“Of course.”
“Did you know this too? He told me—a week ago today, I think it was. His aunt put it to him, reform or out on the street, and he told her he was secretly working for the FBI, spying on the Commies, but he wasn’t. He thought the FBI was practically the Gestapo. I told him he shouldn’t—”
“That’s a lie!”
Mrs. Rackell didn’t shout but she put lots of feeling in it. All eyes went to her. Her husband got up and put a hand on her shoulder. There were murmurs.
“That’s an infamous lie,” she said. “My nephew was a patriotic American. More than you are, all of you. All of you!” She left her chair. “I’ve had enough of this. I shouldn’t have come. Come, Ben, we’re going.”
She marched out. Rackell muttered to Wolfe, “A shock for her—a real shock—I’ll phone you—” and trotted after her. I went to the hall to let them out, but she had already opened the door and was on the stoop, and Rackell followed. I shut the door and went back to the office.
They were buzzing. Fifi had started them talking, all right. Wolfe was refilling his glass, watching the foam rise. I crossed to Fifi and took her glass and went to the table to replenish it, thinking she had earned a little service. She was the center of the buzzing, supplying the details of her revelation. She was sure Arthur had not been stringing her; he had told her in strict confidence, at a place and time she declined to specify, that he had told his aunt a barefaced lie—that he was working for the FBI and it must not be known. No, she hadn’t told the police. She didn’t like the police, especially a Lieutenant Rowcliff, who had questioned her three times and was a lout.
I looked and listened and tried to decide if Fifi was putting on an act. She was hard to tag. Was one of the others covering, and if so which one? I reached no conclusion and had no hunch. They were all interested and inquisitive, even Delia Devlin, though she didn’t address Fifi directly.
The only one who knew I was there was Carol Berk, who sent me a slanting glance and saw me catch it. I raised a brow at her. “What is it, a pitchout?”
“You name it.” She smiled, the way she might smile at a panhandler, humane but superior. “Why, who’s on base?”
I decided it right then, she was worth looking at, if for nothing else, to find out what she was keeping back. “They’re loaded,” I told her. “Five of you. It’s against the rules. The umpire won’t allow it. Mr. Wolfe is the umpire.”
“He looks to me more like the backstop,” she said indifferently.
I saw that it might be necessary, if events permitted, to find an opportunity to spend enough time with her to make it clear that I didn’t like her.
All of a sudden Fifi Goheen let fly again. Returning from the bar with her second refill, she brought the bottle of Scotch along and poured a good three fingers in Wolfe’s beer glass. She put the bottle on his desk, leaned over to stretch an arm and pat him on top of the head, straightened up, and grinned at him.
“Get high,” she said urgently.
He glared at her.
“Do a flip,” she commanded.
He glared.
“It’s a damn shame,” she declared. “The cops aren’t speaking to you, and here you’re buying the drinks and we’re not even sociable. Why shouldn’t we tell you what the cops have already found out? If they’re any good they have. Take Miss Devlin here.” She waved a hand. “Dozens of people will tell you that she would have got Hank Heath to make it legal long ago if Arthur hadn’t told him something about her, God knows what. Any woman would kill a man for that. And—”
“Shut up, Fee!” Leddegard barked at her.
“Let her rave,” Delia Devlin said, white-faced.
Fifi ignored them. “And Mr. Leddegard, who is a dear friend of mine, with him it’s a question of his wife—don’t be a fool, Leddy. Everybody knows it.” Back to Wolfe. “She went to South America with Arthur a couple of years ago and caught a disease and died there. I have no idea why Mr. Leddegard waited so long to kill him.”
She drained her glass and put it on the desk. “This Arthur Rackell,” she said, “was quite a guy, of his kind. Carol Berk and I discovered only a month ago that he was driving double, by a little mischance I’d rather not describe. It was quite embarrasing. I don’t know how she felt about it, you can ask her, but I know about me. All I needed was the poison, and all you need is to find out how I got it. I understand that potassium cyanide is used for a lot of things and is easy to get if you really want it. Then there’s Hank Heath. He thought Arthur had me taped, which was true in a way, but would a man kill another man just to get a woman, even one as pure and beautiful as me? You can ask him. No, I’ll ask him.”
She wheeled. “Would you, Hank?” She wheeled again to Wolfe. “As you see, that was quite a dinner party Arthur got up, but he doesn’t deserve all the credit. I dared him to. I wanted a good audience, one that would appreciate—hey, that hurts!”
Heath was beside her, gripping her arm. She jerked away and bumped into Delia Devlin, also out of her chair. Carol Berk said something, and so did Leddegard. Heath spoke to Wolfe. “This is a joke, and it’s not funny.”
Wolfe’s brows went up. “It’s not my joke, sir.”
“You asked us to come here.” His voice was soft but very sour, and his glassy eyes looked about ready to pop out of his round pudgy face. “Miss Goheen has been making a fool of you, and there—”
“I have not!” Fifi was back, at his elbow. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she told Wolfe. “You know, there’s something about you, fat as you are.” She reached to pick up the glass of beer and Scotch. “Open your mouth and I’ll—hey! Where you going?”
She got no reply. Out of his chair and headed for the door, Wolfe kept on, turning left in the hall, toward the kitchen.
That ended the party. They made remarks, especially Leddegard and Heath, and I was sympathetic as I wrangled them into the hall and on to the front. I went out and stood on the stoop as they descended to the sidewalk and headed for Tenth Avenue, just to see, but by the time they had gone fifty paces no furtive figures had sneaked out of areaways along the line, so I thought what the hell and went back in. A glance in the office showed me it was empty, and I went on to the kitchen.
Fritz was pouring something thick into a big stone jar. Wolfe stood watching him, a slice of sturgeon in one hand and a glass of beer in the other. His mouth was occupied.
I attacked head on. “I admit,” I said, “that she was set to toss it at you, but I was there to help wipe it off. What good does it do to duck? There are at least eighty-six things you have to know before you can even start, and you had them there and didn’t even try. My vacation starts next Monday. And what about your rule on not eating at bedtime?”
He swallowed. He drank beer, put the glass and the sturgeon on the table, reached to a shelf for a Bursatto melon, got a knife from the rack, cut the melon open, and began spooning the seeds onto a plate.
“The precise moment,” he said. “Do you want some?”
“Certainly not,” I said coldly. The peach-colored meat was so juicy there was a little pool in each half, and a breeze from the open window carried the smell to me. I reached for one of the halves, got a spoon, scooped out a bite—and another …
Wolfe never talks business during meals, but this was not a meal. In the middle of his melon he remarked, “For us the past is impossible.”
I darted my tongue to catch a drop of juice. “Oh. It is?”
“Yes. It would take an army. The police and the FBI have already had four days for it. The source of the poison. Mrs. Kremp. Mrs. Rackell’s surmise of the motive. Mr. Heath is presumbably a Communist, but what about the others? Anyone might be a Communist, just as anyone might have a hidden carcinoma.”
He scooped a bite of melon and dealt with it. “What of the motives suggested by that fantastic female buffoon? Are any of them authentic, and if so which one or ones? That alone would need a regiment. As for the police and the FBI, we have nothing to barg
ain with. Are they all Communists? Were they all in on it? Must we expose not one murderer but five? All those questions and others would have to be answered. How long would it take?”
“A year ought to do it.”
“I doubt it. The past is hopeless. There’s too much of it.”
I raised my shoulders and let them drop. “Okay, you don’t have to rub it in. So we cross it off. Do I draw a check to Rackell for his three grand tonight or wait till morning?”
“Have I asked you to draw a check?”
“No, sir.”
He picked up the slice of sturgeon and took a bite. He never skimped on his chewing, and it took him a good four minutes to finish. Meanwhile I disposed of my melon.
“Archie,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“How does Mr. Heath feel about Miss Goheen?”
“Well.” I considered. “There are different ways of putting it. I would say something like you would feel about a dish of stewed terrapin with sherry—within your sight and smell—if you thought you knew how it would taste but had never had any.”
He grunted. “Don’t be fanciful. It’s a serious question in a field where you are qualified as an expert and I’m not. Is his appetite deeply aroused? Would he take a risk for her?”
“I don’t know how he is on risks, but I saw how he looked at her and how he reacted when she touched him. Also I saw Delia Devlin, and so did you. I would say he would try crossing a high shaky bridge with a wind blowing, but not unless it had rails.”
“That was the impression I got. We’ll have to try it.”
“Try what?”
“A shove. A dig in their ribs. If their past is too much for us, their future isn’t, or shouldn’t be. We’ll have to try it. If it doesn’t work we’ll try again.” He was scowling. “The best I can give it is one chance in twenty. Confound it, it requires the cooperation of Mrs. Rackell, so I’ll have to see her again; that can’t be helped.”
He scooped a bite of melon. “You’ll need some instructions. I’ll finish this, and we’ll go to the office.”
He put the bite where it belonged and concentrated on his taste buds.
IV
IT DIDN’T work out as scheduled. The program called for getting Mrs. Rackell to the office at eleven o’clock the next morning, Thursday, but when I phoned a little before nine the maid said it was too early to disturb her. At ten she hadn’t called back, and I tried again and got her. I explained that Wolfe had an important confidential question to put to her, and she said she would be at the office not later than eleven-thirty. Shortly before eleven she phoned again to say that she had called her husband at his office, and it had been decided if the question was important and confidential they should both be present to consider it. Her husband would be free for an hour or so after lunch but had a four-o’clock appointment he would have to keep. We finally settled for six o’clock, and I called Rackell at his office and confirmed it.
Henry Jameson Heath was on the front page of the Gazette again that morning, not in connection with homicide. Once more he had refused to disclose the names of contributors to the fund for bail for the indicted Communists and apparently he was going to stick to it no matter how much contempt he rolled up. The day’s installment on the Rackell murder was on page seven, and there wasn’t enough meat in it to feed a cricket. As for me, after an hour at the phone, locating Saul Panzer and Fred Durkin and Orrie Cather and passing them the word, I might as well have gone to the ball game. Wolfe had given me plenty of instructions, but I couldn’t act on them until and unless the clients agreed to string along.
Mrs. Rackell arrived first, at six on the dot. A minute later Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, and she started in on him. She had the idea that he was responsible for Fifi Goheen’s slanderous lie about her dead nephew, since it had been uttered in his office, and what did he propose to do about it? Why didn’t he have her arrested? Wolfe controlled himself fairly well, but his tone was beginning to get sharp when the doorbell rang and I beat it to the front to let Rackell in. He jogged past me to the office on his short legs, nodded at Wolfe, kissed his wife on the cheek, dropped onto a chair, wiped his long narrow face with a handkerchief, and asked wearily, “What is it? Did you get anywhere with them?”
“No.” Wolfe was short. “Not to any conclusion.”
“What’s this important question?,”
“It’s blunt and simple. I need to know whether you want the truth enough to pay for it, and if so how much.”
Rackell looked at his wife. “What’s he talking about?”
“We haven’t discussed it,” Wolfe told him. “We’ve been considering a point your wife raised, which I regard as frivolous. This question of mine—perhaps I should call it a suggestion. I have one to offer.”
“What?”
“First I’ll give you the basis for it.” Wolfe leaned back and half closed his eyes. “You heard me tell those five people yesterday why it is assumed that one of them substituted the capsules. On that assumption, after further talk with them, I stack another: that it is highly improbable that the substitution could have been made, under the circumstances as established, entirely unobserved. It would have required a coincidence of remarkable dexterity and uncommon luck, and I will not accept such a coincidence except on weighty evidence. So, assuming that the substitution was made in the restaurant, I also assume, for a test at least, that one of the others saw it and knows who did it. In short, that there was an eyewitness to the murder.”
Rackell’s mournful face did not light up with interest. His lips were puckered, making the droop at the corners more pronounced. “That may be,” he conceded, “but what good does it do if he won’t talk?”
“I propose to make him talk. Or her.”
“How?”
Wolfe rubbed his chin with a thumb and forefinger. His eyes moved to Mrs. Rackell and back to the husband. “This sort of thing,” he said, “requires delicacy, discretion, and reticence. I’ll put it this way. I will not conspire to get a man punished for a crime he did not commit. It is true that all five of those people may be Communists and therefore enemies of this country, but that does not justify framing one of them for murder. My purpose is clear and innocent—to expose the real murderer and bring him to account; and I suggest a devious method only because no other seems likely to succeed. Evidently the police, after five days on it, are up a tree, and so is the FBI—if it is engaged, and you think it is. I want to earn my fee, and I wouldn’t mind the kudos.”
Rackell was frowning. “I still don’t know exactly what you’re suggesting.”
“I know it; I’ve been long-winded. I didn’t want you to misunderstand.” Wolfe came forward in his chair and put his palms on the desk. “The eyewitness is obviously reluctant. I suggest that you consent to provide twenty thousand dollars, to be paid only if my method succeeds. That will cover my fee for the unusual service I will render and also any extraordinary expense I may incur. Two things must be understood: you approve the expenditure in your interest, and the express purpose is to catch the guilty person.” He upturned his palms. “There it is.”
“My God. Twenty thousand.” Rackell shook his head. “That’s a lot of money. You mean you want a check for that amount now?”
“No. To be paid if and when earned. An oral commitment will do. Mr. Goodwin hears us and has a good memory.”
Rackell opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked at his wife. He looked back at Wolfe. “Look here,” he said earnestly, “maybe I’m thickheaded. It sounds to me as if what this amounts to is bribing a witness. With my money.”
“Don’t be a fool, Ben,” his wife said sharply.
“I think you misunderstand,” Wolfe told him. “To bribe is to influence corruptly by some consideration. Anyone who receives any of your money through me will get it only as an inducement to tell the truth. Influence, yes. Corrupt, surely not. As for the amount, I don’t wonder that you hesitate. It’s quite a sum, but I wouldn’t und
ertake it for less.”
Rackell looked at his wife again. “What did you mean, Pauline, don’t be a fool?”
“I meant you’d be a fool not to do it, of course.” She felt so strongly about it that her lips moved. “It was you who wanted to come to Mr. Wolfe in the first place, and now when he really wants to do something you talk about bribing. If it’s the money, I have plenty of my own and I’ll pay—” She stopped abruptly, tightening her lips. “I’ll pay half,” she said. “That’s fair enough; we’ll each pay half.” She went to Wolfe. “Who is it, that Goheen woman?”
Wolfe ignored her. He asked Rackell, “Well, sir? How about it?”
Rackell didn’t like it. He avoided his wife’s gaze, but he knew it was on him, and it was pressing. He even looked at me, as if my eye might somehow help, but I was deadpan. Then he returned to Wolfe.
“All right,” he said.
“You accept the proposal as I made it?”
“Yes. Only I’ll pay it. I’d rather not—I’d rather pay it myself. You said to be paid if and when earned. Who decides whether you’ve earned it or not?”
“You do. I doubt if that will be a bone to pick.”
“A question my wife asked—do you know who the eyewitness is?”
“Your wife was witless to ask it. If I knew would I tell you? Or would you want me to? Now?”
Rackell shook his head. “No, I guess not. No, I can see that it’s better just to let you—” He left it hanging. “Is there anything else you want to say about it?”
Wolfe said there wasn’t. Rackell got up and stood there as if he would like to say something but didn’t know what. I arose and moved toward the door. I didn’t want to be rude to a client who had just bought a suggestion that would cost him twenty grand, but now that he had okayed it I had a job to do and I wanted to get going. I still didn’t know where Wolfe thought he was headed for, but the sooner I got started on my instructions the sooner I would know. They finally came, and I went ahead and opened the front door for them. She held his elbow going down the stoop. I shut the door and rejoined Wolfe in the office.
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