7. Seeing a few hundred of the friends and associates of Jacobs, Jane Ogilvy, and Rennert, to find out if all three of them had been acquainted with a certain person or persons.
8. Trying to learn how Jacobs and Jane Ogilvy had disposed of the loot they got from Richard Echols and the estate of Marjorie Lippin; and supposing they had transferred a big share of it to X, trying to trace the transfers. Also the loot Alice Porter had got from Ellen Sturdevant.
9. Trying on Alice Porter the approach we had meant to try on Jane Ogilvy. Or trying to throw a scare into her. Or trying to get from Ellen Sturdevant and her publishers, McMurray & Co., an agreement not to prosecute or demand repayment if Alice Porter would identify X.
10. Get a membership list of the NAAD and go over it, name by name, with Cora Bollard.
11. Have a couple of hundred copies made of “There Is Only Love,” “What’s Mine Is Yours,” and “On Earth but Not in Heaven,” and send them to editors and book reviewers, with a letter citing the internal evidence that they had all been written by the same person, and asking if they knew of any published material, or, with editors, submitted material, apparently by that person.
During the discussion of this last item Wolfe had before him the manuscripts of the first two, and the copy of the third, they having been returned by Cramer Friday afternoon as agreed.
There were other suggestions that I didn’t bother to put down. To each of the items listed I could have added the objections and difficulties, but they’re so obvious, especially to the routine ones, the first eight, that I didn’t think it was necessary.
The stymie was the motive. In ninety-nine murder investigations out of a hundred it gets narrowed down before long to just a few people who had motives, often only two or three, and you go on from there. This time the motive had been out in full view from the start; the trouble was, who had it? It could be anyone within reach who could read and write and drive a car—say five million in the metropolitan area, and except for Alice Porter there was absolutely no pointer. She was still alive at midnight Sunday. Orrie Gather, phoning from Carmel at 12:23 to report that Saul Panzer had relieved him on schedule, said that the light in the house had gone out at 10:52 and all had been quiet since. Wolfe had gone up to bed, leaving it that we would decide in the morning how to tackle Alice Porter.
In the kitchen at a quarter to nine Monday morning, as I was pouring a third cup of coffee, Fritz asked me what I was nervous about. I said I wasn’t nervous. He said of course I was, I had been jerky for the last ten minutes, and I was taking a third cup of coffee. I said everybody in that house was too damned observant He said, “See? You’re very nervous”—and I took the coffee to the office.
I was nervous. Fred Durkin had phoned at 7:39 to say that he was on his way to relieve Saul, and Dol Bonner was with him, and Saul should have phoned by 8:20 to report, certainly not later than 8:30, and he hadn’t. He still hadn’t at 8:45. If it had been Fred or Orrie I would have thought it was probably some little snag like a flat tire, but Saul has never had a flat tire and never will. At nine o’clock I was sure there was some kind of hell to pay. At 9:15 I was sure that Alice Porter was dead. At 9:20 I was sure that Saul was dead too. When the phone rang at 9:25 I grabbed it and barked at it, “Well?”—which is no way to answer a phone.
“Archie?”
“Yes.”
“Saul. We’ve got a circus up here.”
I was so relieved to hear that all he had was a circus that I grinned at him. “You don’t say. Did you get bit by a lion?”
“No. I got bit by a deputy sheriff and a state cop. Fred didn’t show, and at eight-fifteen I went to where my car was hid. He was there, refusing to answer questions being asked by a deputy sheriff of Putnam County. Standing by was an old friend of yours, Sergeant Purley Stebbins.”
“Oh. Ah.”
“Yeah. Stebbins told the DS that I was another one of Nero Wolfe’s operatives. That’s all Stebbins said the whole time. He was leaving it to the DS, who said plenty. Evidently Fred had shown his driving license and then clammed. I thought that was a little extreme, especially with Stebbins there, and I supplied some essential details, but that didn’t help any. The DS took both of us for trespassing and loitering, and then he added disturbing the peace. He used the radio in his car, and pretty soon a state cop came. On that dirt road it was a traffic jam. The state cop brought us to Carmel, and we are being held. This is my phone call to my lawyer. Apparently the DS is going to loiter near that house, and maybe Stebbins is too. On the way here we stopped for a couple of minutes on the blacktop where another state car was parked behind Dol Bonner’s car at the roadside. Where she had had it behind some trees I suppose she was trespassing. She and a state cop were standing there chatting. If they have brought her on to Carmel I haven’t seen her. I’m talking from a booth in the building where the sheriff’s office is. The number of the sheriff’s office is Carmel five-three-four-six-six.”
When Saul makes a report there is nothing left to ask about. I asked. “Have you had any breakfast?”
“Not yet. I wanted to get you first. I will now.”
“Eat plenty of meat. We’ll try to spring you by the Fourth of July. By the way, did you see Alice Porter before you left?”
“Sure. She was mowing the lawn.”
I said that was fine, hung up, sat for two minutes looking at it, went to the stairs and mounted three flights to the plant rooms, and entered. At that point there were ten thousand orchid plants between me and my goal, many of them in full bloom, and the dazzle was enough to stop anyone, even one who had seen it as often as I had, but I kept going—through the first room, the moderate, then the tropical, and then the cool—on into the potting room. Theodore was at the sink, washing pots. Wolfe was at the big bench, putting peat mixture into flasks. When he heard my step and turned, his lips tightened and his chin went up. He knew I wouldn’t mount three flights and burst in there for anything trivial.
“Relax,” I said. “She’s still alive, or was two hours ago. Mowing the lawn. But Saul and Fred are in the hoosegow, and Dol Bonner is having an affair with a state cop.”
He turned to put the flask he was holding on the bench, and turned back. “Go on.”
I did so, repeating verbatim what Saul and I had said. His chin went back to normal, but his lips stayed tight. When I finished he said, “So you regard my giving up meat as a subject for jest.”
“I do not. I was being bitter.”
“I know you. That deputy sheriff is probably an oaf. Have you phoned Mr. Parker?”
“No.”
“Do so at once. Tell him to get those absurd charges dismissed if possible; if not, arrange for bail. And phone Mr. Harvey or Miss Ballard or Mr. Tabb that I shall be at that meeting at half past two.”
I started. “What?”
“Must I repeat it?”
“No. Do you want me along?”
“Certainly.”
I was thinking, as I returned down the aisles between the benches of orchards and on down the stairs, that this thing was going to set a record for smashing rules before we were through with it—if we ever got through. At my desk I rang the office of Nathaniel Parker, the lawyer Wolfe always uses when only a lawyer will do, and found him in. He didn’t like the picture. He said rural communities resented having New York private detectives snooping around, especially when the snoopee was a property-owner and not a known criminal, and they weren’t fond of New York lawyers either. He thought it would be better for him to relay the job to an attorney in Carmel whom he knew, instead of going up there himself, and I told him to go ahead. Another five Cs down the drain, at least.
I started to dial Philip Harvey’s number but remembered in time that I had promised never to call him before noon except for an emergency, and dialed Jerome Tabb’s instead. A female voice told me that Mr. Tabb was working and couldn’t be disturbed until one o’clock, and would I leave a message. She seemed surprised and a little indignant that there was anyon
e on earth who didn’t know that. I told her to tell him that Nero Wolfe would come to the council meeting at two-thirty, but, knowing that messages aren’t always delivered, I got Cora Ballard at the NAAD office. She was delighted to hear that Wolfe would be present. I made two more calls, to Orrie Gather at home and to Sally Corbett at Dol Bonner’s office, informing them about the circus and telling them the operation was off until further notice. Orrie, who was a free-lance, wanted to know if he was free to lance, and I told him no, to stand by. What the hell, another forty bucks was peanuts.
When I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz that lunch would be at one o’clock sharp because we were leaving at two for an appointment, he had a question. For Wolfe he was going to make a special omelet which he had just invented in his head, and would that do for me or should he broil some ham? I asked what would be in the omelet, and he said four eggs, salt, pepper, one tablespoon tarragon butter, two tablespoons cream, two tablespoons dry white wine, one-half teaspoon minced shallots, one-third cup whole almonds, and twenty fresh mushrooms. I thought that would do for two, but he said my God, no, that would be for Mr. Wolfe, and did I want one like it? I did. He warned me that he might decide at the last minute to fold some apricot jam in, and I said I would risk it.
15
At 2:35 p.m. Wolfe and I, both of us well fueled with omelet, stepped out of a wobbly old elevator on the third floor of the Clover Club, which is in the Sixties just off Fifth Avenue. The hall was spacious and high-ceilinged and looked its age, but not much the worse for it. There was no one in sight. We glanced around, heard voices beyond a closed door, crossed to it, opened it, and entered.
Some three dozen people, all but six of them men, were seated around a long rectangular table covered with a white cloth. There were coffee cups, water glasses, ashtrays, pads of paper, and pencils. We stood, Wolfe with his hat in one hand and his cane in the other. Three or four of them were talking at once, and no one paid any attention to us. At the right end of the table were three of the committee members: Amy Wynn, Philip Harvey, and Mortimer Oshin. At the other end was Cora Ballard, and next to her was the president of the NAAD, Jerome Tabb. His picture had been on the jacket of his book I had read. Next to Tabb was the vice-president, a man who, according to an article I had read recently, averaged a million dollars a year from the musicals for which he had written the books and lyrics. I had recognized some other faces—four novelists, three dramatists, and a biographer or something—by the time Harvey got up and came over to us. The talk stopped, and heads were turned our way.
“Nero Wolfe,” Harvey told them. “Archie Goodwin.”
He took Wolfe’s hat and cane. An author or dramatist went and got two chairs and moved them near the table. If I had been the president or the executive secretary the chairs would have been in place; after all, we were expected.
As we sat, Jerome Tabb raised his voice. “You’re a little early, Mr. Wolfe.” He glanced at his wrist. “It’s the time agreed, I know, but we haven’t finished our discussion.”
“A sentry in the hall could have stopped us.” Wolfe was gruff. He always was when he had put his fanny on a chair seat that was too small. “If the discussion doesn’t concern me you can finish it after I leave. If it does concern me, proceed.”
A famous woman novelist tittered, and two men laughed. A famous dramatist said, “Let’s hear what he has to say. Why not?” A man raised his hand. “Mr. President! As I said before, this is very irregular. We almost never admit outsiders to a council meeting, and I see no reason for making this an exception. The chairman of the Joint Committee on Plagiarism has reported and made a recommendation, and that should be the basis of our …” He finished his sentence, but I didn’t catch it because five or six other voices drowned him out.
Tabb tapped on a glass with a spoon, and the voices subsided. “Having Mr. Wolfe here has been decided,” he said with authority. “I told you he had been invited, and a motion was made and seconded to admit him and hear him, and it carried by a voice vote. We won’t go into that again. And I don’t see how we can take a position based solely on the report: and recommendation of the chairman of the joint committee. One reason we had to call this special meeting was that the three NAAD members of the committee don’t agree. They actively disagree. I’m going to ask Mr. Wolfe to state his case, but first he ought to know in a general way how our discussion has gone. Now there shouldn’t be any interruptions. Mr. Harvey, you first. Briefly.”
The committee chairman cleared his throat. He looked around. “I’ve told you how I feel,” he said. “I was never enthusiastic about hiring a private detective, but I went along with the majority of the committee. Now this matter has gone far beyond the province of the committee, what it was set up for. Three people have been killed. Nero Wolfe told the committee last week, last Wednesday, that he was going to expose the murderer of Simon Jacobs whether we terminated our engagement with him or not. Now I suppose he’s going to expose the murderer of Jane Ogilvy and Kenneth Rennert. All right, that’s fine, I’m all for exposing murderers, but that’s not the job of this committee. It’s not only not our job it’s probably illegal and it could get us into serious trouble. We have no control over what Nero Wolfe does. He said he would have to have a free hand, that he wouldn’t tell us what he was doing or was going to do. I say that’s dangerous. As I said before, if the council doesn’t instruct the committee to terminate the engagement with Nero Wolfe, the only thing I can do is resign from the committee. The way I feel, I’ll have to.”
Two or three of them started to say something, but Tabb tapped on the glass. “You’ll all get a chance later. Mr. Oshin? Briefly.”
Oshin squashed a cigarette in an ashtray. “I’m in a different position now,” he said, “now that Kenneth Rennert’s dead. Before today I could be accused of having a personal interest, and I did. I don’t deny that when I kicked in ten thousand dollars it was chiefly because I thought it might save me paying Rennert ten times that. Now personally I’m out from under. My ten thousand was a contribution to the expenses of the committee, and one of the publisher members, Dexter, has said he’ll contribute whatever is necessary, and I think we should tell Nero Wolfe to go ahead. If we don’t we’re quitters. If he wants to expose a murderer, all right, if he exposes a murderer he will also expose the man that has been back of this plagiarism racket, and that’s what we hired him for. He hasn’t been murdered, he’s still alive and still loose, and are we going to back out just because we’ve found out that he’s not only a racketeer but a killer? I don’t like threats to resign, I never have, but if you instruct the committee to fire Nero Wolfe I’ll have to resign, and I wish I could resign from the NAAD too.”
There were murmurs, and Tabb tapped on the glass again. “Miss Wynn? Briefly, please.”
Amy Wynn’s nose had been twitching. Her clasped hands were resting on the edge of the table. She was up against it, since Reuben Imholf wasn’t there for her to look at. “I really don’t think,” she said, “that I should take a position on this. Because I’m in the same—”
“Louder, Miss Wynn, please.”
She raised her voice a little. “I’m in the same position that Mr. Oshin was. The man that made the claim against him is dead, but the woman that has made a claim against me, Alice Porter, is still alive. Nero Wolfe says that my case is different, that the story she bases her claim on wasn’t written by the man who wrote the others, that Alice Porter wrote it herself, but that doesn’t really matter, because he wrote the story that she used for her claim against Ellen Sturdevant, so if he’s caught and it all comes out she’ll be caught too, and I’ll be out from under too, as Mr. Oshin put it. So I still have a personal interest, a strong personal interest, and I don’t think I should take a position. Perhaps I shouldn’t be on the committee. I’ll resign if you think I ought to.”
“Damn fine committee,” someone muttered. “They’re all going to resign.” Harvey started to speak, but Tabb tapped on the glass. “We’re not throug
h,” he said. “I’m going to ask our counsel to say a word about Mr. Harvey’s statement that it’s probably illegal for us to continue the arrangement with Mr. Wolfe and it might get us into serious trouble. Mr. Sachs?”
A compact, broad-shouldered guy about my age with sharp dark eyes passed his tongue over his lips. “It’s not a very complicated situation legally,” he said. “There should be a letter to Mr. Wolfe stating definitely and specifically that you have engaged him to investigate the plagiarism claims and nothing else. Then if he does something that causes him to be charged with some offense against the law, for instance withholding evidence or obstructing justice, no matter what, you wouldn’t be liable legally. Of course there could be bad publicity, there might be a stigma because you had hired him, but it’s not actionable to hire a man who breaks a law while he is in your employ unless his offense is committed under your direction or with your knowledge and consent. If you decide to send such a letter I’ll be glad to draft it if you want me to.”
Wolfe and I exchanged glances. He sounded exactly like Nathaniel Parker. Tabb spoke. “Apparently that settles that. I’m going to ask Miss Ballard what she thinks. She tried a couple of times to tell us, but we didn’t let her finish. Cora? Briefly.”
The executive secretary looked apologetic. She was tapping on a pad with her pencil. “I don’t know,” she said, “I guess the fact is I’m just afraid. I know Mr. Wolfe is a very brilliant man, I know a little bit about how he does things, I suppose you all do, and of course I’m not going to criticize him, he knows his business just as you know your business of writing, but I’d hate to have the association get involved in something sensational like a murder trial. One thing Mr. Harvey didn’t say, the New York police are working on this now, and since there have been three murders I think you can be pretty sure they won’t quit until they get the man they’re after, and since he’s the man we’re after too I shouldn’t think you’d have to pay a private detective to do what they’re doing.” She smiled apologetically. “I hope Mr. Oshin won’t mind if I don’t agree that you would be quitters.”
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