by Rex Stout
She looked at it puzzled for a second, then smiled, and then a shadow went over her face, the shadow of her dead father. “Where did you ever-where did you get it?”
“Oh, a hoarder turned it in. But how did those names get on there? Did you write yours?”
She nodded. “Yes, we all did. I think I told you-didn���t I?-That one day last summer Larry and Manuel Kimball played a match of tennis and my father and I acted as umpire and linesman. They had a bet on it, and Larry paid Mr. Kimball with a ten dollar bill and Mr. Kimball wanted us to write our names on it as a souvenir. We were sitting-on the side terrace-”
“And Manuel Kimball took the bill?”
“Of course. He won it.”
“And this is it?”
“Certainly, there are our signatures. Mr. Goodwin, I suppose it���s just vulgar curiosity, but where did you ever get it?”
I took the bill and replaced it carefully in the envelope-not Carlo Maffei���s envelope, a patent one with a clip on it so the signatures wouldn���t rub any more than they had already-and put it in my pocket.
“I���m sorry, Miss Barstow. Since it���s just vulgar curiosity you can wait. Not long, I hope. And may I say without offense, you���re looking swell. I was thinking when you came in, I���d like to pinch your cheeks.”
“What!” She stared, then she laughed. “That���s a compliment?”
“It sure is. If you know how many cheeks there are I wouldn���t bother to pinch. Good day, Miss Barstow.”
We shook hands while she still laughed.
Headed south again through the drizzle, I considered that the ten-dollar bill clinched it. The other three items in Carlo Maffei���s envelope were good evidence, but this was something that no one but Manual Kimball could have had, and it had got to Carlo Maffei. How, I wondered. Well: Manuel Kimball had kept it in his wallet as a souvenir. His payments of money, one or more, to Maffei for making the driver, had been made not in a well-lighted room but in places dark enough to defeat the idle curiosity of observers; and in the darkness the souvenir had been included in a payment. Probably Manuel had later discovered his carelessness and demanded the souvenir back, and Maffei had claimed it had been spent unnoticed. That might have aroused Manuel���s early suspicions of Maffei, and certainly it accounted for Maffei���s recognition of the significance of the death, and its manner, of Peter Oliver Barstow; for that name, and two other Barstow names, had been signed on the ten-dollar bill he was preserving.
Yes, Manuel Kimball would live long enough to be sorry he had won that tennis match.
At White Plains, on a last-minute decision, I slowed down and turned off the Parkway. It looked to me as if it was all over and the only thing left was a brief call at the District Attorney���s office to explain the facts of life to him; and in that case there was no point in my driving through the rain all the way down to Thirty-fifth Street and clear back again. So I found a telephone booth and called Wolfe and told him what I had learned from Sarah Barstow, and asked him what next. He told me to come on home. I mentioned that I was right there in White Plains with plenty of time and inclination to do any errands he might have in r mind. He said, “Come home. Your errand will be here waiting for you.”
I got back onto the Parkway.
It was a little after eleven when I arrived. I couldn���t park right in front of the house as usual, because another car was there, a big black limousine. After turning off my engine I sat for a minute staring at the limousine, particularly at the official plate hanging alongside the license plate. I allowed myself the pleasure of a beautiful grin, and I got out and just for fun went to the front of the limousine and spoke to the chauffeur.
“Mr. Anderson is in the house?”
He looked at me a couple of seconds before he could make up his mind to nod. I turned and ran up the steps with the grin still on.
Anderson was with Wolfe in the office. When I went in I pretended not to see him; I went across to Wolfe���s desk and took the envelope out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Okay,” I said, “I���ve written the date of the match on the envelope.” He nodded and told me to put it in the safe. I opened the heavy door and took my time about finding the drawer where the rest of Anna���s briefcase was stowed away. Then I turned, and let my eyes fall on the visitor and looked surprised.
“Oh,” I said, “it���s you! Good morning, Mr. Anderson.”
He mumbled back at me.
“If you ever get your notebook, Archie, we shall proceed.” Wolfe was using his drawly voice, and when I heard it I knew that one lawyer was in for a lot of irritation. “No, not at your desk, pull a chair around and be one of us��� Good. I have just been explaining to Mr. Anderson that the ingenious theory of the Barstow case which he is trying to embrace is an offense to truth and an outrage on justice, and since I cherish the one and am on speaking terms with the other, it is my duty to demonstrate to him its inadequacy. I shall be glad of your support. Mr. Anderson is a little put out at the urgency of my invitation to him to call, but as I was just remarking to him, I think we should be grateful that the telephone permits the arrangement on short notice of these little informal conferences. On reflection, Mr. Anderson, I���m sure you will agree.”
Anderson���s neck was swelling. There was never anything very lovely about him, but now he was trying to keep his meanness down because he knew he had to, and it kept choking him trying to come up. His face was red and his neck bulged. He said to Wolfe, “You can tell your man to put his notebook away. You���re a bigger ass than I thought you were, Wolfe, if you imagine you can put over this sort of thing.”
“Take it down, Archie.” Wolfe���s drawl was swell. “It is irrelevant, being merely an opinion, but get it down.
“Mr. Anderson, I see that you misapprehend the situation; I had not supposed you were so obtuse. I gave you a free choice of alternatives on the telephone, and you chose to come here. Being here, in my house, you will permit me to direct the activity of its inmates; should you become annoyed beyond endurance, you may depart without ceremony or restraint. Should you depart, the procedure will be as I have indicated: within twenty-four hours Mr. Goodwin will drive in my car to your office in White Plains. Behind him, in another car, will be an assortment of newspaper reporters; beside him will be the murderer of Peter Oliver Barstow and Carlo Maffei; in his pocket will be the indubitable proof of the murderer���s guilt. I was minded to proceed-”
Anderson broke in, “Carlo Maffei? Who the devil is that?”
“Was, Mr. Anderson. Not is. Carlo Maffei was an Italian craftsman who was murdered in your county on Monday evening, June fifth-stabbed in the back. Surely the case is in your office.”
“What if it is? What has that got to do with Barstow?”
“They were murdered by the same man.”
Anderson stared. “By God, Wolfe, I think you���re crazy.”
“I���m afraid not.” Wolfe sighed. “There are times when I would welcome such a conclusion as an escape from life���s meaner responsibilities-what Mr. Goodwin would call an out-but the contrary evidence is overwhelming.-But to our business. Have you your checkbook with you?”
“Ah.” Anderson���s lips twisted. “What if I have?”
“It will make it more convenient for you to draw a check to my order for ten thousand dollars.”
Anderson said nothing. He put his eyes straight into Wolfe���s and kept them there, and Wolfe met him. Wolfe sighed. Finally Anderson said, smooth: “It might make it convenient, but not very reasonable. You are not a hijacker, are you?”
“Oh, no.” Wolfe���s cheeks folded up. “I assure you, no. I have the romantic temperament, but physically I���m not built for it. You do not grasp the situation? Let me explain. In a way, it goes four years back, to the forgetfulness you displayed in the Goldsmith case. I regretted that at the time, and resolved that on som
e proper occasion you should be reminded of it. I now remind you. Two weeks ago I came in possession of information which presented an opportunity to extend you a favor. I wished to extend it; but with the Goldsmith case in my memory and doubtless, so I thought, in yours also, it seemed likely that delicacy of feeling would prevent you from accepting a favor from me. So I offered to sell you the information for a proper sum; that of course was what the prior offer of a wager amounted to; the proof that you understood it so was furnished by your counter-offer to Mr. Goodwin of a sum so paltry that I shall not mention it.”
Anderson said, “I offered a substantial fee.”
“Mr. Anderson! Please. Don���t drag us into absurdities.” Wolfe leaned back and laced his fingers on his belly. “Mr. Goodwin and I have discovered the murderer and have acquired proof of his guilt; not plausible proof, jury proof. That brings us to the present. The murderer, of course, is not my property, he belongs to the sovereign State of New York. Even the information I possess is not my property; if I do not communicate it to the State I am liable to penalties. But I can choose my methol. First: you will now give me your personal check for ten thousand dollars, this afternoon Mr. Goodwin will go to your bank and have it certified, and tomorrow morning he will conduct you to the murderer, point him to you, and deliver the proof of his guilt-all in a properly diffident and unostentatious manner. Or, second: we shall proceed to organize the parade to your office as I have described it: the prisoner, the press, and the proof, with a complete absence of diffidence. Take your choice, sir. Though you may find it hard to believe, it is of little concern to me, for while it would give me pleasure to receive your check, I have a great fondness for parades.”
Wolfe stopped. Anderson looked at him, silent and smooth, calculating. Wolfe pressed the button on his desk and, when Fritz appeared, ordered beer. Every chance I got to look up from my notebook, I stared at Anderson; I cold see it made him sore, and I stared all I could.
Anderson asked, “How do I know your proof is any good?”
“My word, sir. It is as good as my judgment. I pledge both.”
“There is no possible doubt?”
“Anything is possible. There is no room for doubt in the minds of a jury.”
Anderson twisted his lips around. Fritz brought the beer, and Wolfe opened a bottle and filled a glass.
Anderson said, “Ten thousand dollars is out of the question. Five thousand.”
“Pfui! You would dicker? Contemptible. Let it be the parade.” Wolfe picked up his glass of beer and gulped it.
“Give me the proof and tell me the murderer and you can have the check the minute I���ve got him.”
Wolfe wiped his lips, and sighed. “Mr. Anderson, one of us has to trust the other. Do not compel me to advance reasons for the preference I have indicated.”
Anderson began to put up an argument. He was tough, no doubt about that, he was no softy. Of course he didn���t have any real reasons or persuasions, but he had plenty of words. When he stopped Wolfe just shook his head. Anderson went on, and then again, but all he got was the same reply. I took it all down, and I had to admit there wasn���t any whine in it. He was fighting with damn poor ammunition, but he wasn���t whining.
He wrote the check in a fold he took from his pocket, holding it on his knee, with his fountain pen.
He wrote it like a good bookkeeper, precisely and carefully, without haste, and then with the same preciseness filled in the spaces on the stub before he tore the check off and laid it on Wolfe���s desk. Wolfe gave me a nod and I reached over and picked up the check and looked it over. I was relieved to see it was on a New York bank; that would save me a trip to White Plains before three o���clock.
Anderson got up. “I hope you never regret this, Wolfe. Now, when and where?”
Wolfe said, “I shall telephone.”
“When?”
“Within twenty-four hours. Probably within twelve. I can get you at any time, at your office or your home?”
Anderson said, “Yes,” turned on the word, and left. I got up and went to the hall and watched him out. Then I went back to the office and leaned the check up against a paperweight and blew a kiss at it.
Wolfe was whistling; that is, his lips were rounded into the proper position and air was going in and out, but there was no sound. I loved seeing him do that; it never happened when anybody was there but me, not even Fritz. He told me once that it meant he was surrendering to his emotions.
I put my notebook away and stuck the check in my pocket and pulled the chairs back where they belonged. After a little Wolfe said, “Archie, four years is a long time.”
“Yes, sir. And ten grand is a lot of money. It���s nearly an hour till lunch; I���ll run down to the bank now and get their scrawl on it.”
“It is raining. I thought of you this morning, adventuring beyond the city. Call for a messenger.”
“Good Lord, no. I wouldn���t miss the fun of having this certified for a gallon of milk.”
Wolfe leaned back, murmured, “Intrepid,” and closed his eyes.
I got back in time to bust the tape at lunch.
I figured, naturally, that the hour had stuck, but to my surprise Wolfe seemed to have notions of leisure. He was in no hurry about anything. He took his time at the table, with two long cups of coffee at the end, and after lunch he went to the office and reposed in his chair without appearing to have anything of importance on his mind. I fussed around. After a while he roused himself enough to give me some directions: first, type out Anna Fiore���s statement completely and chronologically; second, have photostatic copies made, rush, of the contents of Carlo Maffei���s envelope; third, go to the Park Avenue apartment and return Maria Maffei���s purse to her and have Anna Fiore sign the statement in duplicate before witnesses; and fourth, check with Horstmann the shipment of pseudo-bulbs which had arrived the preceding day on the Cortez.
I asked him, “Maybe you���re forgetting something?” He shook his head, faintly so as not to disturb his comfort, and I let it slide. I was curious but not worried, for I could tell by the look on his face that he was adding something up to the right answer.
For the rest of the afternoon I was busy. I went out first, to a studio down on Sixth Avenue, to get them started on the photostats, and I made sure that they understood that if the originals were lost or injured they had better use the fire escape when they heard me coming. Then back to the office, to type Anna���s statement. I fixed it up in swell shape and it took quite a while. When I went out to the roadster again the rain had stopped and it was brightening up, but the pavements were still wet. I had telephoned the apartment where Maria Maffei worked, and when I got there she was expecting me. I would hardly have known her. In a neat well-cut housekeeper���s dress, black, with a little black thing across the top of her hair, she looked elegant, and her manner was as Park Avenue as the doorman at the Pierre. Well, I thought, they���re all different in the bathtub from what they���re like at Schrafft���s. I was almost afraid to hand her her purse, it seemed vulgar. But she took it. Then she led me to a room away off, and there was Anna Fiore sitting looking out of a window. I read the statement to her, and she signed it, and Maria Maffei and I signed as witnesses.
Anna said next to nothing with her tongue, but her eyes kept asking me one question all the time, from the minute I entered the room. When I got up to go I answered it. I patted her on the shoulder and said, “Soon, Anna. I���ll get your money real soon, and bring it right to you. Don���t you worry.”
She just nodded and said, “Mr. Archie.”
After I got the photostats from the studio I saw no point in leaving the roadster out ready for action if there wasn���t going to be any, so I garaged it and walked home. Until dinner time I was busy checking up the Cortez shipment and writing letters to the shippers about the casualties. Wolfe was pottering around most of the time while I was upstairs with Hors
tmann, but at six o���clock he left us and Horstmann and I went on checking.
It was after eight o���clock by the time dinner was over. I was getting the fidgets. Seven years with Nero Wolfe had taught me not to bite my nails waiting for the world to come to an end, but there were times when I was convinced that an eccentric was a man who ought to have his nose pulled. That evening he kept the radio going all through dinner. As soon as it was over and he nodded to Fritz to pull his chair back, I got up and said: “I guess I won���t sit in the office and watch you yawn. I���ll try a movie.
Wolfe said, “Good. No man should neglect his cultural side.”
“What!” I exploded. “You mean-damn it all, you would let me go and sit in a movie while maybe Manuel Kimball is finishing his packing for a nice little trip to his native land? Then I can go to the Argentine and buy a horse and ride all over the damn pampa, whatever that is, looking for him? Do you think all it takes to catch a murderer is to sit in your damn office and let your genius work? That maybe most of it, but it also takes a pair of eyes and a pair of legs and sometimes a gun or two. And the best thing you can think of is to tell me to go to a movie, while you-”
He showed me the palm of his hand to stop me. Fritz had pulled his chair back and he was up, a mountain on its feet. “Archie,” he said. “Spare me. A typical man of violence; the placidity of a hummingbird. I did not suggest the movie, you did. Even were Manuel Kimball a man to tremble at shadows, there has been no shadow to disturb him. Why should Manuel Kimball take a trip, to his native land or anywhere else? There is nothing he is likely to take at this moment, I should say. If it will set your mind at rest, I can tell you that he is at his home, but not packing for a trip. I was speaking to him on the telephone only two hours ago.-Fritz, the buzzer, attend the front door, please.-He will receive another telephone call from me in the morning at eight o���clock, and I assure you he will wait for it.”
