosecution, which is seldom entirely absent, he cannot avoid dealing with others. He may need a fence, a lawyer, a witness for an alibi, a channel to police or political influence—no matter what; he will almost inevitably need someone or something. He goes to one he knows, or knows about, one named A. A, finding a little difficulty, consults B, We are already, observe, somewhat removed from the crime, and B now takes us still further away by enlisting the help of C. C, having trouble with a stubborn knot in the thread, communicates with D. Here we near the terminal. D knows X and how to get to him.

  “In and around New York there are many thousands of crimes each month, from mean little thefts to the highest reaches of fraud and thuggery. In a great majority of them the difficulties of the criminals are met, or are not met, either by the criminals themselves or by A or B or C. But a large number of them get up to D, and if they reach D they go to X. I don't know how many Ds there are, but certainly not many, for they are selected by X after a long and hard scrutiny and the application of severe tests, since he knows that a D once accepted by him must be backed with a fierce loyalty at almost any cost. I would guess that there are very few of them and, even so, I would also guess that if a D were impelled, no matter how, to resort to treachery, he would find that that too had been foreseen and provision had been made.” Wolfe turned a palm up. “You see where X is. Few criminals, or As or Bs or Cs, even know he exists. Those few do not know his name. If a fraction of them have guessed his name, it remains a guess. Estimates of the total annual dollar volume involved in criminal operations in the metropolitan area vary from three hundred million to half a billion. X has been in this business more than twenty years now, and the share that finds its way tortuously to him must be considerable, after deducting his pay- ments to appointed and elected persons and their staffs. A million a year? Half that? I don't know. I do know that he doesn't pay for everything he gets. Some years ago a man not far from the top of the New York Police Department did many favours for X, but I doubt if he was ever paid a cent. Blackmailing is one of X's favourite fields, and that man was susceptible.” “Inspector Drake,” Jimmy blurted.

  Wolfe shook his head. “I am not giving names, and anyway I said not far from the top.” His eyes went from right to left and back again. “I am obliged for your forbearance; these details are necessary. I have told you that I know X's name, but I have never seen him. I first got some knowledge of him eleven years ago, when a police officer came to me for an opinion regarding a murder he was working on. I undertook a little inquiry through curiosity, a luxury I no longer indulge in, and found myself on a trail leading on to ground where the footing was treacherous for a private investigator. Since I had no client and was not committed, I reported what I had found to the police officer and dropped it. I then knew there was such a man as X, and something of his activities and methods, but not his name.

  “During the following eight years I saw hints here and there that X was active, but I was busy with my own affairs, which did not happen to come into contact with his. Then, early in 1946, while I was engaged on a job for a client, I had a phone call. A voice I had never heard—hard, cold, precise, and finicky with its grammar—advised me to limit my efforts on behalf of my client. I replied that my efforts would be limited only by the requirements of the job I had undertaken to do. The voice insisted, and we talked some more, but only to an impasse. The next day I finished the job to my client's satisfaction, and that ended it.” Wolfe closed his fingers into fists and opened them again. “But for my own satisfaction I felt that I needed some information. The character of the job, and a remark the voice had made during our talk, raised the question whether the voice could have been that of X himself. Not wishing to involve the men I often hire to help me, and certainly not Mr Goodwin, I got men from an agency in another city. Within a month I had all the information I needed for my satisfaction, including of course X's name, and I dismissed the men and destroyed their reports. I hoped that X's affairs and mine would not again touch, but they did. Months later, a little more than a year ago, I was investigating a murder, this time for a client—you may remember it. A man named Orchard poisoned while appearing on a radio programme?” All but Sperling nodded, and Mrs Sperling said she had been listening to the programme the day it happened. Wolfe went on: “I was in the middle of that investigation when the same voice called me on the phone and told me to drop it. He was not so talkative that second time, perhaps because I informed him that I knew his name, which was of course childish of me.

  I ignored his fiat. It soon transpired that Mr Orchard and a woman who had also been killed had both been professional blackmailers, using a method which clearly implied a large organization, ingeniously contrived and ably conducted.

  I managed to expose the murderer, who had been blackmailed by them. The day after the murderer was sentenced another phone call came from X. He had the cheek to congratulate me on keeping my investigation within the limits he had prescribed! I told him that his prescription had been ignored. What had happened was that I had caught the murderer, which was my job, without stretching the investigation to an attack on X himself, which had been unnecessary and no part of my commitment.” Sperling had been finding it impossible to get properly settled m his chair. Now he broke training and demanded, “Damn it, can't you cut this short?” “Not and earn my fee,” Wolfe snapped. He resumed.

  “That was in May of last year—thirteen months ago. In the interval I have not heard from X, because I haven't happened to do anything with which he had reason to interfere. The good fortune ended—as I suppose it was bound to do sooner or later, since we are both associated with crime—the day before yesterday, Saturday, at 6.10 p.m. He phoned again. He was more peremptory than formerly, and gave me an ultimatum with a time limit. I responded to his tone as a man of my temperament naturally would—I am congenitally tart and thorny—and I rejected his ultimatum. I do not pretend that I was unconcerned. When Mr Goodwin returned from his weekend here, after midnight on Sunday, yesterday, and gave me his report, I told him of the phone call and we discussed the situation at length.” Wolfe looked around. “Do any of you happen to know that there are plant rooms on the roof of my house, in which I keep thousands of orchids, all of them good and some of them new and rare and extremely beautiful?” Yes, they all did, again all but Sperling.

  Wolfe riodded. “I won't try to introduce suspense. Mr Goodwin and I were in my office talking, between two and three o'clock this morning, when we heard an outlandish noise. Men hired by X had mounted to the roof of a building across the street, armed with sub-machine-guns, and fired hundreds of rounds at my plant rooms, with what effect you can guess. I shall not describe it. Thirty men are there now, salvaging and repairing. That my gardener was not killed was fortuitous. The cost of repairs and replacements will be around forty thousand dollars, and some of the damaged or destroyed plants are irreplaceable. The gunmen have not been found and probably never will be, and what if they are? It was incorrect to say they were hired by X. They were hired by D or C or B—most likely a C. Assuredly X is not on speaking terms with anyone as close to crime as a gunman, and I doubt if a D is. In any—” “You say,” Sperling put it, “this just happened? Last night?” “Yes, sir. I mentioned the approximate amount of the damage because you'll have to pay it. It will be on my bill.” Sperling made a noise. “It may be on your bill, but I won't have to pay it. Why should I?” “Because you'll owe it. It is an expense occurred on
the job you gave me. My plant rooms were destroyed because I ignored X's ultimatum, and his demand was that I recall Mr Goodwin from here and stop my inquiry into the activities and character of Louis Rony. You wanted me to prove that Mr Rony is a Communist. I can't do that, but I can prove that he is one of X's men, either a C or a D, and is therefore a dangerous professional criminal.” The quickest reaction was from Madeline. Before Wolfe had finished she said, “My God!” and got up, crossed impolitely in front of people to Gwenn, and put her hand on her sister's shoulder. Then Mrs Sperling was up too, but she just stood a second and sat down again. Jimmy, who had been frowning at Wolfe, shifted the frown to his father.

  The Chairman of the Board sat a moment gazing at Wolfe, then gazed a longer moment at his younger daughter, and then arose and went to her and said, “He says he can prove it, Gwenn.” I am not lightning, but I had caught on quite a while back that Wolfe's real target was Gwenn, so it was her I was interested in. When Wolfe had started in, the line of her pretty lips and the stubbornness in her eyes had made it plain that she simply didn't intend to believe a word he said, but as he went on telling about a mysterious X who couldn't possibly be her Louis she had relaxed a little, and was even beginning to think that maybe it was an interesting story when suddenly Rony's name popped in, and then the shot straight at her. When she felt Madeline's hand on her shoulder she put her own hand up to place it on top of her sister's, and said in a low voice, “It's all right, Mad.” Then she spoke louder to Wolfe.