by Rex Stout
Rackham picked up his drink, which hadn’t been touched, took a little sip, about enough for a sparrow, and put it down again. He sat a while, licking his lips. “I don’t get you,” he said wistfully.
“Then forget it. You’re all paid up. I’ve been known to guess wrong before.”
“I don’t mean that, I mean you. Why? What’s your play?”
“I told you, professional pride. If that’s too fancy for you, consider how I was getting boxed in, with Zeck on my right and you on my left. I wanted a window open. If you don’t like that either, just cross me off as screwy. You don’t trust me anyhow. I merely thought that if my guess is good, and if I get approached with an offer of a leading part, and maybe even asked to help with the script, and if I decided I would like to consult you about it, it would be nice if we’d already met and got a little acquainted.” I flipped a hand. “If you don’t get me, what the hell, I’m ahead six thousand bucks.”
I stood up. “One way to settle it, you could phone Zeck and ask him. That would be hard on me, but what can a double-crosser expect? So I’ll trot along.” I moved toward the door and was navigating a course through the scattered fragments of glass in the path when he decided to speak.
“Wait a minute,” he said, still wistful. “You mentioned when you get approached.”
“If I get approached.”
“You will. That’s the way they work. Whatever they offer, I’ll top it. Come straight to me and I’ll top it. I want to see you anyhow, every day—wait a minute. Come back and sit down. We can make a deal right now, for you to—”
“No,” I said, kind but firm. “You’re so damn scared it would be a temptation to bargain you out of your last pair of pants. Wait till you cool off a little and get some spunk back. Ring me any time. You understand, of course, we’re still tailing you.”
I left him.
Several times, walking downtown, I had to rein myself in. I would slow down to a normal gait, and in another block or so there I would be again, pounding along as fast as I could swing it, though all I had ahead was an open evening. I grinned at myself indulgently. I was excited, that was all. The game was on, I had pitched the first ball, and it had cut the inside corner above his knees. Not only that, it was a game with no rules. It was hard to believe that Rackham could possibly go to Zeck or any of his men with it, but if he did I was on a spot hot enough to fry an egg, and Wolfe was as good as gone. That was why I had tried to talk Wolfe out of it. But now that I had started it rolling and there was no more argument, I was merely so excited that I couldn’t walk slow if you paid me.
I had had it in mind to drop in at Rusterman’s Restaurant for dinner and say hello to Marko that evening, but now I didn’t feel like sitting through all the motions, so I kept going to Eleventh Avenue, to Mart’s Diner, and perched on a stool while I cleaned up a plate of beef stew, three ripe tomatoes sliced by me, and two pieces of blueberry pie. Even with a full stomach I was still excited. It must have shown, I suppose in my eyes, for Mart asked me what the glow was about, and though I had never had any tendency to discuss my business with him, I had to resist an impulse to remark casually that Wolfe and I had finally mixed it up with the most dangerous baby on two legs, one so tough that even Inspector Cramer had said he was out of reach.
I went home and sat in the office all evening, holding magazines open as if I were reading them. All I really did was listen for the phone or doorbell. When the phone rang at ten o’clock and it was only Fred Durkin wanting to know where Saul and the subject were, I was so rude that I hurt his feelings and had to apologize. I told him to cover the Churchill as usual, which was one of the factors that made it a burlesque, since that would have required four men at least. What I wanted to do so bad I could taste it was call the number Wolfe had given me, but that had been for emergency only. I looked emergency up in the dictionary, and got “an unforeseen combination of circumstances which calls for immediate action.” Since this was just the opposite, a foreseen combination of circumstances which called for getting a good night’s sleep, I didn’t dial the number. I did get the good night’s sleep.
Saturday morning at 1019 I had to pitch another ball, but not to the same batter. The typing of Friday’s reports required only the customary summarizing of facts as far as Saul and Fred and Orrie were concerned, but my own share took time and thought. I had to account for the full time I had spent in Rackham’s suite, since there was a double risk in it: the chance that I was being checked and had been seen entering and leaving, and the chance that Rackham had himself split a seam. So it was quite a literary effort and I spent three hours on it. That afternoon, when Max Christy called to get the report as usual, and sat to look it over, I had papers on my desk which kept me so busy that I wasn’t even aware if he sent me a glance when he got to the middle of the second page, where my personal contribution began. I looked up only when he finally spoke.
“So you had a talk with him, huh?”
I nodded. “Have you read it?”
“Yes.” Christy was scowling at me.
“He seemed so anxious that I thought it would be a shame not to oblige him. It’s my tender heart.”
“You took his money.”
“Certainly. He was wild to spend it.”
“You told him you’re working for Mrs. Frey. What if he takes a notion to ask her?”
“He won’t. If he does, who will know who to believe or what? I warned him about me. By the way, have I ever warned you?”
“Why did you play him?”
“It’s all there in the report. He knew he had a tail, how could he help it, already on guard, after eight days of it? I thought I might as well chat with him and see what was on his mind. He could have said something interesting, and maybe he did, I don’t know, because I don’t know what you and your friends would call interesting. Anyway, there it is. As for his money, he practically stuffed it in my ear, and if I had refused to take it he would have lost all respect for me.”
Christy put the report in his pocket, got up, rested his fingertips on the desk, and leaned over at me. “Goodwin,” he asked, “do you know who you’re dealing with?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said impatiently. “Have I impressed you as the sort of boob who would jump off a building just to hear his spine crack? Yes, brother, I know who I’m dealing with, and I expect to live to ninety at least.”
He straightened up. “Your chief trouble,” he said, not offensively, “is that you think you’ve got a sense of humor. It confuses people, and you ought to get over it. Things strike you as funny. You thought it would be funny to have a talk with Rackham, and it may be all right this time, but someday something that you think is funny will blow your goddam head right off your shoulders.”
Only after he had gone did it occur to me that that wouldn’t prove it wasn’t funny.
I had a date that Saturday evening with Lily Rowan, but decided to call it off. Evidently I wasn’t tactful enough about it, for she took on. I calmed her down by promising to drown myself as soon as the present crisis was past, went home and got my dinner out of the refrigerator, and settled down in the office for another evening of not reading magazines. A little after nine the minutes were beginning to get too damn long entirely when the phone rang. It was Lily.
“All right,” she said briskly, “come on up here.”
“I told you—”
“I know, but now I’m telling you. I’m going to have company around eleven, and as I understand it you’re supposed to get here first. Get started.”
“Phooey. I’m flattered that you bothered to try it, but—”
“I wouldn’t have dreamed of trying it. The company just phoned, and I’m following instructions. My God, are you conceited!”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
It took twenty-two, to her door. She was vindictive enough to insist that there were three television programs she wouldn’t miss for anything, which was just as well, considering my disposition. I s
uppose I might have adjusted to it in time, say ten years, but I was so used to having Wolfe right at hand any minute of the day or night when difficulties were being met that this business of having to sit it out until word came, and then rushing up to a friend’s penthouse and waiting another hour and a half, was too much of a strain.
He finally arrived. I must admit that when the bell rang Lily, having promised to behave like a lady, did so. She insisted on opening the door for him, but having got him into the living room, she excused herself and left us.
He sat. I stood and looked at him. Eleven days had passed since our reunion, and I hadn’t properly remembered how grotesque he was. Except for the eyes, he was no one I had ever seen or cared to see.
“What’s the matter?” I asked peevishly. “You look as if you hadn’t slept for a week.”
“I’m a little tired, that’s all,” he growled. “I have too much to watch, and I’m starving to death. So far as I know everything at my end is satisfactory. What about Miss Rowan?”
“She’s all right. As you may remember, every week or so I used to send her a couple of orchids of a kind that couldn’t be bought. I have told her that the custom may be resumed someday provided we get this difficulty ironed out, and that it depends on her. Women like to have things depend on them.”
He grunted. “I don’t like to have things depend on them.” He sighed. “It can’t be helped. I can only stay an hour. Bring me some of Miss Rowan’s perfume.”
I went and tapped on a door, got no answer, opened it and crossed a room to another door, tapped again, was told to enter, and did so. Lily was on a divan with a book. I told her what I wanted.
“Take the Houri de Perse,” she advised. “Pete likes it. I had it on that night.”
I got it from the dressing table, returned to the living room, aimed it at him from the proper distance, and squeezed the bulb. He shut his eyes and tightened his lips to a thin line.
“Now the other side,” I said gently. “What’s worth doing—”
But he opened his eyes, and their expression was enough. I put the sprayer on a table and went to a chair.
He looked at his wrist watch. “I read the report of your talk with Rackham. How did it go?”
“Fine. You might have thought he had rehearsed it with us.”
“Tell me about it.”
I obeyed. I felt good, giving him a communiqué again, and since it needed no apologies I enjoyed it. What I always tried for was to present it so that few or no questions were required, and though I was a little out of practice I did well enough.
When I was through he muttered, “Satisfactory. Confound this smell.”
“It’ll go away in time. Sixty dollars an ounce.”
“Speaking of dollars, you didn’t deposit what you took from Rackham?”
“No. It’s in the safe.”
“Leave it there for the present. It’s Mrs. Rackham’s money, and we may decide we’ve earned it. Heaven knows no imaginable sum could repay me for these months. I was thinking—”
He cut it off, tilted his head a little, and regarded me with eyes narrowed to slits.
“Well?” I said aggressively. “More bright ideas?”
“I was thinking, Archie. August is gone. The risk would be negligible. Get Mr. Haskins on the phone tomorrow and tell him to start a dozen chickens on blueberries. Uh—two dozen. You can tell him they are for gifts to your friends.”
“No, sir.”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“I say no. He would know damn well who they were for. My God, is your stomach more important than your neck? Not to mention mine. You can’t help it if you were born greedy, but you can try to control—”
“Archie.” His voice was thin and cold with fury. “Nearly five months now. Look at me.”
“Yes, sir.” He had me. “You’re right. I beg your pardon. But I am not going to phone Haskins. You just had a moment of weakness. Let’s change the subject. Does Rackham’s biting of the first try change the schedule any?”
“You could tell Mr. Haskins—”
“No.”
He gave up. After sitting a while with his eyes closed, he sighed so deep it made him shudder, and then came back to black reality. Only a quarter of his hour was left, and we used it to review the situation and program. The strategy was unchanged. At midnight he arose.
“Please thank Miss Rowan for me?”
“Sure. She thinks you ought to call her Lily.”
“You shouldn’t leave on my heels.”
“I won’t. She’s sore and wants to have a scene.”
I went ahead to open the door for him. As I did so he asked, “What is this stuff called?”
“Houri de Perse.”
“Great heavens,” he muttered, and went.
Chapter 16
Having my own office was giving me a new slant on some of the advantages of the setup I had long enjoyed at Wolfe’s place. With a tailing job on, Sunday was like any other day, and I had to be at 1019 at the usual hour, both to type the report and to take calls from the man on the job in case he needed advice or help. It was no longer just burlesque, at least not for me. Even though Rackham knew we were on him, those were three good men, particularly Saul, and I stood a fair chance of being informed if he strayed anywhere out of bounds to keep an appointment. To some extent the tail now served a purpose: to warn me if the subject and the client made a contact, which was somewhat bassackwards but convenient for me.
After a leisurely Sunday dinner at Rusterman’s Restaurant, where I couldn’t make up my mind whether Marko Vukcic knew that I had my old job back, I returned to 1019 to find Max Christy waiting at the door. He seemed a little upset. I glanced at my wrist and told him he was early.
“This one-man business is no good,” he complained.
“You ought to have someone here. I tried to get you on the phone nearly two hours ago.”
Unlocking the door and entering, I explained that I had dawdled over tournedos à la Béarnaise, which I thought would impress him. He didn’t seem to hear me. When I unlocked a desk drawer to get the report, and handed it to him, he stuffed it in his pocket without glancing at it.
I raised the brows. “Don’t you want to read it?”
“I’ll read it in the car. You’re coming along.”
“Yeah? Where to?”
“Pete Roeder wants to see you.”
“Well, here I am. As you say, this is a one-man business. I’ve got to stick here, damn it.”
Christy was glaring at me under his brow thickets. “Listen, Goodwin, I’m supposed to have you somewhere at four o’clock, and it’s five to three now. I waited for you nearly half an hour. Let’s go. You can argue on the way.”
I had done my arguing, double-quick, while he was speaking. To balk was out of the question. To stall and try to get an idea what the program really was would have been sappy. I got my keys out again, unlocked the bottom drawer, took off my jacket, got out the shoulder holster, slipped it on, and twisted my torso to reach for the buckle.
“What’s that for, woodchucks?” Christy asked.
“Just force of habit. Once I forgot to wear it and a guy in an elevator stepped on my toe. I had to cut his throat. If we’re in a hurry, come on.”
We went. Down at the curb, as I had noticed on my way in, force of habit again, was a dark blue Olds sedan, a fifty, with a cheerful-looking young man with a wide mouth, no hat, behind the wheel. He gave me an interested look as Christy and I got in the back seat, but no words passed. The second the door slammed the engine started and the car went forward.
The Olds fifty is the only stock car that will top a hundred and ten, but we never reached half of that—up the West Side Highway, Saw Mill River, and Taconic State. The young man was a careful, competent, and considerate driver. There was not much conversation. When Christy took the report from his pocket and started reading it my first reaction was mild relief, on the ground that if I were about to die they wouldn’t give a damn wh
at my last words were, but on second thought it seemed reasonable that he might be looking for more evidence for the prosecution, and I left the matter open.
It was a fine sunny day, not too hot, and everything looked very attractive. I hoped I would see many more days like it, in either town or country, I didn’t care which, though ordinarily I much prefer the city. But that day the country looked swell, and therefore I resented it when, as we were rolling along the Taconic State Parkway a few miles north of Hawthorne Circle, Christy suddenly commanded me, “Get down on the floor, face down.”
“Have a heart,” I protested. “I’m enjoying the scenery.”
“I’ll describe it to you. Shall we park for a talk?”
“How much time have we?”
“None to waste.”
“Okay, pull your feet back.”
The truth was, I was glad to oblige. Logic had stepped in. If that was intended for my last ride I wouldn’t ever be traveling that road again, and in that case what difference did it make if I saw where we turned off and which direction we went? There must have been some chance that I would ride another day, and without a chaperon, or this stunt was pointless. So as I got myself into position, wriggling and adjusting to keep my face downward without an elbow or knee taking my weight, the worst I felt was undignified. I heard the driver saying something, in a soft quiet voice, and Christy answering him, but I didn’t catch the words.
There was no law against looking at my watch. I had been playing hide and seek, with me it, a little more than sixteen minutes, with the car going now slower and now faster, now straight and now turning left and now right, when finally it slowed down to a full stop. I heard a strange voice and then Christy’s, and the sound of a heavy door closing. I shifted my weight.
“Hold it,” Christy snapped at me. He was still right above me. “We’re a little early.”
“I’m tired of breathing dust,” I complained.
“It’s better than not breathing at all,” the strange voice said and laughed, not attractively.
“He’s got a gun,” Christy stated. “Left armpit.”
