“Miss Radovich, does your uncle have any enemies you know of, anyone who would gain by his leaving the symphony?”
“The music director of a large orchestra always has his detractors.” She took a deep breath. “There are always people who think it can be done better. Some are jealous, others just take pleasure in scoffing at talented people. My uncle does not discuss his work very much at home, but I do know, from him and from others, that he has opposition even within the orchestra. But notes like this, I can’t believe—”
“Someone is writing them, Miss Radovich. I’d like to hear more about your uncle’s opposition, but Mr. Wolfe will be down in just a few minutes, and it’s best if you’re not here when he comes in. He may get interested in your problem, but you’ll have to let me be the one to try getting him interested.”
For the third time, Maria dove into her bag. She fished out a wad of bills and thrust it at me. “There’s five hundred dollars here,” she said. “That is just for agreeing to try to find out who’s writing the notes. I can pay another forty-five hundred dollars if you discover the person and get him to stop.” Five grand was a long way below what Wolfe usually got as a fee, but I figured that for Maria Radovich, it was probably big bucks. I started to return the money, then I drew back and smiled.
“Fair enough,” I said. “If I can get Nero Wolfe to move, we keep this. Otherwise, it goes back to you. Now we’ve got to get you out of here. You’ll be hearing from me soon—one way or the other.” I wrote her a receipt for the money, keeping a carbon, and hustled her out to the hall and on with her coat.
My watch said ten fifty-eight as she went down the steps to the street. I rushed back to the office, put the money and receipt in the safe, and arranged Wolfe’s morning mail in a pile on his blotter. Included in the stack was one item the carrier hadn’t delivered: a faded fifty-year-old photograph.
2
I just had time to get my paper in the typewriter and start on yesterday’s dictation when I heard the elevator coming down from the plant rooms. “Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?” he asked as he walked across to his desk, arranged a raceme of orchids in the vase, then settled his bulk into the only chair he likes and rang for beer.
“Yes sir,” I answered, looking up. Despite his size, and we’re talking about a seventh of a ton here, I’ve never gotten used to how efficient Wolfe is when he moves. Somehow, you keep thinking he’s going to trip or do something clumsy when he goes around behind his desk, but he never does. Everything is smooth, even graceful—if you can use that word with someone so large. Then there are his clothes. Fat people get a rap for being sloppy, but not Nero Wolfe. Today, as usual, he was wearing a three-piece suit, this one a tan tweed, with a fresh yellow shirt and a brown silk tie with narrow yellow stripes. His wavy hair, still brown but with a healthy dose of gray mixed in, was carefully brushed. He’d never admit it to me or anybody else, but Nero Wolfe spent his share of time in front of the mirror every morning, and that included shaving with a straight razor, something I quit trying years ago when I got tired of the sight of my own blood.
I kept sneaking glances at Wolfe while he riffled through the stack of mail. The photograph was about halfway down, but he took his time getting there, stopping as I knew he would to peruse a seed catalog. I typed on.
“Archie!” It was a high-grade bellow, the first one he’d uncorked in months.
I looked up, feigning surprise.
“Where did this come from?” he asked, jabbing at the picture.
“What’s that, sir?” I raised one eyebrow, which always gets him because he can’t do it.
“You know very well. How did this get here? What envelope was it in?”
“Oh, that. Well, let me think … yes, of course, I almost forgot. It was brought by a young woman, nice-looking, too. She thought you might be interested in helping her with a problem.”
Wolfe glowered, then leaned forward and studied the photograph. “They must all be dead by now … Two were killed by firing squads, one died in a foolhardy duel, another drowned in the Adriatic. And Marko …”
“They’re not all dead,” I put in. “You aren’t, not legally anyway, although you’ve been putting on a good imitation for a couple of years. And there’s at least one other living man in that picture.”
Wolfe went back to the photograph, this time for more than a minute. “Stefanovic” He pronounced it far differently than I would have. “I have no knowledge of his death.”
“You win a case of salt-water taffy,” I said. “Not only is he still breathing, but he lives right here in New York. And what’s more, he’s famous. Of course he’s changed his name since you knew him.”
Wolfe shot me another glower. His index finger was tracing circles on the arm of the chair, the only outward indication that he was furious. I knew more than he did about something and was forcing him to ask questions, which made it even worse.
“Archie, I have suffered your contumacy for longer than I care to think about.” He pursed his lips. “Confound it, report!”
“Yes, sir,” I said, maintaining a somber expression. Then I unloaded everything verbatim, from Maria’s phone call to the money. When I got to the part about the three notes, I opened the safe and pulled them out, but he refused to give them a glance. During my whole report, he sat with his eyes closed, fingers interlaced on his center mound. He interrupted twice to ask questions. When I was through, he sat in silence, eyes still closed.
After about five minutes, I said, “Are you asleep, or just waiting for me to call in a portrait painter so he can capture your favorite pose?”
“Archie, shut up!” That made it two bellows in one day. I was trying to think up something smart to say that would bring on a third and set a record, but Fritz came in and announced lunch.
Wolfe has a rule, never broken, that business is not to be discussed during meals, and it had been an easy rule to keep for the last two years, since there wasn’t any business. That day, though, my mind was on other things and I barely tasted Fritz’s superb sweetbreads. Wolfe, however, consumed three helpings at his normal, unhurried pace, while holding forth on the reasons why third parties have been unsuccessful in American elections.
We finally went back to the office for coffee. During lunch, I decided I’d pushed Wolfe enough and would leave the next move to him. We sat in silence for several minutes, and I was beginning to revise my strategy when he got up and went to the bookshelf. He pulled down the big atlas, lugged it back to his desk, and opened it. He looked at a page, then turned back to the photograph, fingering it gently.
“Archie?” He drew in a bushel of air, then let it out slowly.
“Yes, sir?”
“You know Montenegro, at least superficially.” “Yes, sir.”
“You also know—I have told you—that in my youth there, I was impetuous and headstrong, and that I sometimes showed a pronounced lack of judgment.” “So vou have said.”
“A half-century ago in Montenegro, Milos Stefanovic and I were relatively close friends, although I never shared his consuming interest in music. We fought together, along with Marko and others in the photograph, for a cause in which we strongly believed. On one occasion in Cetinje, Stefanovic saved my life. And then, for reasons that are now irrelevant, he and I parted, not without rancor. I haven’t seen him since that time, and I probably haven’t thought about him for twenty years, at least. I mention this by way of telling you that we are faced with an extraordinary circumstance.”
“Yes, sir.” Although Wolfe’s upstairs horsepower is far greater than mine, I’ve been around long enough to know when he’s rationalizing. I stifled a smile.
“I am duty-bound to see this woman.” He spread his hands in what for him is a dramatic gesture of helplessness. “I have no choice. Tell her to be here at three o’clock. Also, it’s been a long time since Mr. Cohen has joined us for dinner. Call and invite him for tonight. And tell him we will be serving that cognac he enjoys so much.”
<
br /> I was delighted, of course, that Wolfe had agreed to see Maria. But his wanting Lon Cohen to come for dinner was a bonus. Lon works for the Gazette, where he has an office two doors from the publisher’s on the twentieth floor. He doesn’t have a title Pm aware of, but I can’t remember a major story in New York that he didn’t know more about than ever appeared in the Gazette, or anyplace else, for that matter. Lon and I play in the same weekly poker game, but he only comes to dinner at Wolfe’s a couple of times a year, and it’s almost always when Wolfe wants information. This is all right with Lon, because he’s gotten a fat file of exclusive stories from us through the years, not to mention some three-star meals.
As it turned out, Lon was available, although he wanted to know what was up. I told him he’d just have to wait, and that there was some Remisier to warm his tummy after dinner. He said for that he’d sell any state secrets he had lying around the office. And Maria could make it at three. “Does this mean Mr. Wolfe will take the case?” she asked over the phone breathlessly.
“Who knows?” I answered. “But at least he’ll see you, and that alone is progress.”
I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz there would be a guest for dinner. “Archie, things are happening today, I can tell. Is he going back to work?”
Fritz always fusses when Wolfe is in one of his periodic relapses. He acts like we’re on the brink of bankruptcy at all times and thinks that if Wolfe isn’t constantly performing feats of detection, there won’t be enough money to pay his salary or, more important, the food bills. Needless to say, the last two years of inactivity by Wolfe had left Fritz with a permanently long puss, and I more than once caught him in the kitchen wringing his hands, looking heavenward, and muttering things in French. “Archie, he needs to work,” Fritz would say. “He enjoys his food more then. Work sharpens his appetite.” I always replied that his appetite seemed plenty sharp to me, but he just shook his head mournfully.
This time, though, I delighted to report that prospects were improving. “Keep your carving knives crossed,” I told him, “and say a prayer to Brillat-Savarin.”
“I’ll do more than that,” he said. “Tonight, you and Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Cohen will have a dinner to remember.” Whistling, he turned to his work, and I whistled a bit myself on the way back to the office.
THE RUBBER BAND
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with Estate of Author
PRINTING HISTORY
Farrar & Rinehart edition published 1936 Bantam edition / February 1982 2nd printing … April 1986
All rights reserved.
Copyright 1936 by Rex Stout.
Copyright © renewed 1963 by Rex Stout.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission, For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-75615-2
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.
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