When I entered the office at 6:22, he was at his desk working on the Double-Crostic in the Times, and of course I didn’t interrupt. I took my jacket off and draped it on the back of my chair, loosened my tie, went to the safe and got the checkbook and took it to my desk, and got interested in the stubs for the month of June. That was a flank attack all right. In a few minutes, maybe eight, he looked up and frowned at me and asked, “What’s the balance now?”
“It depends,” I said. I twisted around to get Exhibit A from my jacket pocket and rose and handed it across. He read it, taking his time, dropped it on the desk, narrowed his eyes at me, and said, “Grrr.”
“She changed the fifty to sixty-five herself,” I said. “That heading could have been Archie Goodwin has sixty-five thousand instead of Nero Wolfe. She didn’t actually suggest it, but she thinks I’m pretty good. She said so. When I told her you were quitting and handed her the check, she said. ‘How much did Browning pay him?’ I told her that if I talked for five hours I might be able to convince her that you wouldn’t double-cross a client, but actually I doubt it. You may not give a damn what she thinks of my employer, but I do. I brought her to you. She said things and I said things, and when it became evident that nothing else would convince her, I went to a typewriter and wrote that. I don’t claim the wording is perfect. I am not Norman Mailer.”
“Bah. That peacock? That blowhard?”
“All right, make it Hemingway.”
“There was a typewriter there?”
“Sure. It was the big room on the fourth floor where apparently she does everything but eat and sleep. As you see, the paper is a twenty-pound bond at least half rag. Yours is only twenty percent rag.”
He gave it a look, a good look, and I made a note to pat myself on the back for not doing it on my typewriter. “I admit,” I said, “that I didn’t try to talk her out of it. I certainly did not. In discussing it I told her that I thought it would work, that it’s ten to one that someone knows something that would crack it open, and that fifty grand is a lot of bait. That was before she changed it to sixty-five. This is a long answer to your question, What’s the balance? As I said, it depends. I brought the check back, but it would only cost eight cents to mail it. If we do, the balance will be a little under six thousand dollars. There was the June fifteenth income tax payment. I’m not badgering you, I’m just answering your question. But I’ll permit myself to mention that this way it would not be a frantic squawk for someone to pull you out of a mudhole. I will also mention that if I phone her that the ad—correction, advertisement—has been placed, she will mail another check. For sixty-five thousand. She would make it a million if it would help. As of now nothing else on earth matters to her.”
What he did was typical, absolutely him. He didn’t say “Very well” or “Tear the check up” or even “Confound it.” He picked the thing up, read it slowly, scowling at it, put it to one side under a paper weight, said “I’m doing some smoked sturgeon Muscovite. Please bring a bottle of Madeira from the cellar,” and picked up the Double-Crostic.
14
the ad was on page 6 of the Times Tuesday morning and page 9 of the Gazette that afternoon—two columns, bold face, with plenty of space all around—and two more conditions had been added:
The $65,000 may all be paid to one person, or it may be divided among two or more people.
The $65,000 or any part of it will be paid only for information, not for a suggestion, conjecture, or theory.
The other conditions, with only three words changed, followed.
We had discussed a certain probability and decided nothing could be done about it. Would Homicide South see the ad? Sure. Would they keep an eye, several eyes, on our front door to see who came? Sure again. Then what? They would horn in on our investigation of a murder. They would try to get for nothing what our client had offered $65,000 for. They would probably even put a tap on our phone, and the scientists have done such wonders for mankind that you can no longer tell whether your wire has been tapped or not. I admit science works both ways; we intended to record all conversations with callers, either in person or by phone. Also, with the bank balance fat again, we had reserves ready. Saul and Fred and Orrie were back, and at two P.M. Tuesday they were in the front room playing pinochle.
The very first one was wild. There had been four phone calls, but they had all been obvious screwballs. The first one in the flesh rang the doorbell a little before three o’clock. Through the oneway glass panel in the front door, he looked like a screwball too, but I opened the door and he handed me a card—a small blue card with a name on it in fancy dark blue letters: Nasir ibn Bekr. Okay, a foreign screwball, but I let him in. He was slim and wiry, he came about up to my chin, his hair and face and eyes were all very dark, and his nose would have gone with a man twice his size. On that warm June day his jacket was buttoned and the collar of his blue shirt was limp. When I turned after closing the door, he handed me a piece of paper, the ad clipped from the Times, and said, “I will see Mr. Nero Wolfe.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “He’s busy. You have information?”
“I am not sure. I may have.”
Not a screwball. Screwballs are sure. I asked him to wait, motioning to the bench, took the card to the office and handed it to Wolfe, and was told to bring him, but I didn’t have to. He was there, right behind me. The big Keraghan in the office is thick, but there’s no rug in the hall; he was the silent type. He should be closer to me than the red leather chair, so I blocked it off and motioned to the yellow one near the corner of my desk. Then I went and closed the door to the hall, for a reason. The arrangement was that when I admitted a visitor and intended to show him to the office, I would notify the trio by tapping on the door to the front room. When I had got the visitor to the office, I would close that door so that they would not be seen as they went down the hall to the alcove at the kitchen end, and they would take a look at the visitor through the peephole that was covered on the office side by a trick picture of a waterfall. They would also listen. As I crossed back to my desk, Nasir ibn Bekr said, “Of course this is being recorded,” and I said, “Then I won’t have to take notes.”
Wolfe said, “The conditions in the advertisement are clear?”
He nodded. “Certainly. Perfectly clear. The information I have, it is my personal knowledge, but its worth is for you to determine. I must ask a question. We find nothing in your record to indicate clearly your position regarding the situation in the Near East. Are you anti-Zionist?”
“No.”
He turned to me. “Are you?”
“No. My only objection to Jews is that one of them is as good a poker player as I am. Sometimes a little better.”
He nodded. “They have learned how to use guile. They have had to.” To Wolfe: “Perhaps you know that there are Arab terrorists—mostly Palestinians—active in this country, mostly in Washington and New York.”
“It is said that there are, yes.”
“It is not just said. There are. I am one.” He unbuttoned the top button of his jacket, slipped his hand in, and brought out a small brown envelope. From it he got a folded paper. He rose to hand it to Wolfe, but terrorists are in my department and I moved fast enough to get a hand to it first. As I unfolded it, he sat and said. “That is the names of five men, but I am not sure it is their real names. It is the only names I know for them. We meet every week, once a week, on Sunday afternoon, in an apartment in Jackson Heights. That is the address and telephone number. Armad Qarmat lives there. I do not have addresses for the others. As you see, my name is not there. I have printed them because with names like ours that is better than writing.”
I had given it a look and handed it to Wolfe.
“I see you have television,” Nasir ibn Bekr said. “Perhaps you saw a program on CAN in May, May seventh, ‘Oil and Mecca.’”
Wolfe shook his head. “I turn on the television rarely, only to confirm my opinion of it.” Not having been asked, I didn’t say that
I had seen the “Oil and Mecca” program at Lily Rowan’s.
“It was a full hour,” the terrorist said. “It was partly a documentary in pictures of the production of oil in Arab countries, but it was also a commentary. It did not say that the existence and welfare of Israel were of more importance to civilization, and of course to democracy, than the Arabian oil, but it strongly implied that. It was definitely anti-Arabian and pro-Israel. That was a Wednesday. The following Sunday we discussed it, and we wrote a letter to CAN demanding a retraction of the lies it told. The next Sunday Armad said there had been no answer to the letter, and he had learned that the man responsible for the program was a vice-president of CAN named Amory Browning. That was Sunday, May eighteenth. We decided that it was an opportunity to take action against the anti-Arabian propaganda in this country.”
His head turned to me and back to Wolfe. “I should explain that I became a member of the group only a year ago, not quite a year, and I am not yet completely in their confidence. Especially Armad Qarmat has not fully decided about me, and that is why I said I am not sure, I may have information. I do know they had three bombs, I saw them one day. In April. That Sunday, May eighteenth, one of them suggested using one of the bombs at the CAN office, and if possible the office of Amory Browning. There was some discussion, and I saw that Armad Qarmat stopped it on account of me. As I said, he has not fully accepted me. The next Sunday, May twenty-fifth, one of them spoke of the explosion of a bomb in Amory Browning’s office, killing Peter Odell, another vice-president, but Armad Qarmat said that should not be discussed. Since then there have been four meetings, four Sundays, and the bomb has not been mentioned.”
He tilted his head back and took a couple of breaths, then looked at me and back at Wolfe. “There,” he said, “I have told you. This morning I saw your advertisement. Sixty-five thousand dollars is a great deal of money. It will be better if I am frank. At first I thought I would give you more … more detail. More that was said, as I am sure it must have been said, when I was not present. But then I saw it would be better to tell you exactly how it was, and that is what I have done. The advertisement does not say you require proof.”
He slipped his hand inside his jacket, again produced the brown envelope, and took something from it. “In my position,” he said, “I have to consider the possibilities. This is a piece of a dollar bill that I tore in half. If you find that what I have told you is the information you ask for in your advertisement, and if I do not come to claim the sixty-five thousand dollars, it may be because I can’t. If I am dead, I can’t. In that case someone else will come, and if so he will have the other half of the dollar bill. Will that be satisfactory?” He put the piece of the bill on Wolfe’s desk, and I went and got it. It was a ragged tear. I handed it to Wolfe.
He cocked his head at the terrorist. “I suppose,” he said, “you speak Arabic.”
“Of course.”
“Arabic is spoken at your Sunday meetings?”
“Of course.”
“Fortunately. For you. Your attempt at speaking English as it would be spoken by a cultured Palestinian is inept. You shouldn’t try it. What is your real name?”
He didn’t bat an eye. “That wouldn’t help you,” he said. Then he asked a question. To me the words he used were only sounds, but I knew it was a question by the inflection.
“I did,” Wolfe said, “but long ago. Arabic is not one of my languages. I want your name because I may need to ask you something.”
Nasir ibn Bekr shook his head. “I have told you all I know that could help. This is a big risk for me, coming to you at all, and I will not add to it. You are right, Arabic is not my native tongue. My native tongue is Spanish. But my Arabic is good; it must be. I will say this, if something happens, if one of them says something that you should know, I will telephone or come.” He rose and buttoned the top button of his jacket, looked at me and back at Wolfe, and said, “I must thank you.”
“A moment,” Wolfe said. “This house is under surveillance. By the police. Mr. Goodwin will show you out—at the rear. There’s a passage through to Thirty-fourth Street.”
The terrorist shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. Thank you again, but I can’t be followed. No matter who tries, even in Baghdad or Cairo I can get loose.”
He moved, and I went to open the door. It would have been mildly interesting to step out to the stoop and see who came out from where, to tail him, but I didn’t want to give anyone the idea that we gave a damn. As I turned from shutting the front door, I called down the hall, “All clear!” and the trio appeared from the alcove and followed me into the office. They lined up at the end of Wolfe’s desk.
“Comments,” Wolfe said. “Fred?”
“I don’t think so,” Fred said. “How would he get in Browning’s room when no one was there, and why would he pick the bottom drawer?”
“Orrie?”
“The League of Jewish Patriots,” Orrie said.
“No,” Saul said, “he’s not the type. They’re all athletes. Of course he’s a Jew, but not that kind. I agree with Fred. His reasons, and also the timing. The bomb doesn’t have to be connected with the fact that that was the day they were going to decide on the new president, but it’s hard to believe that it wasn’t.”
“But it’s only ten to one,” I said. “Even if it’s twenty to one we have to give it a look.”
“Actually,” Wolfe said, “he is taking no risk. Even if he knows there is only one chance in a thousand, he is giving himself that chance to fill a purse.—Archie. Type this list of names, adding his name, and the address, and give it to Fred. Fred, you will see if it is worth an effort. Enter that apartment only with all possible precaution; it isn’t worth even the slightest hazard. Our usual understanding, of course. Further comments?”
There weren’t any. I swung the typewriter around, Fred sat, and Saul and Orrie went to the front room.
That’s a sample of what the ad brought us. I don’t say typical; it wasn’t. Of course if you advertised in those two papers that you had sixty-five grand to hand out, no matter what for, and your name and address were in the phone book, you would know you would get plenty of calls and callers, and the best we could expect was that just one of them would really have something. If what I was after was merely to fill pages, it would be easy to add a dozen or so with the next couple of days, up to 9:42 P.M. Thursday evening. Some of the items might even add to your knowledge of human nature—for instance, the middle-aged man in a spotless white suit and a bushy wig who had had a dream Tuesday night. He came Wednesday afternoon. In the dream a man had opened the bottom drawer of a desk and fastened, with tape, a small plastic box to the partition above the drawer, about nine inches back from the front. A thin copper wire about a foot long protruded from the end of the box. With the drawer open only a couple of inches he had taped the loose end of the wire to the inside of the front of the drawer, and closed it, and departed. If we would show him photographs of the men who had entered or might have entered Amory Browning’s room that day, he would tell us which one had put the box in the drawer, and he would so testify under oath. That was what made it really good, that he would testify without even being subpoenaed. Or the female star buff who phoned for an appointment and came Thursday morning—a skinny specimen with hollow cheeks and big dreamy eyes. If we would give her the birth dates of all the suspects she would supply information that would almost certainly do the trick.
There were three or four that Saul and Orrie spent some time and effort on. Fred had made no headway with the Arab terrorists.
To show you how low I was by Thursday evening after dinner, I’ll admit what I was doing. First, what I wasn’t doing. I was not at the poker table at Saul’s apartment. I was in no mood for being sociable, and I would probably have drawn to an inside straight. I was at my desk in the office, scowling at the entries in a little looseleaf book which I call The Nero Wolfe Backlog. It contained a list of certain items that were in his safe deposit box
at the Continental Trust Company, and I was considering which one or ones should be disposed of at the current market price if I was asked for a suggestion, as I would be soon if we got nothing better than Arab terrorists and dreamers and star buffs. Wolfe was at his desk with a book of stories by Turgenev, and that was bad too. When he’s low he always picks something that he has already read more than once.
When the doorbell rang, I glanced at my wrist watch as I rose, as usual. Sometimes it’s needed for the record. Eighteen minutes to ten. I went to the hall, flipped the switch of the stoop light, took a look, stepped back in the office, and said, “You’ll have to mark your place. It’s Dennis Copes.”
“You haven’t seen Dennis Copes.”
“No, but Saul described him.”
He shut the book without using the bookmark, and of course no dog ear, since it was Turgenev. I went and opened the front door, and the visitor said, “You’re Archie Goodwin,” and stepped right in as if I wasn’t there.
“And you’re—” I said.
“Copes. Dennis Copes. Not as famous as you, but I will be. Is your famous fat boss available?”
I was so damn glad to see him, to see someone who might actually have something to bite on, that I thought that on him the long hair and two-inch sideburns looked just fine. And when, in the office, he marched across and put out a hand, Wolfe took it. He seldom shakes hands with anybody, and never with strangers. He was low. As Copes sat he hitched his pants legs up—the nervous hands Saul had mentioned.
“That was a good ad,” he said. “‘Any person who communicates as a result of this advertisement thereby agrees to the above conditions.’ Very neat. What agency?”
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 45 Page 11
