by Rex Stout
"Nero Wolfe?" she asked. I nodded. "His house." "I want to see him. I'm Ellen Yeager. Mrs. Thomas G. Yeager." When a caller comes without an appointment, I am supposed to leave him on the stoop until I consult Wolfe, and I do, but this was a crisis. Not only were we up a stump; there was even a chance that Wolfe would be pigheaded enough to try that cockeyed stunt with the Perez family if he wasn't sidetracked. So I invited her to enter, led her to the office and on in, and said, "Mr. Wolfe, Mrs. Yeager. Mrs. Thomas G. Yeager." He glared at me. "I wasn't informed that I had an appointment." "No, sir. You didn't." "I didn't stop to phone," Ellen Yeager said. "It's urgent." She went to the red leather chair and took it as if she owned it, put her bag on the stand, and aimed sharp little eyes at Wolfe. "I want to hire you to do something." She reached for the bag, opened it, and took out a checkfold. "How much do you want as a retainer?" Client number four, not counting the phony Yeager. When I go scouting for clients I get results. She was going on. "My husband was murdered, you know about that. I want you to find out who killed him and exactly what happened, and then I will decide what to do about it. He was a sick man, he was oversexed, I know all about that. I've kept still about it for years, but I'm not going to let it keep me from--" Too Many Clients 95 Wolfe cut in. "Shut up," he commanded. She stopped, astonished. "I'm blunt," he said, "because I must be. I can't let you rattle off confidential information under the illusion that you are hiring me. You aren't and you can't. I'm already engaged to investigate the murder of your husband." "You are not," she declared. "Indeed?" "No. You're engaged to keep it from being investigated, to keep it from coming out, to protect that corporation, Continental Plastic Products. One of the directors has told me all about it. There was a meeting of the board this morning, and Benedict Aiken told them what he had done and they approved it. They don't care if the murderer of my husband is caught or not. They don't want him caught. All they care about is the corporation. I'll own a block of stock now, but that doesn't matter. They can't keep me from telling the District Attorney about that room if I decide to." "What room?" "You know perfectly well what room. In that house on Eighty-second Street where Julia McGee went last night and you got her and brought her here. Benedict Aiken told the board about it, and one of them told me." Her head jerked to me. "Are you Archie Goodwin? I want to see that room. When will you take me there?" She jerked back to Wolfe. That's a bad habit, asking a question and not waiting for an answer, but it's not always bad for the askee. She opened the checkfold. "How much do you want as a retainer?" She was impetuous, no question about that, but she was no fool, and she didn't waste words. She 96 Rex Stout didn't bother to spell it out: and if Wolfe tried to do what she thought he had been hired to do, clamp a lid on it, she could queer it with a phone call to the DA's office, and therefore he had to switch to her. He leaned back and clasped his fingers at the center of his frontal mound. "Madam, you have been misinformed. Archie, that paper Mr. Aiken signed. Let her read it." I went and got it from the cabinet and took it to her. To read it she got glasses from her bag. She took the glasses off. "It's what I said, isn't it?" "No. Read it again. Archie, the typewriter. Two carbons." I sat, pulled the machine around, arranged the paper with carbons, and inserted them. "Yes, sir." "Single-spaced, wide margins. The date. I, comma, Mrs. Thomas G. Yeager, comma, hereby engage Nero Wolfe to investigate the circumstances of the death of my late husband. The purpose of this engagement is to make sure that my husband's murderer is identified and exposed, comma, and Wolfe is to make every effort to achieve that purpose. If in doing so a conflict arises between his obligation under this engagement and his obligation under his existing engagement with Continental Plastic Products it is understood that he will terminate his engagemeent with Continental Plastic Products and will adhere to this engagement with me. It is also understood that I will do nothing to interfere with Wolfe's obligation to Continental Plastic Products without giving him notice in advance."
He turned to her. "No retainer is necessary; I have none from Mr. Aiken. Whether I bill you or not, and for what amount, will depend. I wouldn't FR1;Too Many Clients 97 expect a substantial payment from two separate clients for the same services. And I would expect none at all from you if, for instance, I found that you killed your husband yourself." "You wouldn't get any. There was a time when I felt like killing him, but that was long ago when the children were young." She took the original from me and put on her glasses to read it. "This isn't right. When you find out who killed him you tell me and I decide what to do." "Nonsense. The People of the State of New York will decide what to do. In the process of identifying him to my satisfaction and yours I will inevitably get evidence, and I can't suppress it. Archie, give her a pen." "I'm not going to sign it. I promised my husband I would never sign anything without showing it to him." A corner ofWolfe's mouth went up--his version of a smile. He was always pleased to get support for his theory that no woman was capable of what he called rational sequence. "Then," he asked, "shall I rewrite it, for me to sign? Committing me to my part of the arrangement?" "No." She handed me the papers, the one Aiken had signed and the one she hadn't. "It doesn't do any good to sign things. What counts is what you do, not what you sign. How much do you want as a retainer?" He had just said he didn't want one. Now he said. "One dollar." Apparently that struck her as about right. She opened her bag, put the checkfold in it, took out a purse, got a dollar bill from it, and left the chair to �ri i'-'.'aft.iKs, '^ '. .y;r.?; ^ .^ .a/yf^o ;h^ ^^^'^''y-h- ^?i.f.Arr1.;,. . ll^i^^^^^'"^^.^^^ ^'"�^;;
he coverlet again, I let my eyes glance around. Unquestionably the place had a definite appeal. It would have been an interesting and instructive experiment to move in and see how long it would take to get used to it, especially a couple of pictures across from the-- But I had work to do. Fred was in a yellow silk chair, at ease, with a glass of champagne in his hand, Too Many Clients 111 and on a couch facing him, also with a glass of champagne, was a female who went with the surroundings much better than either Meg Duncan or Julia McGee, though of course they hadn't been relaxed on a couch. This one was rather small, all curves but not ostentatious, and the ones that caught your eye and held it were the curves of her lips--her wide, but not too wide, full mouth. As I approached she extended a hand. "I know you," she said. "I've seen you at the Flamingo. I made a man mad once saying I wanted to dance with you. When Fred said Archie Goodwin was coming I had to sit down to keep from swooning. You dance like a dream." I had taken the offered hand. Having shaken hands with five different murderers on previous occasions, I thought one more wouldn't hurt if it turned out that way. "I'll file that," I told her. "If we ever team up for a turn I'll try not to trample you. Am I intruding? Are you and Fred old friends?" "Oh no, I never saw him before. It just seems silly to call a man Mister when you're drinking champagne with him. I suggested the champagne." "She put it in the freezer," Fred said, "and she opened it, and why waste it? I don't like it much, you know that." "No apology needed. If she calls you Fred, what do you call her?" "I don't call her. She said to call her Dye. I was just waiting for you." On the couch, at arm's length from her, was a leather bag shaped like a box. I was close enough so that all I had to do to get it was bend and stretch an arm. Her hand darted out, but too late, and I had it. 112 Rex Stout As I backed up a step and opened it, all she said was, "That's not nice, is it?" "I'm only nice when I'm dancing." I went to the end of the couch and removed items one by one, putting them on the couch. There were only two things with names on them, an opened envelope addressed to Mrs. Austin Hough, 64 Eden Street, New York 14, and a driver's license, Dinah Hough, same address, thirty, five feet two inches, white, brown hair, hazel eyes. I put everything back in, closed the bag, and replaced it on the couch near her. "I left the gun at home," she said, and took a sip of champagne. "That was sensible. I only wanted to know how to spell Di. I may be able to save you a little trouble, Mrs. Hough. Nero Wolfe wants to see anyone who comes to this room and has keys to the door downstairs and the elevator--by the way, I left them in your bag--but if we went there now he'd be just starting lunch and you'd have to wait. We might as well discuss matters here while you finish the champagne." "Will you have some? The bottle's in the refrigerator."
