by Rex Stout
“Look, Goodwin, what are you going to do now?”
I let the paper slide to the floor. “I don’t know, take a nap, I guess.”
“I don’t mean now, this minute. Is anyone looking after you?”
“If he isn’t he’d better be. A high-priced lawyer named Parker.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll go home and take a bath.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll brush my teeth and shave.”
“Then what?”
I swiveled my head to glance at him. “You’re pretty damn persistent. Where do you want us to get to?”
“Nowhere in particular.” He stayed supine, and I noticed that in profile he looked a little like John L. Lewis, only a lot younger. He went on, “I was just thinking, with Nero Wolfe gone I suppose your job’s gone. Can’t I think?”
“Sure. If it doesn’t hurt.”
A brief silence. He spoke again. “I’ve heard about you a little. What kind of a guy are you?”
“Oh—I’m a thinker too, and I’m cultured. I got good marks in algebra. I sleep well. I’m honest and ambitious, with a good personality.”
“You know your way around.”
“In certain circles, yes. It would be hard to lose me within ten miles of Times Square unless I was blindfolded. What are the requirements of the position you are about to offer?”
He ignored that and took another angle. “My name is Christy—Max Christy. Ever hear of me?”
If I had it was vague, but I saw no point in hurting his feelings. “Max Christy?” I snorted. “Don’t be silly.”
“I thought you might have. I’ve only been around the big town a couple of years, and I don’t toot a horn, but some people get talked about. How much has Wolfe been paying you?”
“That’s asking,” I objected mildly. “I wouldn’t want it to get in the papers. I’ve been eating all right and I’ve got a government bond. Anything over—”
Footsteps in the corridor stopped at our door, and the turnkey’s voice came. “Mr. Christy! They want you down in the office.”
My mate stayed flat. “Come back in ten minutes, Wilkes,” he called. “I’m busy.”
I confirmed it. “We’re in conference, Wilkes,” I snapped.
“But I think it’s your out.”
“I suppose so. Come back in ten minutes.”
Wilkes, mumbling something, went away. Christy resumed. “You were saying …”
“Yeah. That anything over fifty grand a year would find me a good listener.”
“I’m being serious, Goodwin.”
“So am I.”
“You are not. You never got within a mile of fifty grand a year.” His head was turned to face me now. “Anyway, it’s not a question of so many grand a year—not in this business.”
“In what business?”
“The business I’m in. What did I say my name is?”
“Max Christy.”
“Then what more do you want? Take my being here now, for example. I got raked in at the Covered Porch yesterday by mistake, but I would have been loose in an hour if it hadn’t been Sunday—and Easter too. Here it is”—he looked at his wrist—“not quite noon, and I’m walking out. There has never been an organization to compare with it. For a man like you there would be special jobs and special opportunities if you once got taken in. With your record, which is bad as far as I know it, that would take a while. You would have to show, and show good. Your idea about so many grand a year just isn’t realistic, certainly not while you’re being tried, but after that it would depend on you. If you’ve got it in you there’s practically no limit. Another thing is income tax.”
“Yeah, what about income tax?”
“You simply use your judgment. Say Wolfe paid you thirty grand a year, which he didn’t, nothing like it, what did you have to say about income tax? Nothing. It was taken out before you got paid. You never even saw it. In this business you make your own decisions about it. You want to be fair, and you want to be in the clear, but you don’t want to get gypped, and on that basis you use your judgment.”
Christy raised his torso and sat on the edge of the cot. “You know, Goodwin, I’m just tossing this at you on the spur of the moment. I laid here reading about you, and I thought to myself, here’s a man the right age and experience, not married, the right personality, he knows people, he knows lots of cops, he has been a private eye for years and so he would be open to anything that sounds good enough; he is just out of a job, he’s got himself tangled in a hot homicide here in Westchester, and he may need help right now. That’s what I was thinking, and I thought why not ask him? I can’t guarantee anything, especially if you’re headed for a murder rap, but if you need help now and then later on you would like a chance at something, I’m Max Christy and I could pass the word along. If you—”
He paused at the sound of footsteps. Wilkes’ voice came from the door. “They want you down there, Mr. Christy. I told them you was busy personally, but they’re sending up.”
“All right, Wilkes. Coming.” My mate stood up. “What about it, Goodwin?”
“I appreciate it,” I said warmly. Wilkes, having unlocked the door, was standing there, and, using my judgment, I kept it discreet. “When I get out and look around a little I’ll know better how things stand.” I had got to my feet. “How do I get in touch with you?”
“Phone is best. Churchill five, three two three two. I’m not there much, but a message will reach me promptly. Better write it down.”
“I’ll remember it.” I took his offered hand and we shook. “It’s been a pleasure. Where can I mail a check for the breakfast?”
“Forget it. It was a privilege. Be seeing you, I hope.” He strode out like an executive going to greet a welcome caller, Wilkes holding the door for him.
I sat down on the cot, thinking it was a hell of a note for a Max Christy to get sprung before an Archie Goodwin. What was keeping Parker? In jail a man gets impatient.
Chapter 9
It was seven o’clock that evening, just getting dark, when I left the car at the curb on West Thirty-fifth Street in front of Wolfe’s house and climbed the seven steps to the stoop. Parker, armed with papers which stated, among other things, that my continued availability to the People of the State of New York was worth ten thousand dollars, had arrived at the jail shortly after two, and in another ten minutes I had been unleashed on society again, but District Attorney Archer had requested another session with me in the presence of my attorney, and Parker and I had obliged. It had dragged on and on, and was really a bore, because there was nothing for me to try to be witty about. Unlike some other occasions when I had been in conference with the law, there was nothing to stimulate me because all I had to do was tell the truth, and all of it—except the sausage part and the phone call from Arnold Zeck.
When they had finally called it a day and Parker and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse, he asked me, “Am I to know where Wolfe is?”
“I doubt it. He told me not to look for him.”
“I see.”
His tone of voice irritated me. “Every word you heard me say in there,” I asserted, “was the truth, I haven’t the thinnest idea where he is or what he’s doing.”
He shrugged. “I’m not complaining. I only hope he hasn’t tumbled in where it’s too deep this time—and you too.”
“Go to hell,” I advised him, and marched off. I couldn’t really blame the Westchester bunch, but Parker should have known me well enough to tell which side of my mouth I was talking out of. It’s damn discouraging, when you do tell the truth, not to have it recognized.
Also discouraging was the welcome I got on entering Wolfe’s house that evening. It was in the form of a note stuck in the corner of my desk blotter, unfolded.
Dear Archie—
I am sorry you are in jail and hope it will not last long. Mr. Vukcic has been to see me and I am leaving now to go to work for him $1500. There has be
en no word from Mr. Wolfe. God grant he is safe and well and I think you should find him no matter what he wrote. I threw out the jar of sardines and stopped the milk. My very best regards and wishes,
Fritz
1:35 P.M.
I was pleased to observe that he stuck to routine to the end, putting the time down. Also it was nice of him to end his note to me the same as Wolfe had ended his. Nevertheless, it was a discouraging welcome home after a night in the hoosegow. And there had been a period of more than five hours when any phone calls that might have come would not have been answered, something that had never happened before in all the years I had worked and lived there. Unless Theodore …
I beat it to the stairs and up the three flights, and entered the plant rooms. One step inside the first room, the warm one, I stopped and surveyed. It was more of a shock, somehow, than it had been a year ago when it had been used as a target for tommy guns from across the street. Then they had at least left a mess; now there was nothing but the benches and stands. It really got me for a minute. I moved on through: medium room, cool room, potting room, spray chamber, Theodore’s room—all empty. Hewitt must have sent an army to clean all that out in one day, I thought, heading back downstairs.
In the kitchen was another longer note from Fritz, reporting phone calls that had come before he left and various minor matters. I opened the refrigerator and poked around, and settled for a jar of home-made pate, a hunk of Italian bread, Vermont cheese, and milk. As I sat working at it with an evening paper propped up before me, I kept listening for something—nothing in particular, just something. It had never been a noisy house, but I had never known it anything like that quiet. Almost no cars went by, and the few that did must have been coasting in neutral.
My meal finished and things put away, I wandered into the dining room, office, front room, down to the basement to Fritz’s room, up one flight to Wolfe’s room, up another to my room. As I undressed for my post-jail bath, I thought that the hell of it wasn’t how I felt, but that I didn’t know how to feel. If I had actually seen the last of Nero Wolfe, it was a damn sad day for me, there were no two ways about that, and if I got a lump in my throat and somebody walked in I would just as soon show him the lump as not. But what if it was Wolfe himself who walked in? That was the trouble. Damned if I was going to work up a fancy lump and then have him suddenly appear and start crabbing about something.
After I had bathed and shaved and got into clean pajamas, and answered a couple of phone calls from journalists, and moseyed down to the office and fooled around a while, someone did walk in. When I heard the front door open I made for the hall as if I had been expecting another package of sausage, and there was Fritz. He turned from closing the door, saw me, and beamed.
“Ah! Archie! You escaped?”
“I’m out on bail.” He seemed to want to shake hands, and I was willing. “Thanks for your note. How’s the new job?”
“Terrible. I’m played up. Mr. Wolfe?”
“I know nothing about Mr. Wolfe. I ate half a jar of pâté.”
He stopped beaming. “Mr. Vukcic is going to sell this house.”
“He’s going to offer it for sale, which is not the same thing.”
“Perhaps not.” He sighed. “I’m tired. Mr. Vukcic said there is no reason why I should not sleep here but I should ask you. It would be good for me—I am so used to that room….”
“Certainly. I’m used to mine too. I’m going to sleep here until further notice.”
“Good.” He started for the kitchen, stopped, and turned. “Are you going to look for him?”
“No!” Hearing myself shout, it seemed a relief and I did it again. “I am not!” I went to the stairs and started up. “Good night.”
“Good night, Archie.”
I was on the first landing when his voice came. “I’ll get your breakfast! I don’t have to leave until ten!”
“Swell!” I called back. “We’ll never miss him!”
The next day, Tuesday, I had no time to raise a lump. There were dozens of phone calls, from newspapers, former clients, friends, and miscellaneous. One was from Calvin Leeds, asking me to go up there to see him, and I told him I had had enough of Westchester for a while. When he insisted, I agreed to receive him at the office at two o’clock. I took advantage of another call, from Lon Cohen at the Gazette, to ask about my recent cellmate, Max Christy. Lon asked why I wanted to know. Lon is a good guy, but no newspaperman on earth can answer the simplest question without asking you one first, and more if possible.
“Just curious,” I told him. “I met him in jail over the weekend, and thought he was charming. I don’t want a biography, just a line or two.”
“For quotation?”
“No.”
“Right. He’s comparatively new to this section, but he’s a fast mover. Not really big yet. As far as I know, the only thing he’s close to right in town is a string of rooms for transients. He seems to be specializing on little weekend roundups in the suburbs.”
“Just games, or women, or what?”
“Anything men risk money for. Or pay it for. I have heard that he is seen around sometimes with Brownie Costigan. How curious are you? Is it worth a steak? Or is it worth a phone number or address where I can reach Nero Wolfe?”
By that time I had abandoned the idea of selling anyone, even Lon Cohen, the idea that I ever told the truth, so I thanked him and hung up.
A couple of checks in the morning mail, one from a man who was paying in installments for having a blackmailer removed from his throat, were no problem, since there was a rubber stamp for endorsing them, but in order to pay three bills that came in I had to make a trip to Fifty-fourth Street to see if the formalities about Marko’s power of attorney had been attended to. They had, by Parker, and I was glad to see that Marko signed the checks on my say-so, without looking at the bills. If he had started auditing on me I swear to God I would have moved out and got a hotel room.
There were other chores, such as phoning Hewitt’s place on Long Island to ask if the plants and Theodore had arrived safely, making arrangements with a phone-answering service, handling a report from Fred Durkin on a poison-letter job that was the main item of unfinished business, and so on, but I managed to have them all under control when two o’clock came and brought Calvin Leeds.
When I went to let him in and took him to the office, there was a problem. Should I sit at my desk or at Wolfe’s? On the one hand, I was not Wolfe and had no intention of trying to be. On the other hand, when a pinch-hitter is called on he stands at the plate to bat, not off to one side. Also it would be interesting to see, from Wolfe’s position, what the light was like on the face of a man sitting in the red leather chair. So again, this time intentionally, I sat behind Wolfe’s desk.
“I came here to get an explanation,” Leeds said, “and I’m going to get it.”
He looked as if he could stand a dose of something—if not an explanation, then maybe castor oil. The hide of his face still looked tough and weathered, or rather as if it had been but someone had soaked it in something to make it stretch and get saggy. His eyes looked determined, but not clear and alert as before. No one would have guessed that he had just inherited half a million bucks, and not from a dearly beloved wife or sister but merely a cousin.
Something like a million times I had seen Wolfe, faced with a belligerent statement from a caller, lean back and close his eyes. I thought I might as well try it, and did so. But the springs which let the chair’s back slant to the rear were carefully adjusted to the pressure of Wolfe’s poundage, not mine, and I had to keep pushing to maintain the damn thing in the leaning position.
“A man who comes forty miles for an explanation,” I said, with my eyes closed, “is entitled to one. What needs explaining?”
“Nero Wolfe’s behavior does.”
“That’s nothing new.” It was too much of a strain keeping the chair back in a leaning position, and I straightened up. “It often has. But that’s not my
department.”
“I want to see him.”
“So do I.”
“You’re a liar, Goodwin.”
I shook my head, my lips tight. “You know,” I said, “I have probably told as many lies as any man my age except psychos. But I have never been called a liar as frequently as in the past twenty-four hours, and I have never stuck so close to the truth. To hell with it. Mr. Wolfe has gone south to train with the Dodgers. He will play shortstop.”
“That won’t help any,” Leeds said, patient but determined, “that kind of talk. If you don’t like being called a liar, neither do I, and the difference is that I’m not. The district attorney says I’m lying, because Nero Wolfe has suddenly disappeared, and he disappeared because he doesn’t dare answer questions about my cousin Sarah’s visit to him here, and that proves that your report of that visit is false, and since my report is the same as yours mine is false too. Now that sounds logical, but there’s a flaw in it. The flaw is their assumption that his disappearance was connected with my cousin’s visit. I know it couldn’t have been, because there was nothing about our talk that day that could possibly have had such a result. I have told them that, and they think I’m lying. As long as they think I’m lying, and you too, they’ll have their minds on that and they won’t find out who killed my cousin and why—and anyway, I don’t want to be suspected of lying when I’m not, especially not in connection with the murder of my cousin.”
Leeds paused for breath and went on, “There’s only one way out that I can see, and that’s for you to tell them the real reason for Wolfe’s disappearance—or, better still, he ought to tell them himself. I want you to put this up to him. Even if his own safety is involved, he ought to manage somehow. If it was something about some client that made him disappear, in the interest of some client, then you can tell him from me that I saw him take a check from my cousin for ten thousand dollars and it seems to me he’s under obligation to her as much as any other client, to protect her interests, and it surely isn’t in her interest to have suspicion centered in the wrong place about who killed her—and killed her dog too.” His jaw quivered a little, and he clamped it tight.
