by Rex Stout
I gave him a friendly grip and a grin. “Oh,” I said, “we try to keep up. We’re going to bug a certain building on Sixty-ninth Street.” I stepped to the elevator and pushed the button. “I’m getting the latest angles.”
He laughed to be polite and said he guessed they’d have to do all their talking in code. The elevator door opened, and I entered and the door slid shut. It certainly wasn’t my day. Not that it mattered much, since I had got nowhere with Evers, but it’s always bad to have the breaks going wrong, and God knows if we ever needed the breaks we did then. I was walking on hard pavement, not air, as I emerged to the sidewalk and turned uptown.
It had been more than twenty minutes, and Al had gone. There are plenty of taxis on First Avenue at that hour, and I flagged one and gave the hackie an address.
Chapter 4
At a quarter to eleven that Wednesday night, pessimistic and pooped, I mounted the stoop of the old brownstone and pushed the button. With the chain bolt on I had to be let in. When Fritz came he asked if I wanted some warmed-up curried duck, and I growled the no. I shed my hat and coat and went to the office, and there was the oversized genius at his desk, in the chair made to order for his seventh of a ton, with a bottle of beer and a glass on the tray, comfortably reading his current book, The Treasure of Our Tongue, by Lincoln Barnett. I went to my desk and whirled my chair and sat. He would look up when he finished a paragraph.
He did. He even inserted his bookmark, a thin strip of gold given him years before by a client who couldn’t afford it, and put the book down. “You have dined, of course,” he said.
“Dined, no.” I crossed my legs. “Excuse me for waving my legs around. I ate something greasy, I forget what, in a dump in the Bronx. It has been—”
“Fritz will warm the duck, and—”
“No he won’t. I told him not to. It has been by far the lousiest day I have ever had and I’ll finish it up right. I’ll report in full and go to bed tasting grease. First, the—”
“Confound it, you must eat!”
“I say no. First, the client.”
I gave it to him verbatim, and the action, including the two men in the parked car of which I had the license number. At the end I added some opinions: that (a) it would be wasting a dime to bother to check the license number, (b) Sarah Dacos could probably be crossed off, or at least filed for future reference, and (c) whatever dirt there might be under cover in the Bruner family, the lid was still on as far as the client knew. When I got up to hand him the paper Mrs. Bruner had signed he merely glanced at it and said to put it in the safe.
I also gave him the Evers thing verbatim, of course including Morrison. My only opinion on that was that I hadn’t handled it right, that I should have told him we had secret information he didn’t have and couldn’t get, and we might be able to put on pressure that would save his contract, and if we did we would expect to be paid. Of course it would have been risky, but it might have opened him up. Wolfe shook his head and said it would have made us too vulnerable. I rose and circled around his desk to the stand that held the dictionary, opened it and found what I wanted, and returned to my chair.
“Capable of being wounded,” I said. “Liable to attack or injury. That’s what ‘vulnerable’ means. It should be quite a trick to get any more vulnerable than we are now. But to finish the day. It took me all afternoon to run down Ernst Muller, who is charged with conspiring to transport stolen property across state lines and is out on bail, and he was even worse than Evers. He had the idea of slugging me, and he wasn’t alone, so I had to react, and I may have broken his arm. Then—”
“Were you hurt?”
“Only my feelings. Then, after eating the grease, I set out for Julia Fenster, who was or wasn’t framed for espionage and was tried and acquitted, and that’s how I spent the evening, all of it, trying to find her. I finally found her brother, but not her, and he’s a fish. No man ever got less out of a day. It’s a record. And those were the three we picked as the best prospects. I can’t wait to see the program you’ve planned for tomorrow. I’ll put it under my pillow.”
“It’s partly your stomach,” he said. “If not the duck, then an omelet.”
“No.”
“Caviar. There’s a fresh pound.”
“You know damn well I love caviar. I wouldn’t insult it.”
He poured beer, waited until the foam was down to half an inch, drank, licked his lips, and regarded me. “Archie. Are you trying to pester me into returning that retainer?”
“No. I know I couldn’t.”
“Then you’re twaddling. You’re quite aware that we have undertaken a job which, considered logically, is preposterous. We have both said so. It’s extremely unlikely that any of the suggestions Mr. Cohen gave us will give us a start, but it’s conceivable that one might. There’s some hit-or-miss in every operation, but this one is all hit-or-miss. We are at the mercy of the vicissitudes of fortune; we can only invite, not command. I have no program for tomorrow; it depended on today. You don’t know that today was bootless. Some prick may have stirred someone to action. Or tomorrow it may, or next week. You’re tired and hungry. Confound it, eat something!”
I shook my head. “What about tomorrow?”
“We’ll consider that in the morning. Not tonight.” He picked up his book.
I left my chair, gave it a kick, got the paper from my desk and put it in the safe, and went to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. Fritz had gone down to bed. Realizing that what would be an insult to caviar would also be an insult to milk, I poured it back in the carton, got another glass and the bottle of Old Sandy bourbon, poured three fingers, and took a healthy swig. That took care of the grease all right, and after going to see that the back door was bolted I finished the bourbon, rinsed the glasses, went and mounted the two flights to my room, and changed into pajamas and slippers.
I considered taking my electric blanket but vetoed it. In a pinch a man must expect hardship. From my bed I took only the pillow, and got sheets and blankets from the closet in the hall. With my arms loaded I descended, went to the office, removed the cushions from the couch, and spread the sheets. As I was unfolding a blanket Wolfe’s voice came.
“I question the need for that.”
“I don’t.” I spread the blanket, and the other one, and turned. “You’ve read that book. They can move fast if and when. With some of the stuff in the files they could have a picnic—and the safe.”
“Bah. You’re stretching it. Blow open a safe in an occupied house?”
“They wouldn’t have to, that antique. You ought to get some books on electronics.” I tucked the blankets in at the foot.
He pushed his chair back, levered himself up, said good night, and went, taking The Treasure of Our Tongue.
Thursday morning there was an off chance that when Fritz came down from delivering the breakfast tray he would bring word for me to go up for a briefing, but he didn’t. So, since Wolfe wouldn’t be down from the plant rooms until eleven, I took my time with the routine, and it was going on ten when everything was under control—the bedding back upstairs, breakfast inside me, the Times looked at, the mail opened and under a paperweight on Wolfe’s desk, and Fritz explained to. Explained to, but not at ease. He had a vivid memory, as we all did, of the night that machine guns on a roof across the street had strafed the plant rooms, shattering hundreds of panes of glass and ruining thousands of orchids, and his idea was that I was sleeping in the office because my room faced Thirty-fifth Street and there was going to be a repeat performance. I explained that I was a guard, not a refugee, but he didn’t believe it and said so.
In the office, after opening the mail, all I had to pass was time. There was a phone call for Fritz from a fish man, and I listened in, but got no sign that the line was tapped, though of course it was. Hooray for the technicians. Modern science was fixing it so that anybody can do anything but nobody can know what the hell is going on. I got my notebook from a drawer and went through the do
pe Lon Cohen had given us, considering the possibilities. There were fourteen items altogether, and at least five of them were obviously hopeless. Of the other nine we had made a stab at three and got nothing. That left six, and I sized them up, one by one. I decided that the most promising one, or anyway the least unpromising, concerned a woman who had been fired from a job in the State Department and got it back, and was reaching for the Washington phone book to see if she was listed when the doorbell rang.
Going to the hall for a look through the one-way glass in the front door, I was expecting to see a stranger, and maybe two. The direct approach. Or possibly Morrison. But there was a well-known face and figure on the stoop—Dr. Vollmer, whose office is in a house he owns down the block. I went and opened the door and greeted him, and he entered, along with a lot of fresh icy air. Turning from shutting the door, I told him if he was drumming up trade he’d have to try next door, and put out a hand for his hat.
He kept it on. “I’ve got too much trade as it is, Archie. Everybody’s sick. But I’ve got a message for you, just now on the phone. A man, no name. He said to give it to you personally. You’re to be at the Westside Hotel, Room Two-fourteen, on Twenty-third Street, at eleven-thirty or as soon thereafter as you can make it, and you must be sure you’re loose.”
My brows were up. “Quite a message.”
“That’s what I thought. He said you would tell me to keep it under my hat.”
“Okay, I tell you. That’s why you’re keeping it on.” I looked at my wrist: 10:47. “What else did he say?”
“That’s all, just the message, after he asked if I would come and tell you personally.”
“Room Two-fourteen, Westside Hotel.”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of a voice?”
“No particular kind, nothing distinctive, neither high nor low. Just a normal man’s voice.”
“All right, Doc, many thanks. We need another favor if you can spare it. We’re on an operation that’s a little tricky, and you were probably seen. It’s possible that someone will want to know why you called. If anybody asks, you might—”
“I’ll say you phoned and asked me to come and look at your throat.”
“No. Wrong twice. He’ll know there’s nothing wrong with my throat, and he’ll know I didn’t phone. Our line is tapped. The trouble is that if someone gets the notion that we get confidential messages through you, your line will be tapped.”
“My God. But that’s illegal!”
“That makes it more fun. If anybody asks, you might be indignant and say it’s none of his damned business, or you might be obliging and say you came to take Fritz’s blood pressure—no, you haven’t got the gadget. You came—”
“I came to get his recipe for escargots bourguignonne. I like that better, nonprofessional.” He moved to the door. “My word, Archie, it certainly is tricky.”
I agreed and thanked him again, and he said to give his regards to Wolfe. When I closed the door after him I didn’t bother to slide the bolt since I would soon be leaving. I went to the kitchen and told Fritz he had just given the recipe for escargots bourguignonne to Dr. Vollmer, and then to the office and buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone. I refused to believe they could tap a house phone. Wolfe answered, and I told him. He grunted and asked, “Have you any notion?”
“Not the vaguest. Not the FBI. Why would they? It could be that quote some prick may have stirred someone end of quote. Evers or Miss Fenster or even Muller. Any instructions?”
He said pfui and hung up, and I admit I had asked for it.
There would be the problem of spotting a tail and shaking it, and that can take time, so I would have to get help if I wanted to be punctual for the appointment. Also I should be prepared for the remote possibility that Ernst Muller was sensitive about having his arm twisted and was intending to return the compliment, so I got the shoulder holster from the drawer and put it on, and the Marley .38, and loaded it. But another kind of ammunition might be needed, and I opened the safe and got a grand in used tens and twenties from the cash reserve. Of course there were other conceivables, such as that I was going to have my picture taken in a room with a naked female or a corpse or God knew what, but I would have to dive off of that bridge when I came to it.
It was one minute to eleven when I left the house. With no glance around, I walked to the drugstore at the corner of Ninth Avenue, entered, went to the phone booth, and dialed the number of the garage on Tenth Avenue which houses the Heron sedan that Wolfe owns and I drive. Tom Halloran, who had been there for ten years, didn’t answer, but after a wait I got him and explained the program, and he said he would be ready in five minutes. Thinking it would be better to give him ten, I looked over the rack of paperbacks awhile before leaving. Heading back on Thirty-fifth Street, I went on past the brownstone, turned right at Tenth Avenue, entered the garage office, went on through, and crossed to a Ford sedan standing there with the engine running. Tom was in front behind the wheel. I climbed in the back, took my hat off and curled up on the floor, clear down, and the car moved.
There may be leg room in that Ford model, but there’s not body room for a six-footer who is not an expert contortionist, and I suffered. After five minutes of it I began to suspect that Tom was jerking to stops and around corners just to see how tough I was, but I was stuck, in more ways than one. My ribs were about to give and my legs were going numb when he stopped for the sixth time and his voice came. “All right, pal. All clear.”
“Damn it, get a crowbar.”
He laughed. I worked my head and shoulders up, got a grip on the rim of the seat back, somehow made it, and put my hat on. We were at Twenty-third Street and Ninth Avenue. “How sure are you?” I asked him.
“Posilutely. Not a chance.”
“Wonderful. But the next time use an ambulance. You’ll find a piece of my ear in the corner. Keep it to remember me by.”
I got out. He asked if there was anything more, and I said no and I would thank him later, and he rolled.
The Westside Hotel, in the middle of the block, was not exactly a dump, though many people would call it that. Evidently it was still in the black, since it had put on a new front and redone the lobby a couple of years back. Entering and ignoring everybody and everything, including a bald bellhop, I went to the do-it-yourself elevator, pushed the button, and was lifted. As I emerged and went to the nearest door to look at the number I noticed that my hand had slipped inside my coat to touch the Marley, and grinned at myself. If it was J. Edgar Hoover waiting for me, apparently he had better behave or he might get plugged. At Room 214, halfway down the hall on the left, the door was closed. My watch said 11:33. I knocked and heard footsteps, and the door opened; and I stood and gawked. I was looking at the round red face and burly figure of Inspector Cramer of Homicide South.
“Right on time,” he growled. “Come in.” He sidestepped, and I crossed the sill.
My eyes have been trained so long to notice things that they took in the room automatically—the double bed, dresser with a mirror, two chairs, table with a desk pad that needed changing, open door to a bathroom—while my mind adjusted to the shock. Then, as I put my coat and hat on the bed, I got another shock: one of the chairs, the one without arms, was near the table, and on the table was a carton of milk and a glass. By God, he had bought it and brought it for his guest. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I didn’t, but there it was.
He went to the other chair, the one with arms, sat, and asked, “Are you loose?”
“Sure. I always obey instructions.”
“Sit down.”
I went to the other chair. He leveled his gray eyes at me. “Is Wolfe’s phone tapped?”
My eyes were meeting his. “Look,” I said, “you know damn well how it is. If I had listed a hundred names of people who might be here, yours wouldn’t have been on it. Is this carton of milk for me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re off your hinges. You are
not the Inspector Cramer I know so well, and I don’t know what I’m up against. Why do you want to know if our phone is tapped?”
“Because I don’t like to make things more complicated than they are already. I like things simple. I’d like to know if I could just have called you and asked you to come here.”
“Oh. Sure you could, but if you had I would have suggested that it might be better if we went for a ride.”
He nodded. “All right. I want to know, Goodwin. I know Wolfe has tangled with the FBI, and I want the picture. All of it. If it takes all day.”
I shook my head. “That’s out of bounds and you know it.”
He exploded. “Goddammit, this is out of bounds! My being here! My getting you here! I thought you had some sense! Don’t you realize what I’m doing?”
“No. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re doing.”
“Then I’ll tell you. I know you pretty well, Goodwin. I know you and Wolfe cut corners, I ought to, but I also know what your limits are. So here, just you and me, I’ll tell you. About two hours ago the Commissioner called me. He had had a call from Jim Perazzo—do you know who Jim Perazzo is?”
“Yeah, I happen to. Licensing Services, State Department, State of New York. Two-seventy Broadway.”
“You would. I won’t string it out. The FBI wants Perazzo to take Wolfe’s license, and yours. Perazzo wants the Commissioner to give him whatever we’ve got on you. The Commissioner knows that for years I have had—uh—contacts with you, and he wants a full report, in writing. You know what reports are, it depends on who’s writing them. Before I write this one I want to know what Wolfe has done or is doing to get the FBI on his neck. I want the whole picture.”
