Campion hunched his greatcoat about him and plodded on, unwonted severity in the lines of his thin face.
He came upon the sundial walk at last and paused, straining his eyes to see through the mist. He made out the figure standing by the stone column, and heaved a sigh of relief as he recognized the jaunty shoulders of the Christmas tree decorator. Lance’s incurable romanticism was going to be useful at last, he reflected with wry amusement.
He did not join his friend but withdrew into the shadows of a great clump of rhododendrons and composed himself to wait. He intensely disliked the situation in which he found himself. Apart from the extreme physical discomfort involved, he had a natural aversion towards the project on hand, but little fairhaired girls with shiny eyes can be very appealing.
It was a freezing vigil. He could hear Lance stamping about in the mist, swearing softly to himself, and even that supremely comic phenomenon had its unsatisfactory side.
They were both shivering and the mist’s damp fingers seemed to have stroked their very bones when at last Campion stiffened. He had heard a rustle behind him and presently there was a movement in the wet leaves, followed by the sharp ring of feet on the stones. Lance swung round immediately, only to drop back in astonishment as a tall figure bore down.
“Where is it?”
Neither the words nor the voice came as a complete surprise to Campion, but the unfortunate Lance was taken entirely off his guard.
“Why, hello, Preen,” he said involuntarily. “What the devil are you doing here?”
The newcomer had stopped in his tracks, his face a white blur in the uncertain light. For a moment he stood perfectly still and then, turning on his heel, he made off without a word.
“Ah, but I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple as that, my dear chap.”
Campion stepped out of his friendly shadows and as the younger man passed, slipped an arm through his and swung him round to face the startled Lance, who was coming up at the double.
“You can’t clear off like this,” he went on, still in the same affable, conversational tone. “You have something to give Peter Groome, haven’t you? Something he rather wants?”
“Who the hell are you?” Preen jerked up his arm as he spoke and might have wrenched himself free had it not been for Lance, who had recognized Campion’s voice and, although completely in the dark, was yet quick enough to grasp certain essentials.
“That’s right, Preen,” he said, seizing the man’s other arm in a bear’s hug. “Hand it over. Don’t be a fool. Hand it over.”
This line of attack appeared to be inspirational, since they felt the powerful youngster stiffen between them.
“Look here, how many people know about this?”
“The world—” Lance was beginning cheerfully when Campion forestalled him.
“We three and Peter Groome,” he said quietly. “At the moment Sir Philip has no idea that Messr. Preen s curiosity concerning the probable placing of government orders for aircraft parts has overstepped the bounds of common sense. You’re acting alone, I suppose?”
“Oh, lord, yes, of course.” Preen was cracking dangerously. “If my old man gets to hear of this I—oh, well, I might as well go and crash.”
“I thought so.” Campion sounded content. “Your father has a reputation to consider. So has our young friend Groome. You’d better hand it over.”
“What?”
“Since you force me to be vulgar whatever it was you were attempting to use as blackmail, my precious young friend,” he said. “Whatever it may be, in fact, that you hold over young Groome and were trying to use in your attempt to force him to let you have a look at a confidential government report concerning the orders which certain aircraft firms were likely to receive in the next six months. In your position you could have made pretty good use of them, couldn’t you? Frankly, I haven’t the faintest idea what this incriminating document may be. When I was young, objectionably wealthy youths accepted I. O. U. ‘s from their poorer companions, but now that’s gone out of fashion. What’s the modern equivalent? An R. D. check, I suppose?”
Preen said nothing. He put his hand in an inner pocket and drew out an envelope which he handed over without a word. Campion examined the slip of pink paper within by the light of a pencil torch.
“You kept it for quite a time before trying to cash it, didn’t you?” he said. “Dear me. that’s rather an old trick and it was never admired. Young men who are careless with their accounts have been caught out like that before. It simply wouldn’t have looked good to his legal-minded old man, I take it? You two seem to be hampered by your respective papas’ integrity. Yes, well, you can go now.”
Preen hesitated, opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Lance looked after his retreating figure for some little time before he returned to his friend.
“Who wrote that blinking note?” he demanded.
“He did, of course.” said Campion brutally. “He wanted to see the report but was making absolutely sure that young Groome took all the risks of being found with it.”
“Preen wrote the note,” Lance repeated blankly.
“Well, naturally,” said Campion absently. “That was obvious as soon as the report appeared in the picture. He was the only man in the place with the necessary special information to make use of it.”
Lance made no comment. He pulled his coat collar more closely about his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
All the same the artist was not quite satisfied, for, later still, when Campion was sitting in his dressing gown writing a note at one of the little escritoires which Florence so thoughtfully provided in her guest bedrooms, he came padding in again and stood warming himself before the fire.
“Why?” he demanded suddenly. “Why did I get the invitation?”
“Oh, that was a question of luggage,” Campion spoke over his shoulder.
“That bothered me at first, but as soon as we fixed it onto Preen that little mystery became blindingly clear. Do you remember falling into the carriage this afternoon? Where did you put your elegant piece of gent’s natty suitcasing? Over young Groome’s head. Preen saw it from the corridor and assumed that the chap was sitting under his own bag! He sent his own man over here with the note, told him not to ask for Peter by name but to follow the nice new pigskin suitcase upstairs.”
Lance nodded regretfully. “Very likely,” he said sadly. “Funny thing. I was sure it was the girl.”
After a while he came over to the desk. Campion put down his pen and indicated the written sheet.
“Dear Groome,” it ran, “I enclose a little matter that I should burn forthwith. The package you left in the inglenook is still there, right at the back on the left-hand side, cunningly concealed under a pile of logs. It has not been seen by anyone who could possibly understand it. If you nipped over very early this morning you could return it to its appointed place without any trouble. If I may venture a word of advice, it is never worth it.”
The author grimaced. “It’s a bit avuncular,” he admitted awkwardly, “but what else can I do? His light is still on, poor chap. I thought I’d stick it under his door.”
Lance was grinning wickedly. “That’s fine,” he murmured. “The old man does his stuff for reckless youth. There’s just the signature now and that ought to be as obvious as everything else has been to you. I’ll write it for you. ‘Merry Christmas. Love from Santa Claus.’”
“You win,” said Mr. Campion.
How bless'd, how envied were our life Could we but scape the poulterer's knife! But man, cursed man, on turkeys preys, And Christmas shortens all our days: Sometimes with oysters we combine, Sometimes assist the savory chine; From the low peasant to the lord, The Turkey smokes on every board.
John Gay (1685 - 1732)
Fables, The Turkey and the Ant
Christmas Party - Rex Stout
In his obituaries, he was called “the American Arthur Conan Doyle.” Certainly no writer deserves the title m
ore. Rex Stout and his detective Nero Wolfe command a following second only to the Sherlockian horde. The Wolfe Pack, organized December 2, 1978, meets once a year at its annual Black Orchids Banquet to honor Stout and present awards for excellence in mystery writing. Wolfe has recently been portrayed in a television series. Stout has been the subject of an award-winning biography. The Wolfe books are still reprinted, and Stout’s vigorous brownstone style brings the legendary figure (a seventh of a ton) to life with a mystique that only Doyle has equalled. In fact, it was once rumored that Wolfe was the illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes.
“Christmas Party” is one of the best of the Wolfe stories. It captures its hero in an uncharacteristic pose, aided and abetted by his amanuensis Archie Goodwin. It also finds murder at that most barbaric of all holiday institutions, the office Christmas party. Wolfe’s physical and intellectual largesse permeate every scene, and Stout regales his reader with his special talent for making this unique corner of New York City come alive.
Wolfe stews, Archie engages, orchids bloom and a good time will be had by all.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I said. I tried to sound sorry. “But I told you two days ago. Monday, that I had a date for Friday afternoon, and you said all right. So I’ll drive you to Long Island Saturday or Sunday.”
Nero Wolfe shook his head. “That won’t do. Mr. Thompson’s ship docks Friday morning, and he will be at Mr. Hewitt’s place only until Saturday noon, when he leaves for New Orleans. As you know, he is the best hybridizer in England, and I am grateful to Mr. Hewitt for inviting me to spend a few hours with him. As I remember, the drive takes about an hour and a half, so we should leave at twelve-thirty.”
I decided to count ten, and swiveled my chair, facing my desk, so as to have privacy for it. As usual when we have no important case going, we had been getting on each other’s nerves for a week, and I admit I was a little touchy, but his taking it for granted like that was a little too much. When I had finished the count I turned my head, to where he was perched on his throne behind his desk, and darned if he hadn’t gone back to his book, making it plain that he regarded it as settled. That was much too much. I swiveled my chair to confront him.
“I really am sorry,” I said, not trying to sound sorry, “but I have to keep that date Friday afternoon. It’s a Christmas party at the office of Kurt Bottweill—you remember him, we did a job for him a few months ago, the stolen tapestries. You may not remember a member of his staff named Margot Dickey, but I do. I have been seeing her some, and I promised her I’d go to the party. We never have a Christmas office party here. As for going to Long Island, your idea that a car is a death trap if I’m not driving it is unsound. You can take a taxi, or hire a Baxter man, or get Saul Panzer to drive you.”
Wolfe had lowered his book. “I hope to get some useful information from Mr. Thompson, and you will take notes.”
“Not if I’m not there. Hewitt’s secretary knows orchid terms as well as I do. So do you.”
I admit those last three words were a bit strong, but he shouldn’t have gone back to his book. His lips tightened. “Archie. How many times in the past year have I asked you to drive me somewhere?”
“If you call it asking, maybe eighteen or twenty.”
“Not excessive, surely. If my feeling that you alone are to be trusted at the wheel of a car is an aberration, I have it. We will leave for Mr. Hewitt’s place Friday at twelve-thirty.”
So there we were. I took a breath, but I didn’t need to count ten again. If he was to be taught a lesson, and he certainly needed one, luckily I had in my possession a document that would make it good. Reaching to my inside breast pocket, I took out a folded sheet of paper.
“I didn’t intend,” I told him,”to spring this on you until tomorrow, or maybe even later, but I guess it will have to be now. Just as well, I suppose.”
I left my chair, unfolded the paper, and handed it to him. He put his book down to take it, gave it a look, shot a glance at me, looked at the paper again, and let it drop on his desk.
He snorted. “Pfui. What flummery is this?”
“No flummery. As you see, it’s a marriage license for Archie Goodwin and Margot Dickey. It cost me two bucks. I could be mushy about it, but I won’t. I will only say that if I am hooked at last, it took an expert. She intends to spread the tidings at the Christmas office party, and of course I have to be there. When you announce you have caught a fish it helps to have the fish present in person. Frankly, I would prefer to drive you to Long Island, but it can’t be done.”
The effect was all I could have asked. He gazed at me through narrowed eyes long enough to count eleven, then picked up the document and gazed at it. He flicked it from him to the edge of the desk as if it were crawling with germs, and focused on me again.
“You are deranged,” he said evenly and distinctly. “Sit down.”
I nodded. “I suppose,” I agreed, remaining upright, “it’s a form of madness, but so what if I’ve got it? Like what Margot was reading to me the other night—some poet, I think it was some Greek—‘O love, resistless in thy might, thou triumphest even—’”
“Shut up and sit down!”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t move. “But we’re not rushing it. We haven’t set the date, and there’ll be plenty of time to decide on adjustments. You may not want me here any more, but that’s up to you. As far as I’m concerned, I would like to stay. My long association with you has had its flaws, but I would hate to end it. The pay is okay, especially if I get a raise the first of the year, which is a week from Monday. I have grown to regard this old brownstone as my home, although you own it and although there are two creaky boards in the floor of my room. I appreciate working for the greatest private detective in the free world, no matter how eccentric he is. I appreciate being able to go up to the plant rooms whenever I feel like it and look at ten thousand orchids, especially the odontoglossums. I fully appreciate—”
“Sit down!”
“I’m too worked up to sit. I fully appreciate Fritz’s cooking. I like the billiard table in the basement. I like West Thirty-fifth Street. I like the oneway glass panel in the front door. I like this rug I’m standing on. I like your favorite color, yellow. I have told Margot all this, and more, including the fact that you are allergic to women. We have discussed it, and we think it may be worth trying, say for a month, when we get back from the honeymoon. My room could be our bedroom, and the other room on that floor could be our living room. There are plenty of closets. We could eat with you, as I have been, or we could eat up there, as you prefer. If the trial works out, new furniture or redecorating would be up to us. She will keep her job with Kurt Bottweill, so she wouldn’t be here during the day, and since he’s an interior decorator we would get things wholesale. Of course we merely suggest this for your consideration. It’s your house.”
I picked up my marriage license, folded it, and returned it to my pocket.
His eyes had stayed narrow and his lips tight. “I don’t believe it,” he growled. “What about Miss Rowan?”
“We won’t drag Miss Rowan into this,” I said stiffly.
“What about the thousands of others you dally with?”
“Not thousands. Not even a thousand. I’ll have to look up ‘dally.’ They’ll get theirs, as Margot has got hers. As you see, I’m deranged only up to a point. I realize—”
“Sit down.”
“No, sir. I know this will have to be discussed, but right now you’re stirred up and it would be better to wait for a day or two, or maybe more. By Saturday the idea of a woman in the house may have you boiling even worse than you are now, or it may have cooled you down to a simmer. If the former, no discussion will be needed. If the latter, you may decide it’s worth a try. I hope you do.”
I turned and walked out.
In the hall I hesitated. I could have gone up to my room and phoned from there, but in his present state it was quite possible he would listen in from the desk, and the call I wanted to make was p
ersonal. So I got my hat and coat from the rack, let myself out, descended the stoop steps, walked to the drugstore on Ninth Avenue, found the booth unoccupied, and dialed a number. In a moment a musical little voice—more a chirp than a voice— was in my ear.
“Kurt Bottweill’s studio, good morning.”
“This is Archie Goodwin, Cherry. May I speak to Margot?”
“Why, certainly. Just a moment.”
It was a fairly long moment. Then another voice. “Archie, darling!”
“Yes, my own. I’ve got it.”
“I knew you could!”
“Sure, I can do anything. Not only that, you said up to a hundred bucks, and I thought I would have to part with twenty at least, but it only took five. And not only that, but it’s on me, because I’ve already had my money’s worth of fun out of it, and more. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Shall I send it up by messenger?”
“No, I don’t think—I’d better come and get it. Where are you?”
“In a phone booth. I’d just as soon not go back to the office right now because Mr. Wolfe wants to be alone to boil, so how about the Tulip Bar at the Churchill in twenty minutes? I feel like buying you a drink.”
“I feel like buying you a drink!”
She should, since I was treating her to a marriage license.
II
When, at three o’clock Friday afternoon, I wriggled out of the taxi at the curb in front of the four-story building in the East Sixties, it was snowing. If it kept up, New York might have an off-white Christmas.
During the two days that had passed since I got my money’s worth from the marriage license, the atmosphere around Wolfe’s place had not been very seasonable. If we had had a case going, frequent and sustained communication would have been unavoidable, but without one there was nothing that absolutely had to be said, and we said it. Our handling of that trying period showed our true natures. At table, for instance, I was polite and reserved, and spoke, when speaking seemed necessary, in low and cultured tones. When Wolfe spoke he either snapped or barked. Neither of us mentioned the state of bliss I was headed for, or the adjustments that would have to be made, or my Friday date with my fiancée, or his trip to Long Island. But he arranged it somehow, for precisely at twelve-thirty on Friday a black limousine drew up in front of the house, and Wolfe, with the brim of his old black hat turned down and the collar of his new gray overcoat turned up for the snow, descended the stoop, stood massively, the mountain of him, on the bottom step until the uniformed chauffeur had opened the door, and crossed the sidewalk and climbed in. I watched it from above, from a window of my room.
Thomas Godfrey (Ed) Page 48
