Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 19

by Murder by the Book

  “Very well. It was in furtherance of that effort that Mr. Corrigan went to California. It is in furtherance of that effort that we are here now. We don’t know how you managed to anticipate Mr. Corrigan’s effort, but you did. Your man not only got there but got inside of him. Since he succeeded in preventing Mr. Corrigan from seeing the manuscript, it may fairly be assumed that he himself did see it, and that therefore you and he are now acquainted with its contents. It was you who involved our firm in this affair. It was you who persuaded the police that we were involved. It was you who forged a notation on a letter we sent you—”

  “Withdraw that,” Wolfe snapped.

  “That won’t help, Fred,” O’Malley advised him. “Don’t drag it in.”

  Briggs blinked at him and then at Wolfe. “On consideration I withdraw that remark pro tempore, without prejudice. But that doesn’t affect my conclusion, that our demand is justified, to be told the substance of that manuscript. You involved us. We demand that you warrant that involvement.”

  Briggs blinked around. “Well?” he challenged. “Is that clear and cogent?”

  They agreed that it was.

  Wolfe grunted. “Clear enough,” he assented, “but it took you long enough to say it. You gentlemen are making an extraordinary pother, coming here in a body like this. Why the devil didn’t one of you merely phone me and ask me to tell you what’s in that manuscript? It would have taken you five seconds to ask it and me two seconds to answer it.”

  “What would you have answered?” Kustin demanded.

  “That I’m not quite ready.”

  “Not quite ready for what?”

  “To act.”

  To appreciate the full effect of those two little words you would have had to hear Wolfe pronounce them. He didn’t snarl them or snap them, his voice kept its normal pitch, but if anyone present had anything to fear the full menace of it was in those two calm, precise syllables. They looked at one another.

  Briggs asked indignantly, “Do you mean you refuse to tell us anything about it?”

  Wolfe nodded. “At the moment, yes. I’m not quite ready. As practicing attorneys, you gentlemen know that the potency of knowledge depends on how and when it is used. I went to some trouble to get this and I intend to get full value from it.”

  Emmett Phelps stood up. “I told you fellows, didn’t I? We’re wasting time on him.”

  “Mr. Phelps is bored,” Wolfe said dryly.

  “Buy it from him,” O’Malley suggested. “Make him an offer. It can be deducted as a legitimate expense, can’t it, Emmett?” He left his chair. “Only don’t expect me to contribute. I’m broke.”

  Wolfe spoke up. “I would like to anticipate any future charge of willful malevolence. I take no pleasure in prolonging suspense, either my own or another’s. I’m being completely candid when I say that I still need a fact or two before I can act. To move not fully prepared, to disclose myself prematurely, would be folly, and I’m not a fool.”

  Kustin got to his feet, stepped to the desk, put his hands on it, and leaned forward at Wolfe. “I’ll tell you what I think: I think it’s a ten-cent bluff. I don’t think you know any more about that manuscript than we do. I think you’re exactly where you were when we came here a week ago yesterday.” He straightened up. “Come on, fellows. He’s a goddam fourflusher.” He whirled to me. “You too, Goodwin. I wish I’d gone to California instead of Jim Corrigan. You’d have been called.”

  He marched out. Phelps and O’Malley were at his heels. Corrigan, who had said practically nothing, thought he would speak now, took a step toward the desk, but changed his mind and, with a glance at me, headed for the door. Briggs lifted himself out of the red leather chair, blinked at Wolfe, said, “My appraisal of your methods and tactics has certainly been reinforced here today,” and turned and went.

  I moseyed to the door to the hall, stood on the sill, and watched them wriggling into their coats. I was perfectly willing to go and let them out, but Phelps got the door open before I moved, and held it for them, so I was saved the trouble. He banged it hard enough to leave no doubt of its closing, and I wheeled, returned to my desk, and permitted myself an all-out yawn. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut.

  “Will there be more movement?” I inquired. “Or is it time for a contrivance?”

  No reply. I yawned again. “Once in a while,” I observed, “you go right to the heart of things and tell a plain unvarnished truth. Like when you said that you still need a fact or two before you can act. It might be objected that you need more than one or two, but that isn’t so. The one fact that Phelps, the scholar, is a lover of literature and bumped them off because it was a lousy novel and he couldn’t bear it, would do the trick.”

  No word or sign. Suddenly I blew up. I sprang to my feet and roared, “Goddam it, go to work! Think of something! Do something!”

  Without opening his eyes, he muttered, “And I said it was satisfactory to have you back.”

  Chapter 18

  That was an afternoon I wouldn’t care to live through again, not even if I knew what the evening was going to bring. To begin with, Wolfe was totally unbearable. After lunch he got behind his desk with a book, and after a dozen assorted attempts to get a conversation started I quit. Then Saul Panzer phoned in, and he growled at me to get off the line. I had already suspected that he had Saul on a trail, since a check of the cash box and book had informed me that he had given Saul three hundred bucks, and that confirmed it. I always resent it when he sees fit to give one of the boys a chore that he thinks I don’t need to know about, and that time it was more offensive than usual, since I couldn’t very well blab anything, sitting there on my tail, yawning.

  Worse than him, though, was me. He had told me twice to take a nap, so naturally I wasn’t going to. I wanted to be there if the phone rang. I wanted to be there if Mrs. Adams came to confess to the three murders. But I did not want to make out checks or work on the germination records or go through catalogues. My problem was to stay awake without having anything to keep my eyes open, and it was even tougher after Wolfe went up to the plant rooms at four o’clock. For two solid hours only one notion occurred to me that had any attraction at all, to phone Mrs. Potter in Glendale and tell her I had got home safely, and I vetoed that because it might prove to be habit-forming. But by gum I stayed awake, if you can call it that.

  There was another call from Saul just before dinner, and again I was told to get off the line. Wolfe’s end of the chat was nothing but grunts. After dinner he told me to go to bed, and God knows I would have liked to, but I got stubborn and went for a walk instead. I dropped in at a movie, found myself getting fascinated with the idea of resting my head on the soft fat female shoulder next to me, jerked away, and got up and went home. It was a little after ten.

  Wolfe was at his desk, going through the stack of germination slips that had accumulated while I was away. I asked him, “Any more movement?”

  “No.”

  I gave up. “I might as well go up and lie down a while.” I went and twirled the knob of the safe. “I put the bolt on in front and I’ll check the back. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  The phone rang. I stepped to my desk and got it.

  “Nero Wolfe’s residence, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

  “I want to speak to Wolfe.”

  “Who is it, please?”

  “James A. Corrigan.”

  I covered the transmitter and told Wolfe, “Corrigan. He sounds hoarse and harassed. Do you care to speak to him?”

  Wolfe took his instrument, and I put mine back at my ear.

  “This is Nero Wolfe. Mr. Corrigan?”

  “Yes. I’ve mailed you a letter, but you’re responsible for this, so I think you ought to hear it. I hope you’ll hear it in your dreams the rest of your life. This is it. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Here it goes.”

  It busted my eardrum, or felt like it. It was a combination of a
roar and a smack. By reflex my wrist moved the receiver away, then I moved it back. There was a confused clatter and a sort of thump, then nothing. I told the transmitter, “Hello, hello!”

  Nothing. I cradled it and turned. Wolfe was sitting with the instrument dangling from his hand, scowling at me.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Well yourself. How do I know? I suppose he shot himself.”

  “Where was he?”

  I sneered. “Do you think I staged it?”

  “There was a radio going.”

  “I heard it. ‘The Life of Riley.’ WNBC.”

  He replaced the phone, slow motion, and regarded me. “This is preposterous. I don’t believe it. Get Mr. Cramer.”

  I swiveled and dialed and got a voice. I asked for Cramer, and he wasn’t there. Neither was Stebbins. I got a sergeant named Auerbach, informed Wolfe, and he took it.

  “Mr. Auerbach? This is Nero Wolfe. Are you familiar with the Dykes-Wellman-Abrams case?”

  “Yes.”

  “And with the name James A. Corrigan?”

  “Yes, I know the name.”

  “I just had a phone call. The voice said it was James A. Corrigan, but it was husky and agitated and I can’t vouch for it. It said—I think you should put this down. Have you pencil and paper?”

  “In a second—okay, shoot.”

  “He said it was Corrigan, and then, quote, ‘You’re responsible for this, so I think you ought to hear it. I hope you’ll hear it in your dreams the rest of your life. This is it. Are you listening? Here it goes.’ Unquote. There came immediately the sound of an explosion, resembling a gunshot, and other confused noises, followed by silence except for the sound of a radio, which had been audible throughout. That’s all.”

  “Did he say where he was phoning from?”

  “I’ve told you all I know. As I said, that’s all.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At my home.”

  “You’ll be there if we want you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He hung up. So did Wolfe. So did I.

  “So your memory’s failing,” I observed. “You forgot that he said he had mailed you a letter.”

  “I like to see my mail first, without interference. Where does Mr. Corrigan live?”

  I got the Manhattan phone book, turned the pages, and found it. Then, to check, I went and unlocked the filing cabinet, got out the Wellman folder, and fingered through the papers. I announced, “Corrigan lives at One-forty-five East Thirty-sixth Street. Phelps lives at Three-seventeen Central Park West. Kustin lives at Nine-sixty-six Park Avenue. Briggs lives at Larchmont. O’Malley lives at Two-oh-two East Eighty-eighth.”

  I put the folder back and locked the cabinet. “Am I going to bed now?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. What, sit here and wait? Even if they find a corpse they might not get around to us until morning. It would take a taxi five minutes to go cross-town to Thirty-sixth and Lexington. The fare would be fifty cents including tip. If it’s a blank I can walk home. Do I go?”

  “Yes.”

  I went to the hall for my hat and coat, let myself out, and walked a block north. At Tenth Avenue I flagged a passing taxi, got in, and gave the driver the address.

  A radio car was double-parked in front of One-forty-five East Thirty-sixth, with no one in it. I entered the building. On the list of names on the wall of the vestibule, Corrigan was at the top, fifth. I went on in. It was an old private dwelling done over into apartments, with a self-service elevator. The elevator was there at that floor. From somewhere below came a faint sound of voices, but there was no one in sight. I opened the elevator door, entered, pushed the five button, and was lifted. When it stopped I emerged. There was only one door, at the right of the small hall, and standing at it was a cop.

  “Who are you?” he asked, not sociably.

  “Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to go to bed. Before I can do so I have to find out if we got imposed on. We reported this. The guy that lives here, so he said, phoned us and told us to listen, and then a gun went off or a good imitation of one. He didn’t hang up but he was gone, and we phoned Homicide. We don’t know if the phone call was from here, and I came to see.”

  “Why Homicide?”

  “This might be connected with a case they’re on. We have friends there—sometimes friends, sometimes enemies, you know how it is. Is your colleague inside?”

  “No. The door’s locked. He went down for the superintendent. What did the guy say on the phone?”

  “He just said we ought to hear something and told us to listen, and bang. May I put my ear to the door?”

  “What for?”

  “To listen to the radio.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of you. Full of gags. Should I laugh?”

  “No gags tonight, I’m too sleepy. We heard the radio on the phone, and I thought I’d check. If you don’t mind?”

  “Don’t touch the door or the knob.”

  “I won’t.”

  He stepped aside, and I got my ear close to the angle of the door and the jamb. Ten seconds was enough. As I listened there was another sound in the hall, the elevator starting down.

  I moved away. “Right. Bill Stern. WNBC.”

  “It was Bill Stern on the phone?”

  “No, but it was WNBC. ‘The Life of Riley.’ Bill Stern goes on at ten-thirty.”

  “The Yankees look good, don’t they?”

  I’m a Giant fan, but I wanted to get inside and had to be tactful. So I said, “They sure do. I hope Mantle comes through.”

  He did too, but he was skeptical. He thought these wonder boys seldom live up to their billing. He thought various other things, and was telling about them when the elevator returned and its door opened, and we had company. One was his colleague and the other was a little runt with very few teeth and a limp, wearing an old overcoat for a dressing gown. The cop, surprised at sight of me, asked his brother, “Who’s this, not precinct?”

  “No. Nero Wolfe’s Archie Goodwin.”

  “Oh, him. How come?”

  “Save it. Hey, get away from that door! Gimme that key!”

  The runt surrendered it and backed off. The cop in command inserted the key and turned it, used his handkerchief to turn the knob, which made me suppress a snicker, pushed the door, and entered, with his colleague at his heels. I was right behind. We were in a narrow hall with a door at either end and one in the middle. The one at the right was open, and the cop headed for that and on through. Two steps inside he stopped, so I just made the sill.

  It was a fairly big living room, furnished comfortably by a man for a man. That was merely the verdict of one sweeping glance, for any real survey of the furniture, if required, would have to wait. On a table at the far side, between two windows, was the phone, with the receiver off, lying on the floor. Also on the floor, six inches from the receiver, was the head of James A. Corrigan, with the rest of him stretched out toward a window. A third item on the floor, a couple of feet from Corrigan’s hip, was a gun—from where I stood I would have said a Marley .32. The lights were on. Also on was a radio at the end of the table, with Bill Stern telling what he thought of the basketball stink. There was a big dark spot, nearly black at that distance, on Corrigan’s right temple.

  The cop crossed to him and squatted. In ten seconds, which wasn’t long enough, he got upright and spoke. “DOA.” There seemed to be a little shake in his voice, and he raised it. “We can’t use this phone. Go down and call in. Don’t break your neck.”

  The colleague went. The cop kept his voice up. “Can you see him from there, Goodwin? Come closer, but keep your hands off.”

  I approached. “That’s him. The guy that phoned. James. A. Corrigan.”

  “Then you heard him shoot himself.”

  “I guess I did.” I put one hand on my belly and the other on my throat. “I didn’t get any sleep la
st night and I’m feeling sick. I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  I wouldn’t have been able to get away with it if the radio hadn’t been going. It was plenty loud enough to cover my toe steps through the outer door, which was standing open, and in the hall to the door to the stairs. Descending the four flights, I listened a moment behind the door to the ground-floor hall, heard nothing, opened it, and passed through. The runt was standing by the elevator door, looking scared. He said nothing, and neither did I, as I crossed to the entrance. Outside I turned right, walked the half short block to Lexington Avenue and stopped a taxi, and in seven minutes was climbing out in front of Wolfe’s house.

  When I entered the office I had to grin. Wolfe’s current book was lying on his desk, and he was fussing with the germination slips. It was comical. He had been reading the book, and, when the sound came of me opening the front door, he had hastily ditched the book and got busy with the germination slips, just to show me how difficult things were for him because I hadn’t made the entries from the slips on the permanent record cards. It was so childish I couldn’t help grinning.

  “May I interrupt?” I asked politely.

  He looked up. “Since you’re back so soon I assume you found nothing of interest.”

  “Sometimes you assume wrong. I’m back so soon because a flock of scientists would be coming and I might have been kept all night. I saw Corrigan. Dead. Bullet through his temple.”

  He let the slips in his hand drop to the desk. “Please report.”

  I did so, in full, including even the cop’s thoughts about the Yankees. Wolfe was scowling some when I started and a lot more by the time I finished. He asked a few questions, sat a while tapping with a forefinger on the arm of his chair, and suddenly blurted at me, “Was the man a nincompoop?”

  “Who, the cop?”

  “No. Mr. Corrigan.”

  I lifted my shoulders and dropped them. “In California he wasn’t exactly brilliant, but I wouldn’t say a nincompoop. Why?”

  “It’s absurd. Totally. If you had stayed there you might have got something that would give some light.”