The Rubber Band/The Red Box 2-In-1

by Rex Stout

  “We rescued George Rowley all right. You’ve heard me tell about it, how we loosened a couple of boards and then set fire to the shanty where they had him, and how he busted out of the loose place in the excitement, and how Mike Walsh, who was known to be a dead shot, emptied two guns at him without hitting him. Rowley was in the saddle and away before anyone else realized it, and nobody bothered to chase him because they were too busy putting out the fire.

  “The story came out later about our buying Turtle-back’s horse, but by that time people’s minds were on something else, and anyway our chief offense was that we had started the fire and it couldn’t be proved we had done that. It might have been different if the man we helped to escape had done something really criminal, like cheating at cards or stealing somebody’s dust.

  “So far as I know, none of us ever saw Rowley or heard of him since that night. You’ve heard me mention twenty times, when you and I were having hard going, that I’d like to find him and learn if he owed me anything, but you know I never did and of course I meant it more or less as a joke anyhow. But recently, here in France, two things have come up about it. The first one is a thought that’s in my mind all the time, what if I do get mine over here, what kind of a fix am I leaving you and the kid in? My little daughter Clara—God how I’d love to see her. And you. To hell with that stuff when it’s no use, but I’d gladly stand up and let the damn Germans shoot me tomorrow morning if I could see you two right this minute. The answer to my question is, a hell of a fix. My life would end more useless than it started, leaving my wife and daughter without a single solitary damn thing.

  “The other thing that’s come up is that I’ve seen George Rowley. It was one day last week. I may have told you that the lobe of his right ear was gone—he said he had it hacked off in Australia—but I don’t think I really knew him by that. There probably is a mighty good print of his mug in my mind somewhere, and I just simply knew it was him. After twenty-three years! I was out with a survey detail about a mile back of the front trenches, laying out new communication lines, and a big car came along. British. The car stopped. It had four British officers in it, and one of them called to me and I went over and he asked for directions to our division headquarters. I gave them to him, and he looked at my insignia and asked if we Americans let our captains dig ditches. I had seen by his insignia that he was a brigade commander. I grinned at him and said that in our army everybody worked but the privates. He looked at me closer and said, ‘By Gad, it’s Gil Fox!’ I said, ‘Yes, sir. General Rowley?’ He shook his head and laughed and told the driver to go on, and the car jumped forward, and he turned to wave his hand at me.

  “So he’s alive, or he was last week, and not in the poorhouse, or whatever they call it in England. I’ve made various efforts to find out who he was, but without success. Maybe I will soon. In the meantime, I’m writing this down and disposing of it, because although it may sound far-fetched and even a little batty, the fact is that this is the only thing resembling a legacy that I can leave to you and Clara. After all, I did risk my life that night in Silver City, on the strength of a bargain understood and recorded, and if that Englishman is rolling in it there’s no reason why he shouldn’t pay up. It is my hope and wish that you will make every effort to see that he does, not only for your sake but for our daughter’s sake. That may sound melodramatic, but the things that are going on over here get you that way. As soon as I find out who he is I’ll get this back and add that to it.

  “Another thing. If you do find him and get a grubstake out of it, you must not use it to pay that $26,000 I owe those people out in California. You must promise me this. You must, dearest Lola. I’m bestowing this legacy on you and Clara, not them! I say this because I know that you know how much that debt has worried me for ten years. Though I wasn’t really responsible for that tangle, it’s true that it would give me more pleasure to straighten that out than anything in the world except to see you and Clara, but if I die that business can die with me. Of course, if you should get such a big pile of dough that you’re embarrassed—but miracles like that don’t happen.

  “If something should come out of it, it must be split with the rest of the gang if you can find them. I don’t know a thing about any of them except Harlan Scovil, and I haven’t heard from him for several years. The last address I had for him is in the little red book in the drawer of my desk. One of the difficulties is that you haven’t got the paper that George Rowley signed. Rubber Coleman, by agreement, kept both that and the PLEDGE OF THE RUBBER BAND. Maybe you can find Coleman. Or maybe Rowley is a decent guy and will pay without any paper. Either sounds highly improbable. Hell, it’s all a daydream. Anyhow, I have every intention of getting back to you safe and sound, and if I do you’ll never see this unless I bring it along as a souvenir.

  “Here are the names of everybody that was in on it: George Rowley. Rubber Coleman (don’t know his first name). Victor Lindquist. Harlan Scovil (you’ve met him, go after him first). Mike Walsh (he was a little older, maybe 32 at the time, not one of the Rubber Band). Turtle-back was a good deal older, probably dead now, and that’s all the name I knew for him. And last but by no means least, yours truly, and how truly it would take a year to tell, Gilbert Fox, the writer of these presents.”

  Clara Fox stopped. She ran her eyes over the last sentence again, then placed that sheet at the back, folded them up, and returned them to her handbag. She put her hand up and brushed back her hair, and sat and looked at Wolfe. No one said anything.

  Finally Wolfe sighed. He opened his eyes at her. “Well, Miss Fox. It appears to be the moon that you want after all.”

  She shook her head. “I know who George Rowley is. He is now in New York.”

  “And this, I presume—” Wolfe nodded—“is Mr. Victor Lindquist’s daughter.” He nodded again. “And this gentleman is the Mr. Walsh who emptied two guns at Mr. Rowley without hitting him.”

  Mike Walsh blurted, “I could have hit him!”

  “Granted, sir. And you, Miss Fox, would very much like to have $26,000, no doubt with accrued interest, to discharge debts of your dead father. In other words, you need something a little less than $30,000.”

  She stared at him. She glanced at me, then back at him, and asked coolly, “Am I here as your client, Mr. Wolfe, or as a suspected thief?”

  He wiggled a finger at her. “Neither as yet. Please do not be so foolish as to be offended. If I show you my mind, it is only to save time and avoid irrelevancies. Haven’t I sat and listened patiently for ten minutes although I dislike being read aloud to?”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “Indeed. I believe it is. Let us proceed. Tell me about Mr. George Rowley.”

  But that had to be postponed. I had heard the doorbell, and Fritz going down the hall, and a murmur from outside. Now I shook my head at Clara Fox and showed her my palm to stop her, as the office door opened and Fritz came in and closed it behind him.

  “A man to see you, sir. I told him you were engaged.”

  I bounced up. There were only two kinds of men Fritz didn’t announce as gentlemen: one he suspected of wanting to sell something, and a policeman, uniform or not. He could smell one a mile off. So I bounced up and demanded:

  “A cop?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I whirled to Wolfe. “Ever since I saw Muir looking at Miss Fox today I’ve been thinking she ought to have a lightning rod. Would you like to have her pinched in here, or out in the hall?”

  Wolfe nodded and snapped, “Very well, Archie.”

  I crossed quick and got myself against the closed office door, and spoke not too loud to Fritz, pointing to the door that opened into the front room: “Go through that way and lock the door from the front room to the hall.” He moved. I turned to the others: “Go in there and sit down, and if you don’t talk any it won’t disturb us.” Walsh and Miss Lindquist stared at me. Clara Fox said to Wolfe:

  “I’m not your client yet.”

  He said, “N
or yet a suspect. Here. Please humor Mr. Goodwin.

  She got up and went and the others followed her, Fritz came back and I told him to shut that door and lock it and give me the key. Then I went back to my desk and sat down, while Fritz, at a nod from Wolfe, went to the hall for the visitor.

  The cop came in, and I was surprised to see that it was a guy I knew. Surprised, because the last time I had heard of Slim Foltz he had been on the Homicide Squad, detailed to the District Attorney’s office.

  “Hello, Slim.”

  “Hi, Goodwin.” He had his own clothes on. He came on across with his hat in his hand. “Hello, Mr. Wolfe. I’m Foltz, Homicide Squad.”

  “Good evening, sir. Be seated.”

  The dick put his hat on the desk and sat down, and reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “There was a man shot down the street an hour or so ago. Shot plenty, five bullets in him. Killed. This piece of paper was in his pocket, with your name and address on it. Along with other names. Do you know anything about him?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Except that he’s dead. Not, that is, at this moment. If I knew his name, perhaps …”

  “Yeah. His name was on a hunting license, also in his pocket. State of Wyoming. Harlan Scovil.”

  “Indeed. It is possible Mr. Goodwin can help you out. Archie?”

  I was thinking to myself, hell, he didn’t come for her after all. But I was just as well pleased she wasn’t in the room.

  Slim Foltz was looking at me.

  I said, “Harlan Scovil? Sure. He was here this afternoon.”

  Foltz got in his pocket again and fished out a little black memo book and a pencil stub. “What time?”

  “He got here around 4:30, a little before maybe, and left at 5:26.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to see Nero Wolfe.”

  “What about?”

  I shook my head regretfully. “There you’ve got me, mister. I told him he’d have to wait until six o’clock, so he was waiting.”

  “He must have said something.”

  “Certainly he said something. He said he wanted to see Nero Wolfe.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said there seemed to be very little spittin’ done east of the Mississippi River, and he wanted to know if there were any honest men this side of the mountains. He didn’t say specifically what he wanted to see Mr. Wolfe about. We’d never seen him or heard of him before. Oh yes, he said he just got to New York this morning, from Wyoming. By the way, just because that license was in his pocket—was he over six feet, around sixty, blue serge suit with sleeves too short and the lapel tom a little on the right side, with a leathery red face and a cowboy hat—”

  “That’s him,” the dick grunted. “What did he come to New York for?”

  “To see Nero Wolfe I guess.” I grinned. “That’s the kind of a rep we’ve got. If you mean, did he give any hint as to who might want to bump him off, he didn’t.”

  “Did he see Wolfe?”

  “No. I told you, he left at 5:26. Mr. Wolfe never comes down until six o’clock.”

  “Why didn’t he wait?”

  “Because he got a phone call.”

  “He got a phone call here?”

  “Right here in this room. I wasn’t here. I had gone out, leaving this bird here waiting for six o’clock. The phone was answered by Fritz Brenner, Mr. Wolfe’s chef and household pride. Want to see him?”

  “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

  Wolfe rang. Fritz came. Wolfe told him he was to answer the gentleman’s questions, and Fritz said “Yes, sir” and stood up straight.

  All Foltz got out of Fritz was the same as I had got. He had put down the time of the phone call, 5:26, in accordance with Wolfe’s standing instructions for exactness in all details of the household and office. It was a man phoning, and he had not given his name and Fritz had not recognized his voice. Fritz had not overheard any of the conversation. Harlan Scovil had immediately left, without saying anything.

  Fritz went back to the kitchen.

  The dick frowned at the piece of paper. “I wasn’t expecting to draw a blank here. I came here first. There’s other names on this paper—Clara Fox, Michael Walsh, Michael spelled wrong, Hilda Lindquist, that’s what it looks like, and a Marquis of Clivers. I don’t suppose you—”

  I horned in, shaking my head. “As I said, when this Harlan Scovil popped in here at half-past four today, I had never seen him before. Nor any of those others. Strangers to me. I’m sure Mr. Wolfe hadn’t either. Had you, sir?”

  “Seen them? No. But I believe I had heard of one of them. Wasn’t it the Marquis of Clivers we were discussing yesterday?”

  “Discussing? Yes, sir. When you dropped that javelin. That piece in the paper.” I looked at Foltz helpfully. “There was an article in the Times yesterday, magazine section—”

  He nodded. “I know all about that. The sergeant was telling me. This marquis seems to be something like a duke, he’s immune by reason of a foreign power or something. It don’t even have to be a friendly foreign power. The sergeant says this business might possibly be an international plot. Captain Devore is going to make arrangements to see this marquis and maybe warn him or protect him.”

  “Splendid.” Wolfe nodded approvingly. “The police earn the gratitude of all of us. But for them, Mr. Foltz, we private investigators might sit and wait for clients in vain.”

  “Yeah.” Foltz got up. “Much obliged for the compliment, even if that’s all I get. I mean, I haven’t got much information. Except that telephone call, that may lead to something. Scovil was shot only four blocks from here, on 31st Street, only nine minutes after he got that phone call, at 5:35. He was walking along the sidewalk and somebody going by in a car reached out and plugged him, filled him full. He was dead right then. It was pretty dark around there, but a man nearby saw the license, and the car’s already been found, parked on Ninth Avenue. Nobody saw anyone get out of it.”

  “Well, that’s something.” I was hopeful. “That ought to get you somewhere.”

  “Probably stolen. They usually are.” The dick had his hat in his hand. “Gang stuff, it looks like. Much obliged to you folks anyhow.”

  “Don’t mention it, Slim.”

  I went to the hall with him, and saw him out the front door, and shut it after him and slid the bolt. Before I returned to the office I stopped at the kitchen and told Fritz that I’d answer any doorbells that might ring for the rest of the evening.

  I crossed to Wolfe’s desk and grinned at him. “Ha ha. The damn police were here.”

  Wolfe looked at the clock, which said ten minutes past seven. He reached out and pushed the button, and when Fritz came, leaned back and sighed.

  “Fritz.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A calamity. We cannot possibly dine at eight as usual. Not dine, that is. We can eat, and I suppose we shall have to. You have filets of beef with sauce Abano.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wolfe sighed again. “You will have to serve it in morsels, for five persons. By adding some of the fresh stock you can have plenty of soup. Open Hungarian petits poissons. You have plenty of fruit? Fill in as you can. It is distressing, but there’s no help for it.”

  “The sauce is a great success, sir. I could give the others canned chicken and mushrooms—”

  “Confound it, no! If there are to be hardships, I must share them. That’s all. Bring me some beer.”

  Fritz went, and Wolfe turned to me: “Bring Clara Fox.”

  I unlocked the door to the front room. Fritz hadn’t turned on all the lights, and it was dim. The two women were side by side on the divan, and Mike Walsh was in a chair, blinking at me as if he had been asleep.

  I said, “Mr. Wolfe would like to speak to Miss Fox.”

  Mike Walsh said, “I’m hungry.”

  Clara Fox said, “To all of us.”

  “First just you. Please. —There’ll be some grub pretty soon, Mr. Wa
lsh. If you’ll wait in here.”

  Clara Fox hesitated, then got up and preceded me. I shut the door, and she went back to her chair in front of Wolfe, the one the dick had sat in. Wolfe had emptied a glass and was filling it up again.

  “Will you have some beer, Miss Fox?”

  She shook her head. “Thank you. But I don’t like to discuss this with you alone, Mr. Wolfe. The others are just as much—”

  “To be sure. Permit me.” He wiggled a finger at her. “They shall join us presently. The fact is, I wish to touch on something else for a moment. Did you take that money from Mr. Muir’s desk?”

  She looked at him steadily. “We shouldn’t let things get confused. Are you acting now as the agent of the Seaboard Products Corporation?”

  “I’m asking you a question. You came here to consult me because you thought I had abilities. I have; I’m using them. Either answer my question or find abilities elsewhere. Did you take that money?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who took it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  “No. I have certain suspicions, but nothing specific about the money itself.”

  “Do you mean suspicions on account of the attitude of Mr. Perry and Mr. Muir toward you personally?”

  “Yes. Chiefly Mr. Muir.”

  “Good. Now this: Did you kill anyone this evening between five and six o’clock?”

  She stared at him. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  He drank some beer, wiped his lips, and leaned back in his chair. “Miss Fox. The avoidance of idiocy should be the primary and constant concern of every intelligent person. It is mine. I am sometimes successful. Take, for instance, your statement that you did not steal that money. Do I believe it? As a philosopher, I believe nothing. As a detective, I believe it enough to leave it behind me, but am prepared to glance back over my shoulder. As a man, I believe it utterly. I assure you, my reason for the questions I am asking is not idiotic. For one thing, I am observing your face as you reply to them. Bear with me; we shall be getting somewhere, I think. Did you kill anyone this evening between five and six o’clock?”