Too Many Clients

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^^^^^'"^^.^^^ ^'"�^;; what?" Too Many Clients 103 "To find out who killed my husband. You didn't even find his body, and now all you do is follow me around, and this stuff about protecting me when there's nothing to protect me from. If I had anything to tell anybody I'd tell him, not you." She took a step. "Get out of the way; I'm going to see that man." "You're making a mistake, Mrs. Yeager. I want to know what you said to Wolfe." "Ask him." Seeing that Cramer wasn't going to move, she circled around him, headed for the hall. I followed her out and to the front. As I reached for the knob she came close, stretched her neck to get her mouth near my ear, and whispered, "When will you take me to see that room?" I whispered back, "As soon as I get a chance." I would have liked to stay at the door to see how she went about finding her tail, but if Cramer was going to blurt at Wolfe, "When did you take over that room on Eightysecond Street?" I wanted to be present, so I closed the door and went back to the office. Cramer wasn't blurting. He was in the red leather chair, the front half of it, with his feet planted flat. Wolfe was saying, ". . . and that is moot. I'm not obliged to account to you for my acceptance of a retainer unless you charge interference with the performance of your official duty, and can support the charge." "I wouldn't be here," Cramer said, "if I couldn't support it. It wasn't just the report that Mrs. Yeager was here that brought me. That would be enough, finding that you were sticking your nose into a murder investigation, but that's not all. I'm offering you a chance to cooperate by asking you a straight question: What information have you got 104 Rex Stout about Yeager that might help to identify the person that killed him?" So he knew about the room, and we were up a tree. I went to my desk and sat. It would be hard going, and probably the best thing for Wolfe to do would be to empty the bag and forget the clients. He didn't. He hung on. He shook his head. "You know better than that. Take a hypothesis. Suppose, for instance, that I have been informed in confidence that a certain person owed Yeager a large sum of money and Yeager was pressing for payment. That might help to identify the murderer, but I am not obliged to pass the information on to you unless I am confronted with evidence that it would help. Your question is straight enough, but it's impertinent, and you know it." "You admit you have information." "I admit nothing. If I do have information the responsibility of deciding whether I am justified in withholding it is mine--and the risk." "Risk my ass. With your goddam luck, and you talk about risk. I'll try a question that's more specific and maybe it won't be so impertinent. Why did Goodwin phone Lon Cohen at the Gazette at five o'clock Monday afternoon to ask for dope on Yeager, more than two hours before Yeager's body was found?" I tried to keep my face straight, and apparently succeeded, since Cramer has good eyes with a lot of experience with faces, and if my relief had shown he would have spotted it. Inside I was grinning. They hadn't found the room; they had merely got a tip from some toad at the Gazette and had put the screws on. Wolfe grunted. "That is indeed specific." Too Many Clients 105 "Yeah. Now you be specific. I've seen you often enough horn in on a murder case, that's nothing new, but by God this is the first time you didn't even wait until the body was found. How did you know he was dead?" "I didn't. Neither did Mr. Goodwin." Wolfe turned a hand over. "Mr. Cramer. I don't take every job that's offered to me. When I take one I do so to earn a fee, and sometimes it's necessary to take a calculated risk. I'm taking one now. It's true that someone, call him X, said something in this room Monday afternoon that caused Mr. Goodwin to phone Mr. Cohen for information about Thomas G. Yeager. But, first, nothing that X said indicated that he knew Yeager was dead, and it is our opinion that he did not know. Second, nothing that X said indicated that Yeager was in peril, that anyone intended to kill him or had any motive for killing him. Third, nothing that X said was the truth. We have discovered that every word he uttered was a lie. And since our conclusion that he didn't know Yeager was dead, and therefore he didn't kill him, is soundly based, I am justified in keeping his lies to myself, at least for the present. I have no information for you." "Who is X?" "I don't know." "Nuts. Is it Mrs. Yeager?" "No. I probably wouldn't name him even if I could, but I can't." Cramer leaned forward. "Calculated risk, huh? Justified. You are like hell. I remember too many--" The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it. "Nero Wolfe's offi--" 106 Rex Stout "I've got one, Archie." My fingers tightened around the phone, and I pressed it closer to my ear. Fred again: "That you, Archie?" "Certainly. I'm busy," If I told him to hold the wire and went to the kitchen, Cramer would step to my desk and pick it up. "I said I've got another one. Another woman." "I'm not sure that was sensible, Mr. Gerson. That might get you into serious trouble." "Oh. Somebody there?" "Certainly." Fred had good enough connections in his skull, but the service was a little slow. "I guess I'll have to, but I don't know how soon I can make it. Hold the wire a minute." I covered the transmitter and turned to Wolfe. "That damn fool Gerson has found his bonds and has got two of his staff locked in a room. He could get hooked for more damages than the bonds are worth. He wants me to come, and of course I ought to, but." Wolfe grunted. "You'll have to. The man's a nincompoop. You can call Mr. Parker from there if necessary." I uncovered the transmitter and told it, "All right, Mr. Gerson, I'm on my way. Keep them locked in till I get there." I hung up and went. At the curb in front was Cramer's car. Trading waves with the driver, Jimmy Burke, I headed east. There was no reason to suppose that Cramer had a tail posted on me, but I wasn't taking the thinnest chance of leading a city employee to 82nd Street. Getting a taxi on Ninth Avenue, I told the driver I would give directions as we went along. We turned right on 34th Street, right again on Eleventh Avenue, right again on 56th Street, and left on Tenth Too Many Clients 107 Avenue. By then I knew I was clear, but I kept an eye to the rear all the way to 82nd and Broadway. From there I walked. The hole was being filled in. There was no uniform around, and no one in sight who might be representing Homicide West or the DA's bureau. Turning in at the basement entrance of 156, using Meg Duncan's key, and going down the hall, I had no feeling of eyes on me, but as I approached the end Cesar Perez appeared at the kitchen door. "Oh, you," he said, and turned. "It's Mr. Goodwin." His wife came from inside. "There's a woman up there," she said. I nodded. "I came to meet her. Had you seen her before?" "No." She looked at her husband. "Cesar, we must tell him." "I don't know." Perez spread his hands. "You think better than I do, Felita. If you say so." Her black eyes came at me. "If you're not an honest man, may the good God send us help. Come in here." She moved. I didn't hesitate. Fred hadn't sounded on the phone as if he had any new scratches, and this pair might have something hot. I stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Perez went to the table and picked up a card and handed it to me. "That man came this morning," she said. It was the engraved card of a John Morton Seymour, with "Attorney at Law" in one corner and a midtown address in the other. "And?" I asked. "He brought this." She picked up an envelope from the table and offered it. "Look at it." It had been sealed and slit open. I took out a 110 Rex Stout quite a few people who already know it, including me, so I advise you not to take anything from that room, not a single thing, even if it's your property. I also advise you to stay here. I'm not saying who did the best thinking on that, but skipping out is the worst thing you could possibly do. -Yeager was killed up there, and you moved the body. If you slap it could even be that Mr. Wolfe will decide he has to tell the police about you, and it wouldn't take them long to find you, and swearing on a Bible wouldn't help you then." "They wouldn't find us," Mrs. Perez said. "Don't kid yourself. Smarter people than you have thought they could go where they couldn't be found, and it can't be done. Forget it. I have to go upstairs and see that woman. Please accept my congratulations on having a house all your own. May a cop never enter it." I was going, but she spoke. "If we go away, we'll tell you before we go." "We're not going," Perez said. "We're citizens of the United States of America." "That's the spirit," I said, and went to the elevator and pushed the button. It came, and I entered and was lifted. That bower of carnality grew on you. Emerging from the elevator and seeing that all was serene, that Fred hadn't had to use t
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."