The Red Box

by Rex Stout

  “Ten minutes … but I was here! Right here in this chair! You knew I wanted to see her! What kind of a trick—”

  “I know you wanted to see her. But I didn’t want you to, and she is perfectly safe if she gets through the traffic. I do not intend that you shall see Miss Frost until I’ve had a talk with you. It was a trick, yes, but I’ve a right to play tricks. What about your own tricks? What about the outright lies you have been telling the police since the day Molly Lauck was murdered? Well, sir? Answer me!”

  McNair started twice to speak, but didn’t. He looked at Wolfe. He sat down. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and then put it back again without using it. Sweat showed on his forehead.

  Finally he said, in a thin cool voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you know.” Wolfe pinned him down with his eyes. “I’m talking about the box of poisoned candy. I know how Miss Frost became aware of its contents. I know that you have known from the beginning, and that you have deliberately withheld vital information from the police in a murder case. Don’t be an idiot, Mr. McNair. I have a statement signed by Helen Frost; there was nothing else for her to do. If I told the police what I know you would be locked up. For the present I don’t tell them, because I wish to earn a fee, and if you were locked up I couldn’t get at you. I pay you the compliment of assuming that you have some brains. If you poisoned that candy, I advise you to say nothing, leave here at once, and beware of me; if you didn’t, talk to the point, and there will be no dodging the truth.” Wolfe leaned back and murmured, “I dislike ultimatums, even my own. But this has gone far enough.”

  McNair sat motionless. Then I saw a shiver in his left shoulder, a quick little spasm, and the fingers of his left hand, on the arm of his chair, began twitching. He looked down at them, and reached over with his other hand and gripped and twisted them, and the shoulder had another spasm, and I saw the muscles jerking in the side of his neck. His nerves were certainly shot. His eyes moved around and fell on the empty glass standing on the edge of Wolfe’s desk, and he turned to me and asked as if it were a big favor:

  “Could I have a little more water?”

  I took the glass and went and filled it and brought it back, and when he didn’t lift his hand to take it I put it down on the desk again. He paid no attention to it.

  He muttered aloud, but to no one in particular. “I’ve got to make up my own mind. I thought I had, but I didn’t expect this.”

  Wolfe said, “If you were a clever man you’d have done that before the unexpected forced you.”

  McNair took out his handkerchief and this time wiped off the sweat. He said quietly, “Good God, I’m not clever. I’m the most complete fool that was ever born. I’ve ruined my whole life.” His shoulder twitched again. “It wouldn’t do any good to tell the police what you know, Mr. Wolfe. I didn’t poison that candy.”

  Wolfe said, “Go on.”

  McNair nodded. “I’ll go on. I don’t blame Helen for telling you about it, after the way you trapped her yesterday morning. I can imagine what she was up against here today, but I don’t hold that against you either. I’ve got beyond all the ordinary resentments, they don’t mean anything. You notice I’m not even trying to find out what Helen told you. I know if she told you anything she told you the truth.”

  He lifted his head to get Wolfe straighter in the eye. “I didn’t poison the candy. When I went upstairs to my office about twelve o’clock that day, to get away from the crowd for a few minutes, the box was there on my desk. I opened it and looked in it, but didn’t take any because I had a devil of a headache. When Helen came in a little later I offered her some, but thank God she didn’t take any either, because there were no caramels in it. When I went back downstairs I left it on my desk, and Molly must have seen it there later, and took it. She … liked to play pranks.”

  He stopped and wiped his brow again. Wolfe asked:

  “What did you do with the paper and twine the box was wrapped with?”

  “There wasn’t any. It wasn’t wrapped.”

  “Who put it on your desk?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty-five or thirty people had been in and out of there before 11:30, looking at some Crenuit models I didn’t want to show publicly.”

  “Who do you think put it there?”

  “I haven’t any idea about it.”

  “Who do you think might want to kill you?”

  “No one would want to kill me. That’s why I’m sure it was meant for someone else and was left there by mistake. Anyway, there’s no more reason to suppose—”

  “I’m not supposing.” Wolfe sounded disgusted. “You are certainly on solid ground when you say you’re not clever. But surely you’re not halfwitted. Consider what you’re telling me: you found the box on your desk, you have no suspicion as to who put it there, you are convinced it was not intended for you and have no idea who it was meant for, and yet you have carefully concealed from the police the fact that you saw it there. I have never heard such nonsense; a babe in arms would laugh at you.” Wolfe sighed deeply. “I shall have to have beer. I imagine this will require all my patience. Will you have some beer?”

  McNair ignored the invitation. He said quietly. “I’m a Scotsman, Mr. Wolfe. I’ve admitted I’m a fool. In some vital ways I’m weak. But maybe you know how stubborn a weak man can be sometimes? I can be stubborn.” He leaned forward a little and his voice got thinner. “What I’ve just told you about that box of candy is what I’m going to tell until I die.”

  “Indeed.” Wolfe surveyed him. “So that’s it. But you don’t seem to realize that while nothing more formidable than my patience may confront you, something more disagreeable is sure to. If I do not clear this thing up reasonably soon I shall have to tell what I know to the police; I shall owe that to Mr. Cramer, since I have accepted his cooperation. If you stick to the absurd rigamarole you have told me, they will assume you are guilty; they will torment you, they will take you to their dungeon and harass you endlessly, they may even beat you with their fists, though that is not likely with a man of your standing, they will destroy your dignity, your business, and your digestion. In the end, with luck and perseverance, they might even electrocute you. I doubt if you’re fool enough to be as stubborn as all that.”

  “I’m stubborn enough,” McNair asserted. He leaned forward again. “But look here. I’m not fool enough not to know what I’m doing. I’m tired and I’m worn out and I’m all in, but I know what I’m doing. You think you’ve forced me to admit something by getting Helen here and bullying her, but I would just as soon as have admitted that to you anyhow. Then here’s another thing. I’ve just practically told you that part of my story about that box isn’t true, but that I’m going to stick to it. I didn’t need to do that, I could have told you the story and made you think I expected you to believe it. I did it because I didn’t want you to think I’m a bigger fool than I am. I wanted you to have as good an opinion of me as possible under the circumstances, because I want to ask you to do me a very important favor. I came here to see Helen, that’s true, and to see how … how she was, but I also came to ask this favor of you. I want you to accept a legacy in my will.”

  Wolfe didn’t surprise easily, but that got him. He stared. It got me too; it sounded offhand, as if McNair was actually going to try to bribe Nero Wolfe to turn off the heat, and that was such a novel idea that I began to admire him. I focused my lamps on him with renewed interest.

  McNair went on, “What I want to leave you is a responsibility. A … a small article, and a responsibility. It’s astonishing that I have to ask this of you. I’ve lived in New York for twelve years, and I realized the other day, when I had occasion to consider it, that I have not one friend I can trust. Oh, trust ordinarily, sure, several of them, but not trust with something vital, something more important than my life. But today at my lawyer’s I had to name such a person, and I named you. That’s astonishing, because I’ve only met you once, for a few
minutes yesterday morning. But you seemed to me to be the kind of man that … that will be needed if I die. Last night and this morning I made some inquiries, and I think you are. It has to be a man with nerve, and one that can’t be made a fool of, and he has to be honest clear through. I don’t know anyone as good as that, and it had to be done today, so I decided to take a chance and name you.”

  McNair slid forward in his chair and put both hands on the edge of Wolfe’s desk, gripping it, and I saw the muscles in his neck moving again. “I made provisions for you to get paid for it, and it will be a fair-sized estate, my business is in good shape, and I’ve been careful with investments. For you it will just be another job, but for me, if I’m dead, it will be of the most vital importance. If I could only be sure … sure … Mr. Wolfe, that would let my spirit rest. I went to my lawyer’s office this afternoon and made my will over, and I named you. I left you … this job. I should have come to you first, but I didn’t want to take any chance of not having it down in black and white and signed. Of course I can’t leave it that way without your consent. You’ve got to give it, then I’ll be all right.” His shoulder began to jerk, and he gripped the edge of the desk tighter. “Then let it come.”

  Wolfe said, “Sit back in your chair, Mr. McNair. No? You’ll work yourself into a fit. Then let what come? Death?”

  “Anything.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “A bad state of mind. But apparently your mind has practically ceased to function. You are incoherent. Of course you have now made completely untenable your position in regard to the poisoned candy. Obviously—”

  McNair broke in, “I’ve named you. Will you do it?”

  “Permit me, please.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Obviously you know who poisoned the candy, and you know it was meant for you. You are obsessed with fear that this unfriendly person will proceed to kill you in spite of the fatal bungling of that effort. Possibly others are in danger also; yet, instead of permitting someone with a little wit to handle the affair by giving him your confidence, you sit there and drivel and boast to me of your stubbornness. More than that, you have the gall to request me to agree to undertake a commission although I am completely ignorant of its nature and have no idea how much I shall get for it. Pfui!—No, permit me. Either all this is true, or you are yourself a murderer and are attempting so elaborate a gullery that it is no wonder you have a headache. You ask, will I do it. If you mean, will I agree to do an unknown job for an unknown wage, certainly not.”

  McNair still had his hold of the edge of the desk, and kept it there while Wolfe poured beer. He said, “That’s all right. I don’t mind your talking like that. I expected it. I know that’s the kind of a man you are, and that’s all right. I don’t expect you to agree to do an unknown job. I’m going to tell you about it, that’s what I came here for. But I’d feel easier … if you’d just say … you’ll do it if there’s nothing wrong with it … if you’d just say that …”

  “Why should I?” Wolfe was impatient. “There is no great urgency; you have plenty of time; I do not dine until eight o’clock. You need not fear your nemesis is in ambush for you in this room; death will not stalk you here. Go on and tell me about it. But let me advise you: it will be taken down, and will need your signature.”

  “No.” McNair got energetic and positive. “I don’t want it written down. And I don’t want this man here.”

  “Then I don’t want to hear it.” Wolfe pointed a thumb at me. “This is Mr. Goodwin, my confidential assistant. Whatever opinion you have formed of me includes him of necessity. His discretion is the twin of his valor.”

  McNair looked at me. “He’s young. I don’t know him.”

  “As you please.” Wolfe shrugged. “I shan’t try to persuade you.”

  “I know. You know you don’t have to. You know I can’t help myself, I’m in a corner. But it must not be written down.”

  “On that I’ll concede something.” Wolfe had got himself patient again. “Mr. Goodwin can record it, and then, if it is so decided, it can be destroyed.”

  McNair had abandoned his clutch on the desk. He looked from Wolfe to me and back again and, seeing the look in his eyes, if it hadn’t been during business hours—Nero Wolfe’s business hours—I would have felt sorry for him. He certainly was in no condition to put over a bargain with Nero Wolfe. He slid back on his seat and clasped his hands together, then after a moment separated them and took hold of the arms of the chair. He looked back and forth at us again.

  He said abruptly, “You’ll have to know about me or you wouldn’t believe what I did. I was born in 1885 in Camfirth, Scotland. My folks had a little money. I wasn’t much in school and was never very healthy, nothing really wrong, just craichy. I thought I could draw, and when I was twenty-two I went to Paris to study art. I loved it and worked at it, but never really did anything, just enough to keep me in Paris wasting the little money my parents had. When they died a little later my sister and I had nothing, but I’ll come to that.” He stopped and put his hands up to his temples and pressed and rubbed. “My head’s going to bust.”

  “Take it easy,” Wolfe murmured. “You’ll feel better pretty soon. You’re probably telling me something you should have told somebody years ago.”

  “No,” McNair said bitterly. “Something that should never have happened. And I can’t tell it now, not all of it, but I can tell enough. Maybe I’m really crazy, maybe I’ve lost my balance, maybe I’m just destroying all that I’ve safeguarded for so many years of suffering, I don’t know. Anyhow, I can’t help it, I’ve got to leave you the red box, and you would know then.

  “Of course I knew lots of people in Paris. One I knew was an American girl named Anne Crandall, and I married her in 1913 and we had a baby girl. I lost both of them. My wife died the day the baby was born, April second, 1915, and I lost my daughter two years later.” McNair stopped, looking at Wolfe, and demanded fiercely, “Did you ever have a baby daughter?”

  Wolfe merely shook his head. McNair went on, “Some other people I knew were two wealthy American brothers, the Frosts, Edwin and Dudley. They were around Paris most of the time. There was also a girl there I had known all my life, in Scotland, named Calida Buchan. She was after art too, and got about as much of it as I did. Edwin Frost married her a few months after I married Anne, though it looked for a while as if his older brother Dudley was going to get her. I think he would have, if he hadn’t been off drinking one night.”

  McNair halted and pressed at his temples again. I asked him, “Phenacetin?”

  He shook his head. “These help a little.” He got the aspirin bottle from his pocket, jiggled a couple of tablets onto his palm, tossed them in his mouth, took the glass of water and gulped. He said to Wolfe, “You’re right. I’m going to feel better after this is over. I’ve been carrying too big a load of remorse and for too many years.”

  Wolfe nodded. “And Dudley Frost went off drinking …”

  “Yes. But that wasn’t important. Anyway, Edwin and Calida were married. Soon after that Dudley returned to America, where his son was. His wife had died like mine, in childbirth, some six years before. I don’t think he went back to France until more than three years later, when America entered the war. Edwin was dead; he had entered the British aviation corps and got killed in 1916. By that time I wasn’t in Paris any more. They wouldn’t take me in the army on account of my health. I didn’t have any money. I had gone down to Spain with my baby daughter—”

  He stopped, and I looked up from my notebook. He was bending over a little, with both hands, the fingers spread out, pressed against his belly, and his face was enough to tell you that something had suddenly happened that was a lot worse than a headache.

  I heard Wolfe’s voice like a whip: “Archie! Get him!”

  I jumped up and across and reached for him. But I missed him, because he suddenly went into a spasm, a convulsion all over his body, and shot up out of his chair and stood there swaying.

  He let out a scream:
“Christ Jesus!” He put his hands, the fists doubled up, on Wolfe’s desk, and tried to push himself back up straight. He screamed again, “Oh, Christ!” Then another convulsion went over him and he gasped at Wolfe: “The red box—the number—God, let me tell him!” He let out a moan that came from his guts and went down.

  I had hold of him, but I let him go to the floor because he was out. I knelt by him, and saw Wolfe’s shoes appear beyond him. I said, “Still breathing. No. I don’t think so. I think he’s gone.”

  Wolfe said, “Get Doctor Vollmer. Get Mr. Cramer. First let me have that bottle from his pocket.”

  As I moved for the phone I heard a mutter behind me, “I was wrong. Death did stalk him here. I’m an imbecile.”

  Chapter 9

  Late the following morning, Thursday, April 2nd, I sat at my desk and folded checks and put them in envelopes as Wolfe signed them and passed them over to me. The March bills were being paid. He had come down from the plant rooms punctually at eleven, and we were improving our time as we awaited a promised visit from Inspector Cramer.

  McNair had been dead when Doc Vollmer got there from his home only a block away, and still dead when Cramer and a couple of dicks arrived. An assistant medical examiner had come and done routine, and the remains had been carted away for a post mortem. Wolfe had told Cramer everything perfectly straight, without holding out on him, but had refused his request for a typed copy of my notes on the session with McNair. The aspirin bottle, which had originally held fifty tablets and still contained fourteen, was turned over to the inspector. Toward the end with Cramer, after eight o’clock, Wolfe got a little short with him, because it was past dinnertime. I had formerly thought that his inclination to eat when the time came in spite of hell and homicide was just another detail of his build-up for eccentricity, but it wasn’t; he was just hungry. Not to mention that it was Fritz Brenner’s cuisine that was waiting for him.