by Rex Stout
“I understand, sir.” Wolfe sounded impatient. “You knew that Molly Lauck was enamored of Mr. Perren Gebert. You knew that Mr. Gebert wanted to marry your cousin Helen, and you thought that Mr. McNair favored that idea. You were more than ready to suspect that the genesis of the poisoned candy was that eroto-matrimonial tangle, since you were vitally concerned in it because you wished to marry your cousin yourself.”
Llewellyn stared at him. “Where did you get that idea?” His face began to get red, and he sputtered, “Me marry her? You’re crazy! What kind of a damn fool—”
“Please don’t do that.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “You should know that detectives do sometimes detect—at least some of them do. I don’t say that you intended to marry your cousin, merely that you wanted to. I knew that early in our conversation last Monday afternoon, when you told me that she is your ortho-cousin. There was no reason why so abstruse and unusual a term should have been in the forefront of your mind, as it obviously was, unless you had been so preoccupied with the idea of marrying your cousin, and so concerned as to the custom and propriety of marriage between first cousins, that you had gone into it exhaustively. It was evident that canon law and the Levitical decrees had not been enough for you; you had even ventured into anthropology. Or possibly that had not been enough for someone else—herself, her mother, your father …”
Lew Frost blurted, his face still red, “You didn’t detect that. She told you. Yesterday … did she tell you?”
Wolfe shook his head. “No, sir. I did detect it. Among other things. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that when you called here three days ago you were fairly well convinced that either Mr. McNair or Mr. Gebert had killed Molly Lauck. Certainly you were in no condition to discriminate between nonsense and likelihood.”
“I know I wasn’t. But I wasn’t convinced of … anything.” Llewellyn chewed at his lip. “Now, of course, I’m up a tree. This McNair business is terrible. The newspapers have started it up all over again. The police have been after us this morning—us Frosts—as if we … as if we knew something about it. And of course Helen is all cut up. She wanted to go to see McNair’s body this morning, and had to be told that she couldn’t because they were doing a post mortem, and that was pleasant. Then she wanted to come to see you, and finally I drove her down here. I came in first because I didn’t know who might be in here. She’s out front in my car. May I bring her in?”
Wolfe grimaced. “There’s nothing I can do for her, at this moment. I suspect she’s in no condition—”
“She wants to see you.”
Wolfe lifted his shoulders an inch, and dropped them. “Get her.”
Lew Frost rose and strode out. I went along to manipulate the door. Parked at the curb was a gray coupe, and from it emerged Helen Frost. Llewellyn escorted her up the stoop and into the hall, and I must say she didn’t bear much resemblance to a goddess. Her eyes were puffed up and her nose was blotchy and she looked sick. Her ortho-cousin led her on to the office, and I followed them in. She gave Wolfe a nod and seated herself in the dunce’s chair, then looked at Llewellyn, at me, and at Wolfe, as if she wasn’t sure she knew us.
She looked at the floor, and up again. “It was right here,” she said in a dead tone. “Wasn’t it? Right here.”
Wolfe nodded. “Yes, Miss Frost. But if that is what you came here for, to shudder at the spot where your best friend died, that won’t help us any.” He straightened up a little. “This is a detective bureau, not a nursery for morbidity. Yes, he died here. He swallowed the poison sitting in that chair; he staggered to his feet and tried to keep himself upright by putting his fists on my desk; he collapsed to the floor in a convulsion and died; if he were still there you could reach down and touch him without moving from your chair.”
Helen was staring at him and not breathing; Llewellyn protested: “For God’s sake, Wolfe, do you think—”
Wolfe showed him a palm. “I think I had to sit here and watch Mr. McNair being murdered in my office. —Archie. Your notebook, please. Yesterday I told Miss Frost it was time something was said to her. What did I say then? Read it.”
I got the book and flipped back the pages and found it and read it out:
“… In your conceit, you are assuming, for your youth and inexperience, a terrific responsibility. Molly Lauck died nine days ago, probably through bungling of someone’s effort to kill another person. During all that time you have possessed knowledge which, handled with competence and dispatch, might do something much more important than wreak vengeance; it might save a life, and it is even possible that the life would be one worth saving. What do you—
“That will do.” Wolfe turned to her. “That, mademoiselle, was a courteous and reasonable appeal. I do not often appeal to anyone like that; I am too conceited. I did appeal to you, without success. If it is painful to you to be reminded that your best friend died yesterday, in agony, on the spot now occupied by your chair, do you think it was agreeable to me to sit here and watch him do it?” He shifted abruptly to Llewellyn. “And you, sir, who engaged me to solve a problem and then proceeded to hamper me as soon as I made the first step—now you are quick on the trigger to resent it if I do not show tenderness and consideration for your cousin’s remorse and grief. I know none because I have none. If I offer anything for sale in this office that is worth buying, it certainly is not a warm heart and maudlin sympathy for the distress of spoiled obtuse children.” He turned to Helen. “Yesterday, in your pride, you asked for nothing and offered nothing. What information you gave was forced from you by a threat. What did you come for today? What do you want?”
Llewellyn had risen and moved to her chair. He was holding himself in. “Come on, Helen,” he entreated her. “Come on, get out of here …”
She reached up and touched his sleeve, and shook her head without looking at him. “Sit down, Lew,” she told him. “Please. I deserve it.” There was a spot of color on the cheek I could see.
“No. Come on.”
She shook her head again. “I’m going to stay.”
“I’m not.” He shot out his chin in Wolfe’s direction. “Look here, I apologized to you. All right, I owed you that. But now I want to say … that thing I signed here Tuesday … I’m giving you notice I’m done with that. I’m not paying you ten thousand dollars, because I haven’t got it and you haven’t earned it. I can pay a reasonable amount whenever you send a bill. The deal’s off.”
Wolfe nodded and murmured, “I expected that, of course. The suspicions you hired me to substantiate have evaporated. The threat of molestation of your cousin, caused by her admission that she had seen the box of candy, no longer exists. Half of your purpose is accomplished, since your cousin will not work any more—at least, not at Mr. McNair’s. As for the other half, to continue the investigation of the murder of Molly Lauck would mean of necessity an inquiry into Mr. McNair’s death also, and that might easily result in something highly distasteful to a Frost. That’s the logic of it, for you, perfectly correct; and if I expected to collect even a fair fraction of my fee I shall probably have to sue you for it.” He sighed, and leaned back. “And you stampeded me to 52nd Street with that confounded letter. Good day, sir. I don’t blame you; but I shall certainly send you a bill for ten thousand dollars. I know what you are thinking: that you won’t be sued because I won’t go to a courtroom to testify. You are correct; but I shall certainly send you a bill.”
“Go ahead. Come on, Helen.”
She didn’t budge. She said quietly, “Sit down, Lew.”
“What for? Come on! Did you hear what he said about distasteful to a Frost? Don’t you see it’s him that has started the police after us as if we were all a bunch of murderers? And that he started it on account of something that McNair said to him yesterday before—before it happened? Just as Dad said, and Aunt Callie too? Do you wonder they wouldn’t let you come down here unless I came along? I’m not saying McNair told him any lies, I’m just saying—”
“Lew!
Stop it!” She wasn’t loud, but determined. She put a hand on his sleeve again. “Listen, Lew. You know very well that all the misunderstandings we’ve ever had have been about Uncle Boyd. Don’t you think we might stop having them, now that he’s dead? I told Mr. Wolfe yesterday … he … he was the finest man I have ever known.… I don’t expect you to agree with that … but it’s true. I know he didn’t like you, and I honestly thought that was the only thing he was wrong about.” She stood up and put a hand on each of his arms. “You’re a fine man, too, Lew. You have lots of fine things in you. But I loved Uncle Boyd.” She shut her lips tight and nodded her head up and down several times. Finally she swallowed, and went on, “He was a grand person … he was. He gave me what common sense I’ve got, and it was him that kept me from being just a complete silly fool.…” She tightened her lips again, and then again went on, “He always used to say … whenever I … I …”
She turned away abruptly and sat down, lowered her face into her palms, and began to cry.
Llewellyn started at her: “Now, Helen, for God’s sake, I know how you feel—”
I growled at him, “Sit down and shut up. Can it!”
He was going to keep on comforting her. I bounced up and grabbed his shoulder and whirled him. “You’re not a client here any more. Don’t argue. Didn’t I tell you scenes make me nervous?” I left him glaring and went to the cabinet and got a shot of brandy and a glass of cold water, and went and stood alongside Helen Frost’s chair. Pretty soon she got quieter, and then fished a handkerchief out of her bag and began dabbing. I waited until she could see to tell her:
“Brandy. 1890 Guarnier. Shall I put water in it?”
She shook her head and reached for it and gulped it down nicely. I offered her the water and she took a swallow of that. Then she looked at Nero Wolfe and said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not asking for any tenderness, but you’ll have to excuse me.” She looked at her cousin. “I’m not going to talk to you about Uncle Boyd any more. It doesn’t do any good, does it? It’s foolish.” She dabbed at her eyes again, took in a long trembling breath and let it out, and turned back to Wolfe.
She said, “I don’t care what Uncle Boyd told you about us Frosts. It couldn’t have been anything very terrible, because he wouldn’t tell lies. I don’t care if you’re working with the police, either. There couldn’t be anything more … more distasteful to a Frost than what has happened. Anyway, the police never found out anything; at all about Molly Lauck, and you did.”
Her tears had dried. She went on, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you … of course I’m sorry. I thought I was keeping a secret for Uncle Boyd, but I’m sorry anyway. I only wish there was anything else I could tell you … but anyway … I can do this. This is the only time I’ve been truly glad I have lots of money. I’ll pay you anything to find out who killed Uncle Boyd. Anything, and … and you won’t have to sue me for it.”
I got her glass and went to the cabinet to get her some more brandy. I grinned at the bottle as I poured, reflecting that this case was turning out to be just one damned client after another.
Chapter 11
Llewellyn was expostulating. “But, Helen, it’s a police job. Not that he could be any more offensive than the police are, but it’s a police job and let them do it. Anyway, Dad and Aunt Callie will be sore as the devil, you know they will, you know how they went after me when I … Tuesday.”
Helen said, “I don’t care if they’re sore. It’s not their money, it’s mine. I’m doing this. Of course I won’t be of age until next month—does that matter, Mr. Wolfe? Is that all right?”
“Quite all right.”
“Will you do it?”
“Will I accept your commission? In spite of my experience with another Frost as a client, yes.”
She turned to her ortho-cousin. “You do as you please, Lew. Go on home and tell them if you want to. But I … I’d like to have you …”
He was frowning at her. “Are you set on this?”
“Yes. Good and set.”
“Okay.” He settled back in his chair. “I stick here. I’m for the Frosts, but you’re the first one on the list. You’re … Oh, nothing.” He flushed a little. “Go to it.”
“Thank you, Lew.” She turned to Wolfe. “I suppose you want me to sign something?”
Wolfe shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” He had leaned back and his eyes were half closed. “My charge will be adequate, but not exorbitant. I shan’t attempt to make you pay for your cousin’s volatility. But one thing must be clearly understood. You are engaging me for this job because of your affection and esteem for Mr. McNair and your desire that his murderer should be discovered and punished. You are at present under the spell of powerful emotions. Are you sure that tomorrow or next week you will still want this thing done? Do you want the murderer caught and tried and convicted and executed if it should happen to be, for instance, your cousin, your uncle, your mother—or Mr. Perren Gebert?”
“But that … that’s ridiculous …”
“Maybe, but it remains a question to be answered. Do you want to pay me for catching the murderer, no matter who it is?”
She gazed at him, and said finally, “Yes. Whoever killed Uncle Boyd—yes, I do.”
“You won’t go back on that?”
“No.”
“Good for you. I believe you. I’ll try the job for you. Now I want to ask you some questions, but it is possible that your reply to the first one will make others unnecessary. When did you last see Mr. McNair’s red leather box?”
“His what?” She frowned. “Red leather box?”
“That’s it.”
“Never. I never did see it. I didn’t know he had one.”
“Indeed. —You, sir, are you answering questions?”
Lew Frost said, “I guess I am. Sure. But not about a red leather box. I’ve never seen it.”
Wolfe sighed. “Then I’m afraid we’ll have to go on. I may as well tell you, Miss Frost, that Mr. McNair foresaw—at least, feared—what was waiting for him. While you were here yesterday he was at his lawyer’s executing his will. He left his property to his sister Isabel, who lives in Scotland. He named me executor of his estate, and bequeathed me his red leather box and its contents. He called here to ask me to accept the trust and the legacy.”
“He named you executor?” Llewellyn was gazing at him incredulously. “Why, he didn’t know you. Day before yesterday he didn’t even want to talk to you.…”
“Just so. That shows the extent of his desperation. But it is evident that the red box holds the secret of his death. As a matter of fact, Miss Frost, I was glad to see you here today. I hoped for something from you—a description of the box, if nothing more.”
She shook her head. “I never saw it. I didn’t know … but I don’t understand … if he wanted you to have it, why didn’t he tell you yesterday …”
“He intended to. He didn’t get that far. His last words—his last futile struggle against his fate—were an effort to tell me where the red box is. I should inform you: Inspector Cramer has a copy of the will, and at this moment scores of police are searching for the box, so if you or your cousin can give me any hint there is no time to lose. It is desirable for me to get the box first. Not to protect the murderer, but I have my own way of doing things—and the police have no client but the electric chair.”
Llewellyn said, “But you say he left it to you, it’s your property …”
“Murder evidence is no one’s property, once the law touches it. No, if Mr. Cramer finds it, the best we can hope for is the role of privileged spectator. So turn your minds back, both of you. Look back at the days, weeks, months, years. Resurrect, if you can, some remark of Mr. McNair’s, some forgotten gesture, perhaps of irritation or embarrassment at being interrupted, perhaps the hurried closing of a drawer, or the unintentional disclosure of a hiding-place. A remark by someone else who may have had knowledge of it. Some action of Mr. McNair’s, unique or habitual, at the ti
me unexplained …”
Llewellyn was slowly shaking his head. Helen said, “Nothing. I’ll try to think, but I’m sure there’s nothing I can remember like that.”
“That’s too bad. Keep trying. Of course the police are ransacking his apartment and his place of business. Had he preempted any other spot of earth or water? A garage, a boat, a place in the country?”
Llewellyn was looking at his cousin with inquiring brows. She nodded. “Yes. Glennanne. A little cottage with a few acres of land up near Brewster.”
“Glennanne?”
“Yes. His wife’s name was Anne and his daughter’s was Glenna.”
“Did he own it?”
“Yes. He bought it about six years ago.”
“What and where is Brewster?”
“It’s a little village about fifty miles north of New York.”
“Indeed.” Wolfe sat up. “Archie. Get Saul, Orrie, Johnny and Fred here immediately. If they cannot all be prompt, send the first two to search Glennanne, and let the others join them when they come. The cottage, first, swiftly and thoroughly, then the grounds. Is there a garden, Miss Frost? Tools?”
She nodded. “He … he grew some flowers.”
“Good. They can take the sedan. Get extra things for digging if they need them, and they should have lights to continue after dark. The cottage is most likely—a hole in the wall, a loose floor-board. Get them. Wait. First your notebook; take this and type it on a letterhead:
I hereby authorize the bearer, Saul Panzer, to take complete charge of the house and grounds of Glennanne, property of Boyden McNair, deceased, and to undertake certain activities there in accordance with my instructions.
“Leave room for my signature above the designation, ‘Executor of the estate of Boyden McNair.’ I have not yet qualified, but we can tie the red tape later.” He nodded me off. “Now, Miss Frost, perhaps you can tell me—”
