“That will do, Archie.” Wolfe said that without bothering to glance at me; his eyes were on the caller. “Apparently, Mr Faber, Mr Goodwin doesn’t like you. Let’s disregard that. What can I do for you?”
“You can first,” said Faber in his perfect precise English, “instruct your subordinate to answer questions that are put to him.”
“I suppose I can. I’ll try it some time. What else can I do for you?”
“There is no discipline in your country, Mr Wolfe.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There are various kinds of discipline. One man’s flower is another man’s weed. We submit to traffic cops and the sanitary code and so on, but we are extremely fond of certain liberties. Surely you didn’t come here in order to discipline Mr Goodwin? Don’t try it; you’d soon get sick of the job. Forget it. Beyond that? . . .”
“I came to satisfy myself as to your position and intentions regarding Miss Neya Tormic.”
“Well.” Wolfe was keeping his voice oiled—controlling himself. “What is it in you that requires satisfaction? Your curiosity?”
“No. I am interested. I might be prepared, under certain conditions, to explain my interest, and you might find it profitable to help me advance it. I know your reputation, of course—and your methods. You’re expensive. What you want is money.”
“I like money, and I use a lot of it. Would it be your money, Mr Faber?”
“It would be yours after it was paid to you.”
“Quite right. What would I have to do to earn it?”
“I don’t know. It is an affair of urgency and it demands great discretion. That inspector of police who was here—can you satisfy me that you are not a secret agent of the police?”
“I couldn’t say. I don’t know how hard you are to satisfy. I can give you my word, but I know what it’s worth and you don’t. Before I went to a lot of trouble to establish my good faith, I would need satisfaction on a few points myself. Your own position and intentions, for instance. Is your interest a personal one in Miss Tormic, or is it—somewhat broader? And does it coincide with hers? It is at least, I suppose, not hostile to her, or you wouldn’t have established that alibi for her when she was threatened with a charge of murder. But exactly what is it?”
Rudolph Faber looked at me, with his thin lips thinner, and then said to Wolfe, “Send him out of the room.”
I started to deride him with a grin, knowing the reception that kind of suggestion always got, no matter who made it; but the grin froze on my face with amazement when I heard Wolfe saying calmly, “Certainly, sir. Archie, leave us, please.”
I was so damn flabbergasted and boiling I got up to go without a word. I guess I staggered. But when I was nearly to the door Wolfe’s voice from behind stopped me:
“By the way, we promised to phone Mr Green. You might do so from Mr Brenner’s room.”
So that was it. I might have known it. I said, “Yes, sir,” and went on out, closing the door behind me, and proceeded three paces towards the kitchen. Where I stopped there was hanging on the left wall, the one that separated the hall from the office, an old brown wood carving, a panel in three sections. The two side sections were hinged to the middle one. I swung the right section around, stooped a little—for it had been constructed at the level of Wolfe’s eyes—and looked through the peephole, camouflaged on the other side by a painting with the two little apertures backed by gauze, into the office. I could see them both, Faber’s profile and Wolfe’s full, and I mean full, face. Also I could hear their words, by straining a little, but it was obvious that they were both going on with the sparring with no prospect of getting anywhere, so I went to the kitchen. Fritz was there in his socked feet reading a newspaper, with his slippers beside him on another chair in case of summons. He looked up and nodded.
“Milk, Archie?”
“No. Keep it low. The hole’s uncovered. Tricks.”
“Ah!” His eyes gleamed. He loved conspiracies and sinister things. “Good case?”
“Case hell. The second World War. It started this afternoon up on 48th Street. We’d better not talk.”
I sat on the edge of the table for two minutes by my watch and then went to the house phone on the wall and buzzed the office. Wolfe answered.
“Well?”
“Mr Goodwin speaking. Green says he has got to talk with you.”
“I’m busy.”
“I told him that. He said what the hell.”
“You can give him the programme as well as I can, and the reports we got yesterday—”
“I told him that too. He says he wants to hear it from you. I’ll switch him on to your line.”
“No, no, don’t do that. Confound him anyway. You know I’m not alone—and that’s a confidential—tell him to hold the wire. He’s an unspeakable nuisance. I’ll come there and take it.”
“Okay.”
I hung up and tiptoed back to the wood carving in the hall. In a moment the office door opened and Wolfe came out and shut the door. He got to me fast, whispered to me, “Quick on the signal,” and glued his eyes to the peephole.
And I nearly missed connexions. Rudolph Faber must have been in a hurry. Wolfe hadn’t been at the peephole more than ten seconds before he jerked his hand up and waved it. I wasn’t supposed to jump or run, so I trod the three paces to the office door, giving my steps plenty of weight, and flung the door open and kept going on in. Faber, in an attitude of arrested motion, was standing across the room from where his chair was, with his back to the book shelves, but his hands were empty. He blinked at me once, but otherwise his face was impassive except for its inborn expression of superior and bullheaded meanness. With only one swift glance at him, I went to my desk and sat down, opened a drawer and took out a file of papers, and began going through them to look for something.
He didn’t say a word and neither did I. I finished going through the file and started on another one, and was prepared to continue with that indefinitely, but it wasn’t necessary. I was half-way through the second one when noises filtered in through the door to the hall, and pretty soon the door opened and I looked up and got another shock. Nero Wolfe was there, in overcoat, muffler, hat and gloves, with his applewood stick in his hand. I gawked at him.
“I’m sorry,” he told Faber. “I must go out on business. If you want to go on with this, come to-morrow between eleven and one, or two and four, or six and eight. Those are my hours. Archie, we’ll take the sedan. If you please. Fritz! Fritz, if you will help Mr Faber with his coat . . .”
This time Faber’s heels did click. I suppose they’re more apt to when you’re upset. He went, without having committed himself on the question of going on with it to-morrow.
When Fritz came back in Wolfe said, “Here, take these, please,” and handed him stick, hat, gloves, muffler and overcoat. “Two bottles of beer.” Hearing that, I put the files away in the drawer and went to the kitchen and got a glass of milk. When I returned to the office he was back at his desk, leaning back with his eyes closed. I sat and sipped the milk until the arrival of the beer made him straighten up, and then said:
“Genius again. He was going for United Yugoslavia.”
Wolfe nodded. “He had his fingers on it when you opened the door.”
“Lucky guess.”
“Not a guess, an experiment. He was stalling. He wasn’t saying anything and had no intention of saying anything. But he wanted you out of the room. Why?”
“Sure. Very good. But how did he figure on getting you out of the room too?”
“I don’t know.” Wolfe emptied the glass. “I don’t manage his mind for him, thank God. I did go out, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. Okay. So, did one of the Balkans send him to get that paper, or has he got Miss Tormic in his power because he’s her alibi on the murder, or did he—by jiminy!” I slapped my thigh. “I’ve got it! He’s Prince Donevitch!”
“Don’t be amusing. I’m in no humour for it.”
“I realize you’re not.”
I sipped some more milk. “Where do we stand, anyway? Are we on a case or not? If so, what kind of a case?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like it. I don’t like that paper. I don’t like having that thing in the refrigerator disguised as a cake. We’ll either have to find out who used it or turn it over to Mr Cramer, and neither prospect is pleasing. And I have a responsibilty. I adopted that girl.”
“You don’t even know whether it’s her or not.”
“I intend to find out. I sent you back to bring her here. You didn’t do it.”
“Well, boil my bones!” I glared at him. “Am I to infer that you insinuate that I should have lugged her along when I sneaked through the basement and fell over the fence and so forth? No. You’re being aggravating, and God knows you’re good at it. Do you want me to get her right now?”
“Yes.”
I gaped. “You do?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him. He wasn’t stringing me; he meant it. And not one red cent involved. It was at that moment that I decided never under any circumstances to adopt a daughter. Without another word I finished the milk and got up, and the next minute would have been gone if the phone hadn’t rung.
I sat down and took it. “Office of Nero Wolfe. Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“Ah, Meesturrr Gudwinnnn? Zees ees Madame Zorrrka.”
“Oh, yeah.” I passed Wolfe the sign to listen in on his phone. “I saw you up there this afternoon.”
“Yes. Zat ees why I phone. What happen zis afternoon, eet ees terrible!”
“Right. Awful.”
“Yes. Zee police, zey kestion me long time. I tell zem everyzing but one sing. I deed not tell zem how I see Mees Tormic put somesing in your pocket.”
“No?”
“But no. I sink eet ees not my beesiness, and I do not want any tr-r-rouble. But I am worried. Now I sink eet ees a mur-r-rder, and I owe a duty. I must now tell zee police or I cannot sleep. I am duty bound.”
“Sure, I see. Duty bound.”
“Yes. But also I sink eet ees only fair I tell you before I tell zee police. Now I tell you. Now I tell zee police.”
“Wait a minute, please. Let me get this straight. You’re going to phone the police now?”
“Yes.”
“And exactly what are you going to tell them?”
“Zat I see Mees Tormic put somesing in your pocket in zee coat hanging on zee rack and trying not to have anybody see. Zen pretty soon you take zee coat and go.”
“Now, listen.” I tried to laugh. “You sure are seeing things. Where are you now?”
“Zey let me go home. I am at my apartment, 78th Street. 542 East.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get hold of Miss Tormic and we’ll drop in to see you. If you think we’re murderers, which we’re not—”
“Oh, I’m not afraid. But I am worried.”
“Don’t you worry for a minute. We’ll be there in less than an hour. You’re sure you’ll be there?”
“Certainly I will.”
“The police can wait that long.”
“But not longer, Meesturr Gudwinnnn.”
“Okay. Absolutely.”
I shoved back the phone and stood up.
“There,” I said, with no feeling because my feelings were too deep. “There you are. What else could I say?”
“Nothing,” Wolfe muttered. “Now be quiet.”
He shut his eyes and his lips began to push in and out. That went on for ten minutes. I sat and tried to figure out something milder than kidnapping, but my brain wouldn’t work because I was too damn disgruntled. Finally he said quietly:
“Get Mr Cramer.”
That took a little doing, because the saps Cramer had left up at Miltan’s studio had to go into a huddle before they would even admit he wasn’t there. Next I tried his office at headquarters, and got him; apparently the base of operations had been moved down there. Wolfe took it:
“Mr Cramer? I have a little something on that Ludlow case. No, it’s somewhat complicated. I think the best idea would be for you to have a man collect Madame Zorka and Miss Tormic and bring them to my office as soon as possible. No, I want to co-operate, but I hardly think any other procedure would be feasible. No, I haven’t solved the case, but this is a development that I am sure will interest you. You know whether I may be depended on for that sort of thing. You’ll come yourself? Fine.”
He hung up and rubbed his nose with his forefinger. I blurted, “And whoever goes to get Zorka, she’ll spill the entire bag of beans before they get here—”
“Let me alone, Archie. Take that confounded thing out of that idiotic cake and put it back in your pocket the way it was.”
I gave up. And obeyed blindly. Talk about discipline.
Chapter Seven
Neva Tormic was the first to arrive for the party. It was close to midnight when I went to answer the bell, saving Fritz the trouble of putting his slippers in commission and glad of a chance to stretch my legs even that much.
“Hallo,” I said in polite surprise, for three of them crossed the threshold, and I knew all of them. First Neya Tormic, then Carla Lovchen, and bringing up the rear, Sergeant Purley Stebbins. Purley and I had often been enemies, and even friends once or twice. While I helped with wraps he said:
“This other one coupled on and I would have had to use force to separate her. So I thought if she’s not wanted we can do the separating here.”
“Sure,” I agreed, “let Cramer do it. He ought to be here any minute. You go on to the kitchen—you know the way—and Fritz’ll give you a pork tenderloin sandwich with onion grass.”
He looked wistful. “I guess I won’t let her out of my sight—”
“Pooh! Pooh! My dear fellow, this is a conference, and Mr Wolfe and I are conferees. Breaded pork tenderloin and steaming black coffee?”
So he headed for the kitchen and I herded the Balkans into the office.
I was afraid Wolfe might be skittish, confronted with two Montenegrin females at once, but he stood up and greeted them like a man. I had chairs already arranged. It was the first time I had seen Neya in anything but her fencing costume with robe. She was natty in a dark-brown suit and brown oxfords, with no foreign touch as far as I could see, but my interest in women’s clothes is not technical. Her eyes were as black as two prunes in a dish of cream, but there was a little flush on her cheeks, which may have been from the cold outdoors.
She said, with the eyes aimed at him, “You are Nero Wolfe.”
Wolfe nodded just perceptibly. He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on the desk and his fingers linked together. Having seen him scrutinize a lot of people, I was aware that he was putting on a special and rare performance.
She said, “You sent a policeman to bring me here. I don’t understand that.”
“Inspector Cramer sent him.”
“But you must have permitted it.” There was a swift movement of her head; a characteristic arrested toss that I had observed that afternoon. “Or suggested it.”
“Yes, Miss Tormic. I arranged it. A certain fact was exposed which required immediate action in order to save Mr Goodwin from arrest. He is my confidential assistant, and I wouldn’t welcome the ignominy of bailing him out of jail. Or perhaps instead of a fact, it’s a lie. We’ll find out. I thought it better to do so in the presence of Inspector Cramer, and besides, I want to see how you behave under pressure.”
“I can stand pressure.”
“Good. We’ll see.”
She smiled at him. When her mouth was composed the don’t-touch-me was in command, but when she smiled it was all come-hither. “Have you told him that I am your adopted daughter?”
Wolfe frowned and turned to me. “Is the man who brought them in the kitchen?”
“Yes, sir. It’s Stebbins. You know Sergeant Stebbins.”
He nodded. “Nevertheless, Miss Tormic, I think we’ll discuss that later. I haven’t told the police that you are my daughter. For the pr
esent, it is desirable that I should not be suspected of so intimate a prejudice. Do you agree to that?”
“I should think . . .” She hesitated. The smile had gone. “Of course, I’ll do whatever you say; but . . .” She smiled again. “I’d like to have that paper back, the record of adoption which you signed. I want to hang on to that. I admit it’s pure selfishness, because I know what it might mean to be the daughter of Nero Wolfe. I proved that by sending for you when I got into trouble. Of course, since I’ve never seen you since I was three years old, I can’t be expected to show violent affection and throw my arms around you and kiss you—”
“No, indeed,” Wolfe agreed hastily. “There’s no question of . . . it’s a matter of responsibility, and that’s all. My responsibility. I was sane, in the legal sense, when I assumed it. As for the records of adoption, I would prefer, if you don’t mind—but that’s probably Mr Cramer. Unless it’s Madame Zorka.”
“Zorka!” exclaimed Carla Lovchen in surprise.
But it was Cramer, ushered in by Fritz. He glanced sharply around, offered a curt collective greeting, and, finding his usual chair occupied by Neya Tormic, took one at the left of Carla Lovchen.
“Where’s the Zorka woman?” he demanded.
“Not here yet,” I told him.
“Where’s Stebbins?”
“In the kitchen eating our food.”
He grunted and looked at Carla. “I told him to bring Miss Tormic.”
Carla said, “I came along,” in a tone that indicated an intention to stay.
“I see you did. Well, Mr Wolfe?”
“We’ll wait for Madame Zorka. In the meantime, what did the commissioner learn from the Consul-General?”
Cramer glowered at him.
“Oh, come,” Wolfe said testily, “don’t degrade discretion into secretiveness. If either of these girls killed Mr Ludlow, they certainly knew who he was. The fact that you have found that out might frighten them into betraying something. If they didn’t kill him, what’s the difference?”
Over My Dead Body Page 8
