Plot It Yourself

by Rex Stout

  “Sure,” Harvey said. “Now you’re getting hot.”

  “It could be you, Mr Harvey. With your most successful book only in its ninth thousand, you must have been open to temptation. So while I do not have Mr Dexter’s feeling of guilt, that I incited to murder, I do strongly feel that I failed to function properly. But for my default Mr Jacobs would be alive, and probably we would have our man. It was understood that you may terminate your engagement with me at will. I invite you to do so now.”

  Three of them said no-Oshin, Imhof, and Dexter. The others said nothing. Wolfe asked the chairman, “Do you want a vote on it, Mr Harvey?”

  “No,” Harvey said. “It would be four to one again.”

  “It would be unanimous,” Gerald Knapp said. “I did not suggest that we should terminate the engagement.”

  Wolfe grunted. “Very well. I should tell you that if you do terminate it, I shall not withdraw. I have a score to settle-with myself. I have bruised my self-esteem and I intend to heal it. I am going to expose the murderer of Simon Jacobs, anticipating the police if possible, and presumably that will also solve your problem. I shall do that in any case, but if I act as your agent it must be with a free hand. I won’t tell you what I intend to do. If one of you makes a suggestion other than privately, as Mr Oshin did, I’ll reject it without reference to its merits. Since I can’t rely on your discretion, you will have to rely on mine.”

  “That’s a lot to ask,” Knapp said.

  “No, sir. It is asking nothing; it is merely notifying you. If I told you I intended to do something and then did something else, I would still be your agent. You must trust my probity and my judgment in any case, or dismiss me.”

  “What the hell,” Oshin said. “You’ve got my ten thousand, go ahead and use it.” He looked at his watch and stood up. “I’m late for an appointment.”

  The meeting adjourned at twelve-forty-eight p.m. without a motion. Thomas Dexter stayed for a word with Wolfe, not to make a private suggestion but to repeat that he felt a personal responsibility and would personally contribute any necessary amount. This time, however, he added “within reason.” It’s fine to have a conscience, but you can’t just let it run wild.

  When Dexter had gone, Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes. I put the extra chairs back in place, treated myself to a good stretch, went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, and returned. I stood and looked down at him.

  “I was wondering,” I said. “Am I included in that?”

  “In what?” he asked without opening his eyes.

  “In the lockout. I won’t be much help if you refuse to tell me what you intend to do.”

  “Pfui.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I would like to say that I have a little self-esteem too, of course not in the same class as yours, and it needs attention. Yesterday Purley Stebbins asked me, and I quote, ‘Why the hell did you set the guy up like that and then come here today and expect to find him whole?’ That was the first time a Homicide man has ever asked me a question I couldn’t answer. If I had told him because you were a jackass and so was I, he would have wanted to include it in my signed statement.”

  He grunted. He hadn’t opened his eyes.

  “So we’re to go ahead,” I said. “Lunch is about ready, and business is out at the table, and you like to rest your brain during digestion, so you might give me instructions now. Where do we start?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It might be a good plan to get one, since you intend to anticipate the police. I suppose I could call on the committee members separately and ask for suggestions-”

  “Shut up.”

  So we were back to normal.

  When Wolfe went up to the plant rooms at four o’clock I still had no instructions, but I wasn’t biting nails. During the hour and a half since lunch he had picked up his current book four times, read a paragraph, and put it down again; he had turned on the television three times and turned it off; he had counted the bottle caps in his desk drawer twice; and he had got up and walked over to the big globe and spent ten minutes studying geography. So, since he was hard at work, there was no point in needling him.

  I passed the time-an hour of it in comparing the typewriting of “Opportunity Knocks,” by Alice Porter, with “There Is Only Love,” also by Alice Porter, and “What’s Mine Is Yours,” by Simon Jacobs. No two on the same machine. I re-read the carbon of the statement I had given Purley Stebbins, found nothing that needed correcting, and filed it. I re-read the piece in the morning Times about the murder, and when the Gazette came, around five-thirty, I read that. The Times had no mention of plagiarism or the NAAD or the BPA. The Gazette had a paragraph about the plagiarism charge Jacobs had made against Richard Echols in 1956, but there was no hint that his death had any connection with it. I was wondering why Lon Cohen hadn’t called when the phone rang and there he was. He stated his case: I had phoned him nine days ago to ask him about the NAAD and the BPA. Simon Jacobs, murdered Monday night, was a member of NAAD. Tuesday evening I had arrived at Homicide West on 20th Street with Sergeant Stebbins, who was working on the Jacobs case, and had stayed four hours. Would I therefore please tell him immediately why I had inquired about the NAAD, who was Wolfe’s client, and who had killed Jacobs and why, with all relevant details which the public had a right to know. I told him I would call him back as soon as I had anything fit to print, probably in a couple of months, and said I would be glad to send him a glossy of a photograph I had just taken, which the public had a right to see.

  There was another phone call, from Cora Ballard, the executive secretary. She said she had been worrying about the decision of the committee to let Nero Wolfe go ahead with a free hand. She appreciated the fact that a private detective couldn’t very well tell a group of people what he was doing and going to do, but the committee had no authority to hire a detective to investigate a murder, and naturally she was worried. It wouldn’t be easy to get a large attendance of the NAAD council on short notice, but she could probably set one up for Monday or Tuesday of next week, and would I ask Mr Wolfe to take no important steps until then? She was afraid that if he went ahead and did something drastic he would be acting without authority, and she thought he ought to know that. I told her I thought so too and I would certainly tell him. There’s no point in being rude when you can end a conversation quicker by being polite.

  I had the radio on for the six-o’clock news when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms. He had a cluster of Phalaenopsis Aphrodite in his hand, and he got a vase from the shelf, took it to the kitchen for water, brought it back, put the stem in, and placed it on his desk. That’s the only hard work he ever does around the office. When the news stopped for a commercial I turned it off and told him, “Still nothing about plagiarism or our clients or you. If the cops have made any headway they’re playing it close-”

  The doorbell rang, and I stepped to the hall for a look through the one-way glass panel. A glance was enough. I turned to tell Wolfe, “Cramer.”

  He made a face. “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a breath. “Let him in.”

  Chapter 10

  Inspector Cramer of Homicide West had sat in the red leather chair facing the end of Wolfe’s desk oftener and longer than any other three people combined. He just about filled it. How he sat depended on circumstances. I have seen him leaning back with his legs crossed, comfortable and relaxed, with a glass of beer in his hand. I have also seen him with his broad rump just catching the edge, his jaw set and his lips tight, his big red face three shades redder, his gray eyes bulging.

  That day he was in between, at least at the start. He declined Wolfe’s offer of beer, but he made himself comfortable. He said he’d just stopped in on his way somewhere, which meant he wanted something he knew damn well a phone call wouldn’t get. Wolfe said it was pleasant to see him, which meant “What do you want?” Cramer took a cigar from his pocket, which meant that he expected it to take more than a couple
of minutes to get what he was after.

  “This Jacobs thing is a hash if I ever saw one,” Cramer said.

  Wolfe nodded. “It is indeed.”

  “One thing about it, I’ve heard something I never heard before. I’ve heard Sergeant Stebbins pay you and Goodwin a compliment. He says as smart as you are, you couldn’t possibly have arranged that scheme to buy Jacobs, with all that gang knowing about it, without having a pretty good idea of what might happen. He even says you expected it to happen, but of course that’s stretching it. I can’t see you conniving at murder.”

  “Give Mr Stebbins my regards,” Wolfe said, “and my thanks for the compliment.”

  “I will. Is that all you have to say?”

  Wolfe slapped a palm on the desk. “What the devil do you expect me to say? Did you come here for the pleasure of screwing from me an admission that I bungled? I’ll oblige you. I bungled. Anything else?”

  “You’re not a bungler.” Cramer waved it away with the cigar. “Okay, we’ll skip that; we might as well. What’s bothering me is that the theory of the case the way we’re going at it is based on something you know about and we don’t. I’ve read Goodwin’s statement three times. According to him, you decided that the three stories were all written by the same person, and it wasn’t Alice Porter or Simon Jacobs or Jane Ogilvy. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “And you decided that by comparing them with books two of them had written and a transcript of Jane Ogilvy’s testimony in court.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’d like to check it. I agree with Sergeant Stebbins that you’re smart, I ought to know, but the whole approach depends on that, and naturally we want to check it. I understand that you have all that stuff here-the stories and the transcript and the books-and we want them. I’m no expert on writing myself, but we know a man who is. If this theory is right they’ll probably be needed as evidence sooner or later. You have them?”

  Wolfe nodded. “And I intend to keep them.”

  Cramer stuck the cigar between his lips and clamped his teeth on it. I had seen him light one only once, years ago. The cigar had a specific function, the idea being that with his teeth closed on it he couldn’t speak the words that were on his tongue, and that gave him time to swallow them and substitute others. In five seconds he removed the cigar and said, “That’s not reasonable.”

  “Mr Cramer,” Wolfe said. “Let’s avoid a squabble if possible. The books are mine; you can get other copies elsewhere. The transcript and manuscripts belong to others and are in my care. I will surrender them only upon request from the owners. You can get them by court order only by establishing that they are material evidence, and I doubt if you can do that as things now stand. You can try.”

  “You goddam arrog-” Cramer stuck the cigar in his mouth and set his teeth on it. In four seconds he took it out. “Listen, Wolfe. Just answer a question. Would I be a sap if I worked a homicide case on a theory that rested entirely on something you and Goodwin said, not under oath?”

  A corner of Wolfe’s mouth twitched. That was his smile. “Yes,” he said, “I must concede that. Perhaps we can resolve the difficulty. I offer a trade. In twenty-four hours you have doubtless gathered information that I would like to have. Give it to me. Then I will lend you what you came for, provided you sign an agreement to return it to me within twenty-four hours, intact.”

  “It would take all night to tell you all we’ve gathered.”

  “I don’t want it all. Half an hour should do it, maybe less.”

  Cramer eyed him. “Forty-eight hours.”

  Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “I won’t haggle. Very well, forty-eight. First and most important, have you discovered anything that contravenes the theory?”

  “No.”

  “Have you discovered anything that suggests some other theory?”

  “No.”

  “Have you discovered anything that supports the theory?”

  “Only that the members of that committee verify Goodwin’s statement. That doesn’t prove you were right in the conclusion you made from reading that stuff, and that’s why I want it. The widow knows nothing about it. She says. She also says that Jacobs had no enemies, that there couldn’t have been anybody who had a reason to kill him except maybe one person, and that was a man named Goodwin who came to see him last Thursday. Because Jacobs told her to shut the door on him if he came again. We haven’t asked Goodwin where he was Monday night from nine to eleven.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates your forbearance. Mr Stebbins told Mr Goodwin the period was nine to twelve.”

  “That was tentative. The stomach contents squeezed it a little. Nine to eleven.”

  “Good. Mr Goodwin was here with me. Of course you have learned, or tried to, how many people knew of the plan to allure Jacobs. How many?”

  “So far, forty-seven.”

  “They have all been spoken with?”

  “All but two who are out of town.”

  “Do any of them merit attention?”

  “They all do as long as we’re on this theory. None of them especially. We haven’t spotted anything that looks like a lead.”

  Wolfe grunted. “No wonder you want to confirm my conclusion. What about the routine? Is it still assumed that the body was taken there in a motor car?”

  “Yes. Or a helicopter or a wheelbarrow.”

  Wolfe grunted again. “I am aware, Mr Cramer, that you are too canny to jump to conclusions. I’ll lump a hundred questions into one. Have you learned anything helpful from inspection of the scene, or examination of the body and clothing, or random inquiries?”

  “Yes. That the blade of the knife was an inch wide and at least five inches long, that there was probably no struggle, and that he died between nine and eleven Monday night.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing to chew on.”

  “You have of course inquired about the payments made to Alice Porter, Simon Jacobs, and Jane Ogilvy, in settlement of the claims. If our theory is sound, substantial portions of those payments eventually found their way to another person.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then who?”

  “There is no record. In each case the check settling the claim was deposited and then a large amount was withdrawn in cash. We’re still on that, but it looks hopeless.”

  “A moment ago, speaking of Mrs Jacobs, you said, ‘She says.’ Do you question her candor?”

  “No. I think she’s straight.”

  “And she has no idea where her husband was going, or whom he was going to see, when he went out Monday evening?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have anything with him that was not found on his body?”

  “If he did she doesn’t know it.”

  Wolfe shut his eyes. In a moment he opened them. “It is remarkable,” he remarked, “how little a large group of competent trained investigators can gather in a night and a day. I intend no offense. You can’t pick plums in a desert. Archie. Type this with two carbons: ‘I acknowledge receipt of (list the items) from Nero Wolfe, as a personal loan to me. I guarantee to return all of the above-named items, intact, to Nero Wolfe not later than seven p.m. Friday, May 29th, 1959.’ Make a package of the items.”

  “One thing,” Cramer said. He put the cigar in the ashtray on the stand at his elbow. “You’ve got a client. That committee.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, that’s your business. My business is to investigate homicides as an officer of the law. I’ve answered your questions because you’ve got something I need and we made a deal, but that doesn’t mean I’m sanctioning your horning in on my business. I’ve told you this before and I’m telling you again. Watch your step. Some day you’re going to lose a leg, and don’t expect me to give a damn.”

  “I won’t.” Wolfe eyed him. “I promise you, Mr Cramer, that I will never plead your sanction to justify my conduct. M
y engagement with my client is to catch a swindler. Apparently he is also a murderer, and if so your claim will be superior. If and when I get him I’ll bear that in mind. I don’t suppose you challenge my right to expose a swindler?”

  The rest of it was rather personal. I was busy typing the receipt and guarantee and then collecting the items and making the package, so I missed some of it. When I was tying the string it occurred to Cramer that he wanted to check the items against the list in the receipt, so I had to unwrap it, and then it occurred to him to ask about fingerprints on the manuscripts. You mustn’t judge his abilities as a police inspector by that performance; Wolfe always has that effect on him. He gets behind.

  When I returned to the office after letting him out it was only half an hour till dinnertime, and Wolfe had opened a book, not by a member of the committee, and was scowling at it, so I went for a walk. His brain works better when he is sitting down and mine when I am on my feet. Not that I would dream of comparing mine with his, though I do believe that in one or two respects- Oh, well.

  Back in the office after dinner, and after coffee, I said politely that if I wasn’t needed I would go and do a couple of personal errands. He asked if they were urgent, and I said no but I might as well get them done if we had nothing on hand.

  “That’s uncalled for,” he growled. “Have you a suggestion?”

  “No. None that I like.”

  “Neither have I. We have never been in a comparable situation. We can’t explore motives; we know the motive. We can’t set a trap; where would we put it? We can’t ask questions of people; whom would we ask, and what? The forty-seven that Mr Cramer’s men have already seen and will see again? Pfui. Five hours for each would take ten hours a day for three weeks and more. We’re almost as badly off as on Monday, when I told that confounded committee that it was no longer my kind of job and then idiotically consented to proceed with the plan proposed by Mr Oshin. I admit it might have worked if we had taken proper precautions. Now Simon Jacobs is dead. I invite suggestions.”