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

by Rex Stout

  Muir glared at him. “You know we have. It was found under the back seat of her car.”

  “But if that was her car in the photograph, it has no back seat.”

  “She bought a new one in August. The photograph was taken in July. I suppose Perry bought it. Her salary is higher than any other woman in our organization.”

  “Splendid. But about the money. If you have it back, why are you determined to prosecute?”

  “Why shouldn’t we prosecute? Because she’s guilty! She took it from my desk, knowing that Perry would protect her! With her body, with her flesh, with her surrender—”

  “No, Mr. Muir.” Wolfe’s hand was up again. “Please. I put the question wrong, I shouldn’t have asked why. I want to know, are you determined to prosecute?”

  Muir clamped his lips. He opened them, and clamped them again. At last he spoke, “We were. I was.”

  “Was? Are you still?”

  No reply. “Are you still, Mr. Muir?”

  “I … no.”

  “Indeed.” Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “You are prepared to withdraw the charge?”

  “Yes … under certain circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “I want to see her.” Muir stopped because his voice was trembling again. “I have promised Perry that I will withdraw the charge provided I can see her, alone, and tell her myself.” He sat up and his jaw tightened. “That … those are the circumstances.”

  Wolfe looked at him a moment and then leaned back. He sighed. “I think possibly that can be arranged. But you must first sign a statement exonerating her.”

  “Before I see her?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I see her first.” Muir’s lips worked. “I must see her and tell her myself. If I had already signed a statement, she wouldn’t … no. I won’t do that.”

  “But you can’t see her first.” Wolfe sounded patient. “There is a warrant in force against her, sworn to by you. I do not suspect you of treachery, I merely protect my client. You say that you have promised Mr. Perry that you will withdraw the charge. Do so. Mr. Goodwin will type the statement, you will sign it, and I will arrange a meeting with Miss Fox later in the day.”

  Muir was shaking his head. He muttered, “No. No … I won’t.” All at once he broke loose worse than he had in Perry’s office the day before. He jumped up and banged his hand on the desk and leaned over at Wolfe. “I tell you I must see her! You damn blackguard, you’ve got her here! What for? What do you get out of it? What do you and Perry …”

  I had a good notion to slap him one, but of course he was too old and too little. Wolfe, leaning back, opened his eyes to look at him and then closed them. Muir went on raving. I got out of my chair and told him to sit down, and he began yelling at me, something about how I had looked at her in Perry’s office yesterday. That sounded as if he might really be going to have a fit, so I took a step and got hold of his shoulders with a fairly good grip and persuaded him into his chair, and he shut up as suddenly as he had started and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping his face with his hand trembling.

  As he did that and I stepped back, the doorbell rang. I wasn’t sure about leaving Wolfe there alone with a maniac, but when I didn’t move he lifted his brows at me, so I went to see who the customer was.

  I looked through the panel. It was a rugged-looking guy well past middle age in a loose-hanging tweed suit, with a red face, straight eyebrows over tired gray eyes, and no lobe on his right ear. Even without the ear I would have recognized him from the Times picture. I opened the door and asked him what he wanted and he said in a wounded tone:

  “I’d like to see Mr. Nero Wolfe. Lord Clivers.”

  I nodded. “Right. Hop the sill.”

  I proceeded to tax the brain. Before I go on to describe that, I’ll make a confession. I had not till that moment seriously entertained the idea that the Marquis of Clivers had killed Harlan Scovil. And why not? Because like most other people, and maybe especially Americans, there was a sneaky feeling in me that men with noble titles didn’t do things like that. Besides, this bird had just been to Washington and had lunch at the White House, which cinched it that he wasn’t a murderer. As a matter of fact, I suspect that noblemen and people who eat lunch at the White House commit more than their share of murders compared to their numerical strength in the total population. Anyhow, looking at this one in the flesh, and reflecting that he carried a pistol and knew how to use one, and considering how well he was fixed in the way of motive, and realizing that since Harlan Scovil had been suspicious enough to make an advance call on Nero Wolfe he might easily have done the same on the Marquis of Clivers, I revised some of the opinions I had been forming. It looked wide open to me.

  That flashed through my mind. Also, as I disposed of his hat and stick and gloves for him, I wondered if it might be well to arrange a little confrontation between Muir and the marquis, but I didn’t like to decide that myself. So I escorted him to a seat in the front room, telling him Wolfe was engaged, and then returned to the hall and wrote on a piece of paper, “Old man Clivers,” and went to the office and handed the paper to Wolfe.

  Wolfe glanced at it, looked at me, and winked his right eye. I sat down. Muir was talking, much calmer but just as stubborn. They passed it back and forth for a couple of minutes without getting anywhere, until Wolfe said:

  “Futile, Mr. Muir. I won’t do it. Tell Mr. Perry that I shall proceed with the program I announced to him this morning. That’s final. I’ll accept nothing less than complete and unconditional exoneration of my client. Good day, sir; I have a caller waiting.”

  Muir stood up. He wasn’t trembling, and his jaw seemed to be back in place, but he looked about as friendly as Mussolini talking to the world. He didn’t say anything. He shot me a mean glance and looked at Wolfe for half a minute without blinking, and then stooped to pick up his hat and straightened up and steered for the door. I followed and let him out, and stood on the stoop a second watching him start off down the sidewalk as if he had half a jag on. He was like the mule in the story that kept running into trees; he wasn’t blind, he was just so mad he didn’t give a damn.

  I stood shaking my head more in anger than in pity, and then went back to the office and said to Wolfe:

  “I would say you hit bottom that time. He’s staggering. If you called that foxy, what would you say if you saw a rat?”

  Wolfe nodded faintly. I resumed, “I showed you that paper because I thought you might deem it advisable to let Clivers and Muir see each other. Unexpected like that, it might have been interesting. It’s my social instinct.”

  “No doubt. But this is a detective bureau, not a fashionable salon. Nor a menagerie—since Mr. Muir is plainly a lecherous hyena. Bring Lord Clivers.”

  I went through the connecting door to the front room, and Clivers looked around surprised at my entering from a new direction. He was jumpy. I pointed him ahead and he stopped on the threshold and glanced around before venturing in. Then he moved spry enough and walked over to the desk. Wolfe took him in with his eyes half shut, and nodded.

  “How do you do, sir.” Wolfe indicated the chair Muir had just vacated. “Be seated.”

  Clivers did a slow motion circle. He turned all the way around, encompassing with his eyes the book shelves, the wall maps, the Holbein reproductions, more book shelves, the three-foot globe on its stand, the engraving of Brillat-Savarin, more book shelves, the picture of Sherlock Holmes above my desk. Then he sat down and looked at me with a frown and pointed a thumb at me.

  “This young man,” he said.

  Wolfe said, “My confidential assistant, Mr. Goodwin. There would be no point in sending him out, for he would merely find a point of vantage we have prepared, and set down what he heard.”

  “The devil he would.” Clivers laughed three short blasts, haw-haw-haw, and gave me up. He transferred the frown to Wolfe. “I received your letter about that horse. It’s preposterous.”

  Wo
lfe nodded. “I agree with you. All debts are preposterous. They are the envious past clutching with its cold dead fingers the throat of the living present.”

  “Eh?” Clivers stared at him. “What kind of talk is that? Rot. What I mean to say is, two hundred thousand pounds for a horse. And uncollectible.”

  “Surely not.” Wolfe sighed. He leaned forward to press the button for Fritz, and back again. “The best argument against you is your presence here. If it is uncollectible, why did you come? Will you have some beer?”

  “What kind of beer?”

  “American. Potable.”

  “I’ll try it. I came because my nephew gave me to understand that if I wanted to see you I would have to come. I wanted to see you because I had to learn if you are a swindler or a dupe.”

  “My dear sir.” Wolfe lifted his brows. “No other alternatives? —Another glass and bottle, Fritz.” He opened his, and poured. “But you seem to be a direct man. Let’s not get mired in irrelevancies. Frankly, I am relieved. I feared that you might even dispute the question of identity and create a lot of unnecessary trouble.”

  “Dispute identity?” Clivers glared. “Why the devil should I?”

  “You shouldn’t, but I thought you might. You were, forty years ago in Silver City, Nevada, known as George Rowley?”

  “Certainly I was. Thanks, I’ll pour it myself.”

  “Good.” Wolfe drank, and wiped his lips. “I think we should get along. I am aware that Mr. Lindquist’s claim against you has no legal standing on account of the expiration of time. The same is true of the claim of various others; besides, the paper you signed which originally validated it is not available. But it is a sound and demonstrable moral obligation, and I calculated that rather than have that fact shown in open court you would prefer to pay. It would be an unusual case and would arouse much public interest. Not only are you a peer of England, you are in this country on an important and delicate diplomatic mission, and therefore such publicity would be especially undesirable. Would you not rather pay what you owe, or at least a fraction of it, than permit the publicity? I calculated that you would. Do you find the beer tolerable?”

  Clivers put down his glass and licked his lips. “It’ll do.” He screwed up his mouth and looked at Wolfe. “By God, you know, you might mean that.”

  “Verily, sir.”

  “Yes, by God, you might. I’ll tell you what I thought. I thought you were basing the claim on that horse with the pretense that it was additional to the obligation I assumed when I signed that paper. The horse wasn’t mentioned in the paper. Not a bad idea, an excellent go at blackmail. It all sounds fantastic now, but it wasn’t then. If I hadn’t signed that paper and if it hadn’t been for that horse I would have had a noose around my neck. Not so damn pleasant, eh? And of course that’s what you’re doing, claiming extra for the horse. But it’s preposterous. Two hundred thousand pounds for a horse? I’ll pay a thousand.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “I dislike haggling. Equally I dislike quibbling. The total claim is in question, and you know it. I represent not only Mr. and Miss Lindquist but also the daughter of Gilbert Fox, and indirectly Mr. Walsh; and I was to have represented Mr. Scovil, who was murdered last evening.” He shook his head again. “No, Lord Clivers. In my letter I based the claim on the horse only because the paper you signed is not available. It is the total claim we are discussing, and, strictly speaking, that would mean half of your entire wealth. As I said, my clients are willing to accept a fraction.”

  Clivers had a new expression on his face. He no longer glared, but looked at Wolfe quietly intent. He said, “I see. So it’s a serious game, is it? I would have paid a thousand for the horse, possibly even another thousand for the glass of beer. But you’re on for a real haul by threatening to make all this public and compromise my position here. Go to hell.” He got up.

  Wolfe said patiently, “Permit me. It isn’t a matter of a thousand or two for a horse. Precisely and morally, you owe these people half of your wealth. If they are willing—”

  “Bah! I owe them nothing! You know damn well I’ve paid them.”

  Wolfe’s eyes went nearly shut. “What’s that? You’ve paid them?”

  “Of course I have, and you know it. And I’ve got their receipt, and I’ve got the paper I signed.” Clivers abruptly sat down again. “Look here. Your man is here, and I’m alone, so why not talk straight? I don’t resent your being a crook, I’ve dealt with crooks before, and more pretentious ones than you. But cut out the pretense and get down to business. You have a good lever for blackmail, I admit it. But you might as well give up the idea of a big haul, because I won’t submit to it. I’ll pay three thousand pounds for a receipt from the Lindquists for that horse.”

  Wolfe’s forefinger was tapping gently on the arm of his chair, which meant he was dodging meteors and comets. His eyes were mere slits. After a moment he said, “This is bad. It raises questions of credibility.” He wiggled the finger. “Really bad, sir. How am I to know whether you really have paid? And if you have, how are you to know whether I was really ignorant of the fact and acting in good faith? Have you any suggestions?” He pushed the button. “I need some beer. Will you join me?”

  “Yes. It’s pretty good. Do you mean to say you didn’t know I had paid?”

  “I do. I do indeed. Though the possibility should certainly have occurred to me. I was too intent on the path under my feet.” He stopped to open bottles, pushed one across to Clivers, and filled his glass. “You say you paid them. What them? When? How much? What with? They signed a receipt? Tell me about it.”

  Clivers, taking his time, emptied his glass and set it down. He licked his lips, screwed up his mouth, and looked at Wolfe, considering. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t know about you. You’re clever. Do you mean that if I show evidence of having paid, and their receipt, you will abandon this preposterous claim for the horse on payment of a thousand pounds?”

  “Satisfactory evidence?” Wolfe nodded. “I’ll abandon it for nothing.”

  “Oh, I’ll pay a thousand. I understand the Lindquists are hard up. The evidence will be satisfactory, and you can see it tomorrow morning.”

  “I’d rather see it today.”

  “You can’t. I haven’t got it. It will arrive this evening on the Berengaria. My dispatch bag will teach me tonight, but I shall be engaged. Come to my hotel any time after nine in the morning.”

  “I don’t go out. I am busy from nine to eleven. You can bring your evidence here any time after eleven.”

  “The devil I can.” Clivers stared at him, and suddenly laughed his three blasts again. Haw-haw-haw. He turned it off. “You can come to my hotel. You don’t look infirm.”

  Wolfe said patiently, “If you don’t bring it here, or send it, I won’t get to see it and I’ll have to press the claim for the horse. And by the way, how does it happen to be coming on the Berengaria?”

  “Because I sent for it. Monday of last week, eight days ago, a woman saw me. She got in to me through my nephew—it seems they had met socially. She represented herself as the daughter of Gil Fox and made demands. I wouldn’t discuss it with her. I thought it was straight blackmail and I would freeze her out. She was too damned good-looking to be honest. But I thought it worth while to cable to London for these items from my private papers, in case of developments. They’ll be here tonight.”

  “And this payment—when was it made?”

  “Nineteen-six or seven. I don’t know. I haven’t looked at those papers for twenty years.”

  “To whom was the payment made?”

  “I have the receipt signed by all of them.”

  “So you said. And you have the paper which you had signed. The man called Rubber Coleman had that paper. Did he get the money?”

  Clivers opened his mouth and shut it again. Then he said, “I’ve answered enough questions. You’ll see the check in the morning, signed by me, endorsed by the payee, and cancelled paid.” He looked at his empty glass. “I hadn�
�t tried American lager before. It’s pretty good.”

  Wolfe pressed the button. “Then why not anticipate it by a few hours? I’m not attempting a cross-examination, Lord Clivers. I merely want information. Was it Coleman?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much did he get?”

  “Two hundred and some odd thousand pounds. A million dollars. He came to me—July I think it was—about a year after I succeeded to the title. It must have been nineteen-six. He made exorbitant demands. Much of my property was entail. He was unreasonable. We finally agreed on a million dollars. Of course I needed time to get that much cash together. He returned to the States and came back in a couple of months with a receipt signed by all of them. Besides, he was deputized in the original paper, which he surrendered. My solicitor wanted me to send over here and have the signatures verified, but Coleman said he had had difficulty in persuading them to agree to the amount and I was afraid to reopen the question. I paid him.”

  “Where is Coleman now?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him since, nor heard of him. I wasn’t interested; it was a closed chapter. I’m not greatly interested now. If he swindled them and kept the money, they shouldn’t have trusted him with their signatures.” Clivers hesitated, then resumed, “It’s a fact that when the Fox woman saw me a week ago I took it for blackmail, but when Harlan Scovil called to see me yesterday afternoon I had my doubts. Scovil was a square man, he was born square, and I didn’t think even forty years could turn him into a blackmailer. When I learned from the police last evening that he had been killed, there was no longer any doubt about a stink in the wind, but I couldn’t tell them what I didn’t know, and what I did know was my own business.”

  “So Harlan Scovil saw you yesterday?” Wolfe rubbed his nose. “That’s int—”

  “He didn’t see me. I was out. When I returned in the late afternoon I was told he had been there.” Clivers drank his beer. “Then this morning your letter came and it looked like blackmail again. With a murder involved in it also, it appeared that publicity was inevitable if I consulted the official police. The only thing left was to deal with you. All you wanted was money, and I have a little of it left in spite of taxes and revolutions. I don’t for a minute believe that you’re prepared to drop it merely because I show evidence that I’ve paid. You want money. You present a front that shows you’re not a damned piker.” He pointed. “Look at that globe, the finest I ever saw, couldn’t have cost less than a hundred pounds. Twice as big as the one in my library. I’ll pay three thousand for Lindquist’s receipt for that horse.”