“Take out the last sentence,” Sperling demanded. “It isn't necessary.” He didn't look happy either.
Wolfe shook his head. “Naturally you don't like to face it, but you'll have to.
On the witness-stand you can't possibly evade it, so why evade it now?” “Good God.” Sperling was grim. “The witness-stand. Damn it, if this isn't just an act, who is Reynolds?” “I'll tell you when Mr Kane has signed that, not before—and you have witnessed it.” “I won't witness it.” “Yes, sir, you will. This thing started with your desire to expose a Communist.
Now's your chance. You won't take it?” Sperling glowered at Wolfe, then at me, then at Kane. I thought to myself how different this was from smiling like an angel. Mrs Sperling murmured something, but no one paid any attention.
“Sign it, Web,” Sperling growled.
Kane's hand came out for it, not wanting to. With it I gave him a magazine to firm it, and my pen. He signed, big and sprawly, and I passed it along to the Chairman of the Board. His signature, as witness, was something to see. It could have been James U. Sperling, or it could have been Lawson N. Spiffshill. I accepted it without prejudice and handed it to Wolfe, who gave it a glance and put it under a paperweight.
He sighed. “Bring them in, Archie.” I crossed to the door to the front room and called out, “Come in, gentlemen!” I would have given a nickel to know how much time and effort they had wasted trying to hear something through the soundproofed door. It couldn't be done.
They entered in character. Harvey, self-conscious and aggressive in the presence of so much capitalism, strode across nearly to Wolfe's desk, turned, and gave each of them in turn a hard straight eye. Stevens was interested in only one of them, the man he knew as William Reynolds; as far as he was concerned the others were dummies, including even the District Attorney. His eyes too were hard and straight, but they had only one target. They both ignored the chairs I had reserved for them.
“I think,” Wolfe said, “we needn't bother with introductions. One of you knows these gentlemen well; the others won't care to, nor will they care to know you.
They are avowed members of the American Communist Party, and prominent ones. I have here a document'—he fluttered it—”which they signed early this evening, with a photograph of a man pasted on it. The writing on it, in Mr Stevens' hand, states that for eight years the man in the photograph has been a fellow Communist under the name of William Reynolds. The document is itself conclusive, but these gentlemen and I agreed that it would be helpful for them to appear and identify Reynolds in person. You're looking at him, are you, Mr Stevens?” “I am,” said Stevens, gazing at Webster Kane with cold hate.
“You goddam rat,” mumbled Harvey, also at Kane.
The economist was returning their gaze, now at Stevens, now at Harvey, stunned and incredulous. His first confession had required words, written down and signed, but this one didn't. That stunned look was his second confession, and everybody there, looking at him, could see it was the real thing.
He wasn't the only stunned one.
“Web!” roared Sperling. “For God's sake—Web!” “You're in for it, Mr Kane,” Wolfe said icily. “You've got no one left. You're done as Kane, with the Communist brand showing at last. You're done as Reynolds, with your comrades spitting you out as only they can spit. You're done even as a two-legged animal, with a murder to answer for. The last was my job—the rest was only incidental—and thank heaven it's over, for it wasn't easy. He's yours, Mr Archer.” I wasn't needed to watch a possible outburst, since both Ben Dykes and Purley Stebbins were there and had closed in, and I had an errand to attend to. I pulled my phone over, dialled the Gazette's number, and got Lon Cohen.
“Archie?” He sounded desperate. “Twelve minutes to go! Well?” “Okay, son,” I said patronizingly. “Shoot it.” “As is? Webster Kane? Pinched?” “As specified. We guarantee materials and workmanship. If you're a leading economist I know where there's a vacancy.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Three
Later, long after midnight, after everyone else had gone, James U. Sperling was still there. He sat in the red leather chair, eating nuts, drinking Scotch, and getting things clear.
What kept him, of course, was the need to get his self-respect back in condition before he went home and to bed, and after the terrific jolt of learning that he had nurtured a Commie in his bosom for years it wasn't so simple. The detail that seemed to hurt most of all was the first confession—the one he had got Kane to sign. He had drafted it himself—he admitted it; he had thought it was a masterpiece that even a Chairman of the Board could be proud of; and now it turned out that, except for the minor item that Rony had been flat instead of erect when the car hit him, it had been the truth! No wonder he had trouble getting it down.
He insisted on going back over everything. He even wanted answers to questions such as whether Kane had seen Rony pour his doped drink in the ice bucket, which of course we couldn't give him. Wolfe generously supplied answers when he had them. For instance, why had Kane signed the repudiation of his statement that he had killed Rony accidentally? Because, Wolfe explained, Sperling had told him to, and Kane's only hope had been to stick to the role of Webster Kane in spite of hell. True, within ten breaths he was going to be torn loose from it by the cold malign stares of his former comrades, but he didn't know that when he took the pen to sign his name.
When Sperling finally left he was more himself again, but I suspected he would need more than one night's sleep before anyone would see him smiling like an angel.
That was all except the tail. Every murder case, like a kite, has a tail. The tail to this one had three sections, the first one public and the other two private.
Section One became public the first week in July, when it was announced that Paul Emerson's contract was not being renewed. I happened to know about it in advance because I was in the office when, one day the preceding week, James U.
Sperling phoned Wolfe to say that the Continental Mines Corporation was grateful to him for removing a Communist tumour from its internal organs and would be glad to pay a bill if he sent one. Wolfe said he would like to send a bill but didn't know how to word it, and Sperling asked him why. Because, Wolfe said, the bill would ask for payment not in dollars but in kind. Sperling wanted to know what he meant.
“As you put it,” Wolfe explained, “I removed a tumour from your staff. What I would want in return is the removal of a tumour from my radid. Six-thirty is a convenient time for me to listen to the radio, and even if I don't turn it to that station I know that Paul Emerson is there, only a few notches away, and it annoys me. Remove him. He might get another sponsor, but I doubt it. Stop paying him for that malicious gibberish.” “He has a high rating,” Sperling objected.
“So had Goebbels,” Wolfe snapped. “And Mussolini.” A short silence.
“I admit,” Sperling conceded, “that he irritates me. I think it's chiefly his ulcers.” “Then find someone without them. You'll be saving money, too. If I sent you a bill in dollars it wouldn't be modest, in view of the difficulties you made.” “His contract expires next week.” “Good. Let it.” “Well—I'll see. We'll talk it over here.” That was how it happened.
The tail's second section, private, was ako in the form of a phone call, some weeks later. Just yesterday, the day after Webster Kane, alias William Reynolds, was sentenced on his conviction for the first degree murder of Louis Rony, I put the receiver to my ear and once more heard a hard cold precise voice that used only the best grammar. I told Wolfe who it was and he got on the line.
“How are you, Mr Wolfe?” “Well, thank you.” “I'm glad to hear it. I'm calling to congratulate you. I have ways of learning things, so I know how superbly you handled it. I am highly gratified that the killer of that fine young man will be properly punished, thanks to you.” “My purpose was not to gratify you.” “Of course not. All the same, I warmly appreciate it, and my admiration of your talents has increased. I wanted to tell you that, and al
so that you will receive another package tomorrow morning. In view of the turn events took the damage your property suffered is all the more regrettable.” The connection went. I turned to Wolfe.
“He sure likes to keep a call down to a nickel. By the way, do you mind if I call him Whosis instead of X? It reminds me of algebra and I was rotten at it.” “I sincerely hope,” Wolfe muttered, “that there will never be another occasion to refer to him.” But one came the very next day, this morning, when the package arrived, and its contents raised a question that has not been answered and probably never will be. Did X have so many ways of learning things that he knew how much had been shelled out to Mr Jones, or was it just a coincidence that the package contained exactly fifteen grand? Anyhow, tomorrow I'll make my second trip to a certain city in New Jersey, and then the total in the safe deposit box will be a nice round figure. The name I go by there need not be told, but I can say that it is not William Reynolds.
The tail's third section is not only private but strictly personal, and it goes beyond phone calls, though there are those too. This coming weekend at Stony Acres I expect no complications like dope in the drinks, and I won't have to bother with a camera. Recently I quit calling her ma’am.
The End
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe - Second Confession Page 20
