The Red Box

by Rex Stout

  It was Cramer I was afraid of at that point. Maybe if I had let Wolfe alone he could have managed him, but my nerves were on edge, and I knew if the inspector once got his paws on that box it would be a mess, and I knew damned well he couldn’t take it away from me. I bounced up and got it. I pulled it from under Wolfe’s hand and held it in my own. Cramer growled and stared at me, and I returned the stare but I don’t growl. Wolfe snapped:

  “That box is my property. I am responsible for it and shall continue to be so until it is legally taken from my possession. I see no reason why Mrs. Frost should not look at it, to save delay. I have as much at stake as you, Mr. Cramer. Hand it to her, Archie. It is unlocked.”

  I crossed to her and put it in her extended hand, black-gloved. I didn’t sit down again because Cramer didn’t, and I stayed five feet closer to Mrs. Frost than he was. Everybody looked at her, even Glenna McNair. She put the box on her lap with the keyhole toward her, and opened the lid part way; no one could see in but her; she was deliberate, and I couldn’t see a sign of a tremble in her fingers or anywhere else. She looked in the box and put her hand in, but didn’t take anything out. She left her hand inside, with the lid resting on it, and gazed at Wolfe, and I saw that her teeth were on her lip again.

  Wolfe said, leaning a little toward her, “Don’t suspect a trick, Mrs. Frost. There is no forgery in the contents of that box; it is genuine. I know, and you know, that all I have said here today is the truth. In any event, you have lost all chance at the Frost fortune; that much is certain. It is also certain that the fraud you have practiced for nineteen years can be proved with the help of Mr. McNair’s sister and corroboration from Cartagena, and will be made public; and of course the money goes to your nephew and brother-in-law. Whether you will be convicted of the three murders you committed, frankly, I cannot be sure. It will doubtless be a bitterly fought trial. There will be evidence against you, but not absolutely conclusive, and of course you are an extremely attractive woman, just middle-aged, and you will have ample opportunity for smirking at the judge and jury, weeping at the proper intervals for arousing their compassion; and unquestionably you will know how to dress the part—ah, Archie!”

  She did it as quick as lightning. Her left hand had been holding the lid of the box partly open, and her right hand, inside, had been moving a little—not fumbling, just efficiently moving; I doubt if anyone but me noticed it. I’ll never forget the way she handled her face. Her teeth stayed fastened to her lip, but aside from that there was no sign of the desperate and fatal thing she was doing. Then, like a flash, her hand came out of the box and went to her mouth with the bottle, and her head went back so far that I could see her white throat when she swallowed.

  Cramer jumped for her, and I didn’t move to block him because I knew she could be depended on to get it down. As he jumped he let out a yell:

  “Stebbins! Stebbins!”

  I submit that as proof that Cramer had a right to be an inspector, because he was a born executive. As I understand it, a born executive is a guy who, when anything difficult or unexpected happens, yells for somebody to come and help him.

  Chapter 19

  Inspector Cramer said, “I’d like to have it in the form of a signed statement.” He chewed at his cigar. “It’s the wildest damned stuff I ever heard of. Do you mean to say that was all you had to go on?”

  It was five minutes past six, and Wolfe had just come down from the plant rooms. The Frosts and Glenna McNair had long been gone. Calida Frost was gone too. The fuss was over. The chain was on the front door to make it easier for Fritz to keep reporters out. Two windows were wide open and had been for over two hours, but the smell of bitter almonds, from some that had spilled on the floor, was still in the air and seemed to be there to stay.

  Wolfe, nodding, poured beer. “That was all, sir. As for signing a statement, I prefer not to. In fact, I refuse. Your noisy indignation this afternoon was outrageous; furthermore, it was silly. I resented it then; I still do.”

  He drank. Cramer grunted. Wolfe went on, “God knows where Mr. McNair hid his confounded box. It appeared to me more than likely that it would never be found; and if it wasn’t it seemed fairly certain that the proof of Mrs. Frost’s guilt would at best be tedious and arduous, and at worst impossible. She had had all the luck and might go on having it. So I sent Saul Panzer to a craftsman to get a box constructed of red leather and made to appear old and worn. It was fairly certain that none of the Frosts had ever seen Mr. McNair’s box, so there was little danger of its authenticity being challenged. I calculated that the psychological effect on Mrs. Frost would be appreciable.”

  “Yeah. You’re a great calculator.” Cramer chewed his cigar some more. “You took a big chance, and you kindly let me take it with you without explaining it beforehand, but I admit it was a good trick. That’s not the main point. The point is that you bought a bottle of oil of bitter almonds and put it in the box and handed it to her. That’s the farthest north, even for you. And I was here when it happened. I don’t dare put it on the record like that. I’m an inspector, and I don’t dare.”

  “As you please, sir.” Wolfe’s shoulders lifted a quarter of an inch and fell again. “It was unfortunate that the outcome was fatal. I did it to impress her. I was thunderstruck, and helpless, when she—er—abused it. I used the poisonous oil instead of a substitute because I thought she might uncork the bottle, and the odor … That too was for the psychological effect—”

  “Like hell it was. It was for exactly what she used it for. What are you trying to do, kid me?”

  “No, not really. But you began speaking of a signed statement, and I don’t like that. I like to be frank. You know perfectly well I wouldn’t sign a statement.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “The fact is, you’re an ingrate. You wanted the case solved and the criminal punished, didn’t you? It is solved. The law is an envious monster, and you represent it. You can’t tolerate a decent and swift conclusion to a skirmish between an individual and what you call society, as long as you have it in your power to turn it into a ghastly and prolonged struggle; the victim must squirm like a worm in your fingers, not for ten minutes, but for ten months. Pfui! I don’t like the law. It was not I, but a great philosopher, who said that the law is an ass.”

  “Well, don’t take it out on me. I’m not the law, I’m just a cop. Where did you buy the oil of bitter almonds?”

  “Indeed.” Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to ask me that?”

  Cramer looked uncomfortable. But he stuck to it: “I ask it.”

  “You do. Very well, sir. I know, of course, that the sale of that stuff is illegal. The law again! A chemist who is a friend of mine accommodated me. If you are petty enough to attempt to find out who he is, and to take steps to punish him for his infraction of the law, I shall leave this country and go to live in Egypt, where I own a house. If I do that, one out of ten of your murder cases will go unsolved, and I hope to heaven you suffer for it.”

  Cramer removed his cigar, looked at Wolfe, and slowly shook his head from side to side. Finally he said, “I’m all right, I’m sitting pretty. I won’t snoop on your friend. I’ll be ready to retire in another ten years. What worries me is this, what’s the police force doing to do, say a hundred years from now, when you’re dead? They’ll have a hell of a time.” He went on hastily, “Now don’t get sore. I know a jack from a deuce. There’s another thing I wanted to ask you. You know I’ve got a room down at headquarters where we keep some curiosities—hatchets and guns and so on that have been used at one time or another. How’s chances to take that red box and add it to the collection? I’d really like to have it. You won’t need it any more.”

  “I couldn’t say.” Wolfe leaned forward to pour more beer. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Goodwin. I presented it to him.”

  Cramer turned to me. “How about it, Goodwin? Okay?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head and grinned at him. “Sorry, Inspector. I’m going to hang onto it. It’s just what I n
eeded to keep postage stamps in.”

  I’m still using it. But Cramer got one for his collection too, for about a week later McNair’s own box was found on the family property in Scotland, behind a stone in the chimney. It had enough dope in it for three juries, but by that time Calida Frost was already buried.

  Chapter 20

  Wolfe frowned, looking from Llewellyn Frost to his father and back again. “Where is she?” he demanded. It was Monday noon. The Frosts had telephoned that morning to ask for an interview. Lew was in the dunce’s chair; his father was on one at his left, with a taboret at his elbow and on it a couple of glasses and the bottle of Old Corcoran. Wolfe had just finished a second bottle of beer and was leaning back comfortably. I had my notebook out.

  Llewellyn flushed a little. “She’s out at Glennanne. She says she phoned you Saturday evening to ask if she could go out there. She … she doesn’t want to see any Frosts. She wouldn’t talk to me. I know she’s had an awful time of it, but my God, she can’t go on forever without any human intercourse … we want you to go out there and talk to her. You can make it in less than two hours.”

  “Mr. Frost.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “You will please stop that. That I should ride for two hours—for you to entertain the notion at all is unpardonable, and to suggest it seriously to me is brazen impudence. Your success with that idiotic letter you brought me a week ago today has gone to your head. I don’t wonder at Miss McNair’s wanting a temporary vacation from the Frost family. Give her another day or two to accustom herself to the notion that you do not all deserve extermination. After all, when you do get to talk with her again you will possess two newly acquired advantages: you will not be an ortho-cousin, and you will be worth more than a million dollars. At least, I suppose you will. Your father can tell you about that.”

  Dudley Frost put down the whiskey glass, took a delicate sip of water with a carefulness which indicated that an overdose of ten drops of that fluid might be dangerous, and cleared his throat. “I’ve already told him,” he declared bluntly. “That woman, my sister-in-law, God rest her soul, has been aggravating me about that for nearly twenty years—well, she won’t any more. In a way she was no better than a fool. She should have known that if I handled my brother’s estate there would sooner or later be nothing left of it. I knew it; that’s why I didn’t handle it. I turned it over in 1918 to a lawyer named Cabot—gave him a power of attorney—I can’t stand him, never could, he’s bald-headed and skinny and he plays gold all day Sunday. Do you know him? He’s got a wart on the side of his neck. He gave me a quarterly report last week from a certified public accountant, showing that the estate has increased to date twenty-two percent above its original value, so I guess my son will get his million. And I will, too. We’ll see how long I can hang onto it—I’ve got my own ideas about that. But one thing I wanted to speak to you about—in fact, that’s why I came here with Lew this morning—it seems to me that’s the natural place for your fee to come from, the million I’m getting. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have it. Of course I can’t give you a check now, because it will take time—”

  “Mr. Frost! Please! Miss McNair is my client—”

  But Dudley Frost was under way. “Nonsense! That’s tommyrot. I’ve thought all along my son ought to pay you; I didn’t know I’d be able to. Helen … that is … damn it, I say Helen! She won’t have anything, unless she’ll take part of ours—”

  “Mr. Frost, I insist! Mr. McNair left private instructions with his sister regarding his estate. Doubtless—”

  “McNair, that booby? Why should she take money from him? Because you say he was her father? Maybe. I have my doubts on these would-be discoveries about parentage. Maybe. Anyhow, that won’t be anything like a million. She may have a million, in case she marries my son, and I hope she will because I’m damned fond of her. But they might as well keep all of theirs, because they’ll need it, whereas I won’t need mine, since there isn’t much chance that I’ll be able to hang onto it very long whether I pay you or not. Not that ten thousands dollars is a very big slice out of a million—unless it’s more than ten thousand on account of the new developments since I had my last talk with you about it. Anyway, I don’t want to hear any more talk about Helen being your client—it’s nonsense and I won’t listen to it. You can send me your bill and if it isn’t preposterous I’ll see that it’s paid. —No, I tell you there’s no use talking! The fact is, you ought to regard it as I do, a damned lucky thing that I got the notion of turning the management of the estate over to Cabot—”

  I shut the notebook and tossed it on my desk, and leaned my head on my hand and shut my eyes and tried to relax. As I said before, that case was just one damned client after another.

  The World of Rex Stout

  Now, for the first time ever, enjoy a peek into the life of Nero Wolfe’s creator, Rex Stout, courtesy of the Stout estate. Pulled from Rex Stout’s own archives, here is rarely seen, never-before-published memorabilia. Each title in the Rex Stout Library will offer an exclusive look into the life of the man who gave Nero Wolfe life.

  The Red Box

  The original dust jacket for The Red Box, published in 1937 by Farrar & Rinehart.

  Nero Wolfe poses a question for Inspector Cramer: the next panel in the comic strip begun in Fer-de-lance, The League of Frightened Men, and The Rubber Band. From the week of November 26, 1956.