The Silent Speaker

by Rex Stout

  As I pushed the phone back I had a notion that a gleam of self-congratulation might be visible in my eyes, so I didn’t turn immediately to face Wolfe but found papers on my desk that needed attention. After a moment he muttered:

  “This evening would have been better.”

  I counted ten. Then, still without turning, I said distinctly, “My dear sir, try getting her to meet you any time whatever, even at Tiffany’s to try things on.”

  He chuckled. Before long he chuckled again. Finding that irritating, I went up to my room and kept busy until dinnertime, straightening up. Fritz and Charley hadn’t been able to get up that high on account of the condition of the rest of the house, and while the microscope experts had been neat and apparently respectable, I thought a spot inventory wouldn’t do any harm.

  Toward the end of dinner, with the salad and cheese, a little controversy arose. I wanted to have our coffee there in the dining room and then go straight up to bed, and Wolfe, while admitting that he too needed sleep, wanted the coffee in the office as usual. He got arbitrary about it, and just as an object lesson I sat tight. He went to the office and I stayed in the dining room. When I was through I went to the kitchen and told Fritz:

  “I’m sorry you had that extra trouble, serving coffee in two places, but he has got to learn how to compromise. You heard me offer to split the difference and drink it in the hall.”

  “It was no trouble at all,” Fritz said graciously. “I understand, Archie. I understand why you’re being erratic. There goes the doorbell.”

  It was a temptation to let the damn thing ring. I needed sleep. So did Wolfe, and all I had to do was flip the switch there on the kitchen wall to stop the bell ringing. But I didn’t flip it. I said to Fritz, “Justice. The public weal. Duty, goddam it,” and went to the front and pulled the door open.

  Chapter 25

  THE GUY STANDING THERE said, “Good evening. I would like to see Mr. Wolfe.”

  I had never seen him before. He was around fifty, medium-sized, with thin straight lips and the kind of eyes that play poker for blood. The first tenth of a second I thought he was one of Bascom’s men, and then saw that his clothes ruled that out. They were quiet and conservative and must have had at least three try-ons. I told him:

  “I’ll see if he’s in. Your name, please?”

  “John Smith.”

  “Oh. What do you want to see him about, Mr. Jones?”

  “Private and urgent business.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I can to him, yes.”

  “Good. Sit down and read a magazine.”

  I shut the door on him, clear shut, and went to the office and told Wolfe:

  “Mr. John Smith, which he must have got out of a book, looks like a banker who would gladly lend you a dime on a cupful of diamonds. I left him on the stoop, but don’t worry about him being insulted because he has no feelings. Please don’t ask me to find out what he wants because it might take hours.”

  Wolfe grunted. “What is your opinion?”

  “None at all. I am not being permitted to know where we’re at. The natural impulse is to kick him off the stoop. I’ll say this for him, he’s not an errand boy.”

  “Bring him in.”

  I did so. In spite of his obnoxious qualities and of his keeping us up, I put him in the red leather chair because that had him facing both of us. He was not a lounger. He sat up straight, with his fingers intertwined in his lap, and told Wolfe:

  “I gave the name of John Smith because my name is of no significance. I am merely an errand boy.”

  Starting off by contradicting me. He went on:

  “This is a confidential matter and I must speak with you privately.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Mr. Goodwin is my confidential assistant. His ears are mine. Go ahead.”

  “No.” Smith’s tone implied, and that settles it. “I have to be alone with you.”

  “Bah.” Wolfe pointed to a picture of the Washington Monument, on the wall fifteen feet to his left. “Do you see that picture? It is actually a perforated panel. If Mr. Goodwin is sent from the room he will go to an alcove around a corner of the hall, across from the kitchen door, open the panel on that side, invisible to us, and watch us and listen to us. The objection to that is that he would be standing up. He might as well stay here sitting down.”

  Without batting an eye, Smith stood up. “Then you and I will go to the hall.”

  “No we won’t.—Archie. Mr. Smith wants his hat and coat.”

  I arose and moved. When I was halfway across the room Smith sat down again. I whirled, returned to my base, and did likewise.

  “Well, sir?” Wolfe demanded.

  “We have somebody,” Smith said, in what was apparently the only tone he ever used, “for the Boone and Gunther murders.”

  “We? Somebody?”

  Smith untangled his fingers, raised a hand to scratch the side of his nose, dropped the hand, and retwined the fingers. “Of course,” he said, “death is always a tragedy. It causes grief and suffering and often hardship. That cannot be avoided. But in this case, the deaths of these two people, it has already caused widespread injury to many thousands of innocent persons and created a situation that amounts to gross injustice. As you know, as we all know, there are elements in this country that seek to undermine the very foundations of our society. Death is serving them—has served them well. The very backbone of our free democratic system—composed of our most public-spirited citizens, our outstanding businessmen who keep things going for us—is in great and real peril. The source of that peril was an event—now two events—which may have resulted either from the merest chance or from deep and calculated malice. From the standpoint of the common welfare those two events were in themselves unimportant. But overwhelmingly—”

  “Excuse me.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “I used to make speeches myself. The way I would put it, you’re talking about the nation-wide reaction against the National Industry Association on account of the murders. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. I am emphasizing the contrast between the trivial character of the events in themselves and the enormous harm—”

  “Please. You’ve made that point. Go on to the next one. But first tell me, do you represent the NIA?”

  “No. I represent, actually, the founding fathers of this country. I represent the best and most fundamental interests of the American people. I—”

  “All right. Your next point?”

  Smith untwined his fingers again. This time it was the chin that needed scratching. When that was finished he proceeded, “The existing situation is intolerable. It is playing directly into the hands of the most dangerous and subversive groups and doctrines. No price would be too high to pay for ending it, and ending it at the earliest possible moment. The man who performed that service would deserve well of his country. He would earn the gratitude of his fellow citizens, and naturally, especially of those who are being made to suffer under this unjust odium.”

  “In other words,” Wolfe suggested, “he ought to be paid something.”

  “He would be paid something.”

  “Then it’s too bad I’m already engaged. I like being paid.”

  “There would be no conflict. The objectives are identical.”

  Wolfe frowned. “You know, Mr. Smith,” he said admiringly, “I like the way you started this. You said it all, except certain details, in your first short sentence. Who are you and where do you come from?”

  “That,” Smith declared, “is stupid. You’re not stupid. You can learn who I am, of course, if you want to take the time and trouble. But there are seven respectable—very respectable—men and women with whom I am playing bridge this evening. After a dinner party. Which accounts for the whole evening, from seven o’clock on.”

  “That should cover it adequately. Eight against two.”

  “Yes, it really should,” Smith agreed. He untangled his fingers once more, but not to scratch. He reached t
o his side coat pocket and pulled out a package wrapped neatly in white paper and fastened with Scotch tape. It was big enough to be tight in his pocket and he had to use both hands. “As you say,” he remarked, “there are certain details. The amount involved is three hundred thousand dollars. I have one-third of it here.”

  I gave it a look and decided it couldn’t all be in hundreds. There must have been some five-hundreds and grands.

  One of Wolfe’s brows went up. “Since you’re playing bridge this evening, and since you came here on the assumption that I’m a blackguard, isn’t that a little foolhardy? Mr. Goodwin, as I told you, is my confidential assistant. What if he took that away from you and put it in the safe and saw you to the sidewalk?”

  For the first time the expression of Smith’s face changed, but the little crease that showed in his forehead didn’t look like apprehension. “Perhaps,” he said, and there was no change in his voice, “you’re stupid after all, though I doubt it. We know your record and your character. There isn’t the slightest assumption that you’re a blackguard. You are being given an opportunity to perform a service—”

  “No,” Wolfe said positively. “We’ve had that.”

  “Very well. But that’s the truth. If you ask why you’re being paid so large a sum to perform it, here are the reasons. First, everybody knows that you get exorbitant fees for everything you do. Second, from the standpoint of the people who are paying you, the rapidly accumulating public disfavor, which is totally undeserved, is costing them or will cost them, directly or indirectly, hundreds of millions. Three hundred thousand dollars is a mere nothing. Third, you will have expenses, and they may be large. Fourth, we are aware of the difficulties involved, and I tell you frankly that we know of no one except you who can reasonably be expected to solve them. There is no assumption whatever that you’re a blackguard. That remark was completely uncalled for.”

  “Then perhaps I misunderstood the sentence you started with.” Wolfe’s eyes were straight at him. “Did you say you have somebody for the Boone and Gunther murders?”

  “Yes.” Smith’s eyes were straight back at him.

  “Who have you?”

  “The word ‘have’ was a little inexact. It might have been better to say we have somebody to suggest.”

  “Who?”

  “Either Solomon Dexter or Alger Kates. We would prefer Dexter but Kates would do. We would be in a position to co-operate on certain aspects of the evidence. After your plans are made I’ll confer with you on that. The other two hundred thousand, by the way, would not be contingent on conviction. You couldn’t possibly guarantee that. Another third would be paid on indictment, and the last third on the opening day of the trial. The effect of indictment and trial would be sufficient, if not wholly satisfactory.”

  “Are you a lawyer, Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wouldn’t you pay more for Dexter than for Kates? You should. He’s the Acting Director of the Bureau of Price Regulation. It would be worth more to you.”

  “No. We made the amount large, even exorbitant, to exclude any bargaining.” Smith tapped the package with his finger. “This is probably a record.”

  “Good heavens, no.” Wolfe was mildly indignant, as if it had been intimated that his schooling had stopped at about the sixth grade. “There was Teapot Dome. I could rattle off eight, ten, a dozen instances. Alyattes of Lydia got the weight of ten panthers in gold. Richelieu paid D’Effiat a hundred thousand livres in one lump—the equivalent, at a minimum, of two million dollars today. No, Mr. Smith, don’t flatter yourself that you’re making a record. Considering what you’re bidding for, you’re a piker.”

  Smith was not impressed. “In cash,” he said. “For you its equivalent, paid by check, would be around two million.”

  “That’s right,” Wolfe agreed, being reasonable. “Naturally that had occurred to me. I’m not pretending you’re being niggardly.” He sighed. “I’m no fonder of haggling than you are. But I may as well say it, there’s an insuperable objection.”

  Smith blinked. I caught him at it. “What is it?”

  “Your choice of targets. To begin with, they’re too obvious, but the chief obstacle would be motive. It takes a good motive for a murder, and a really tiptop one for two murders. With either Mr. Dexter or Mr. Kates I’m afraid it simply couldn’t be done, and I’ll have to say definitely that I won’t try it. You have generously implied that I’m not a jackass, but I would be, if I undertook to get either Mr. Dexter or Mr. Kates indicted and tried, let alone convicted.” Wolfe looked and sounded inflexible. “No, sir. But you might find someone who would at least attempt it. How about Mr. Bascom, of the Bascom Detective Agency? He’s a good man.”

  “I have told you,” Smith said, “that you’ll get co-operation on evidence.”

  “No. The absence of adequate motive would make it impossible in spite of evidence, which would have to be circumstantial. Besides, considering the probable source of any evidence you would be able to produce, and since it would be directed against a BPR man, it would be suspect anyhow. You see that.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh, yes. Inevitably.”

  “No.” Smith’s face stayed exactly as before, though he had made a major decision, to show a card. He turned the card over without a flicker. “I’ll give you an example. If the taxi driver who brought Dexter here testified that he saw him concealing a piece of iron pipe under his coat, with a scarf wrapped around it, that evidence wouldn’t be suspect.”

  “Perhaps not,” Wolfe conceded. “Have you got the taxi driver?”

  “No. I was merely giving you an example. How could we go after the taxi driver, or anyone else, before we have come to an agreement on the—on a name?”

  “You couldn’t, of course. Have you any other examples?”

  Smith shook his head. That was one way in which he resembled Wolfe. He didn’t see any sense in using a hundred ergs when fifty would do the job. Wolfe’s average on head-shaking was around an eighth of an inch to the right and the same distance to the left, and if you had attached a meter to Smith you would have got about the same result. However, Wolfe was still more economical on physical energy. He weighed twice as much as Smith, and therefore his expenditure per pound of matter, which is the only fair way to judge, was much lower.

  “You’re getting a little ahead,” Smith stated. “I said we would confer on aspects of evidence after your plans are made. You will make plans only after you have accepted the offer. Do I understand that you’ve accepted it?”

  “You do not. Not as described. I decline it.”

  Smith took it like a gentleman. He said nothing. After some long seconds of saying nothing, he swallowed, and that was his first sign of weakness. Evidently he was throwing in his hand and was ready for another deal. When, after another period of silence, he swallowed again, there was no question about it.

  “There is another possibility,” he said, “that would not be open to the objections you have made. Don O’Neill.”

  “M-m-m-m,” Wolfe remarked.

  “He also came in a taxicab. The motive is plain and in fact already established, since it is the motive that has already been accepted, wrongly and maliciously, all over the country. He would not serve the purpose as satisfactorily as Dexter or Kates, but it would transfer the public resentment from an institution or group to an individual; and that would change the picture completely.”

  “M-m-m-m.”

  “Also, evidence would not be suspect on account of its source.”

  “M-m-m-m.”

  “And therefore the scope of the evidence could be substantially widened. For example, it might be possible to introduce the testimony of a person or persons who saw, here in your hall, O’Neill putting the scarf into the pocket of Kates’s overcoat. I understand that Goodwin, your confidential assistant, was there throughout—”

  “No,” Wolfe said curtly.

  “He doesn’t mean I wasn’t there,” I assured Smi
th with a friendly grin. “Only that I’ve already been too damn positive about it. You should have come sooner. I would have been glad to discuss terms. When O’Neill tried to buy me it was Sunday, and I can’t be bribed on Sunday—”

  His eyes darted at me and through me. “What did O’Neill want you to do?”

  I shook my head. Probably a thousand ergs. “That wouldn’t be fair. Would you want me to tell him what you wanted me to do?”

  He was strongly tempted to insist, there was no doubt about his thirst for knowledge, but his belief in the conservation of energy, coupled with the opinion he had formed of me, won the day. He gave it up without another try and returned to Wolfe.

  “Even if Goodwin couldn’t give it,” he said, “there is still a good chance of testimony to that effect being available.”

  “Not from Mr. Breslow,” Wolfe declared. “He would be a wretched witness. Mr. Winterhoff would do fairly well. Mr. Erskine Senior would be admirable. Young Mr. Erskine—I don’t know, I rather doubt it. Miss Harding would be the best of all. Could you get her?”

  “You’re going too fast again.”

  “Not at all. Fast? Such details are of the greatest importance.”

  “I know they are. After you are committed. Are you accepting my suggestion about O’Neill?”

  “Well.” Wolfe leaned back, opened his eyes to a wider slit, and brought his finger tips together at the apex of his central bulk. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Smith. The best way to put it, I think, is in the form of a message, or rather messages, for Mr. Erskine. Tell Mr. Erskine—”

  “I’m not representing Erskine. I have mentioned no names.”

  “No? I thought I heard you mention Mr. O’Neill, and Mr. Dexter and Mr. Kates. However, the difficulty is this, that the police or the FBI may find that tenth cylinder at any moment, and in all likelihood that would make fools of all of us.”

  “Not if we have—”

  “Please, sir. You have talked. Let me talk. On the hypothesis that you may run across Mr. Erskine. Tell him, that I am grateful for this suggestion regarding the size of the fee I may ask for without shocking him. I’ll remember it when I make out my bill. Tell him that I appreciate his effort to pay the fee in a way that would keep it off my income tax report, but that form of skullduggery doesn’t appeal to me. It’s a matter of taste, and I happen not to like that. Tell him that I am fully aware that every minute counts; I know that the death of Miss Gunther has increased the public resentment to an unprecedented outburst of fury; I read the editorial in today’s Wall Street Journal; I heard Raymond Swing on the radio this evening; I know what’s happening.”