by Rex Stout
“Nothing,” Wolfe said. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind if this chair were properly constructed and of a proper size. I suggest, if the discussion is to be at kindergarten level, that we all sit on the floor.”
“Not a bad idea. We may come to that.” Fife turned to Shattuck. “When did you get the letter?”
“In the mail Saturday morning,” Shattuck told him. “Plain envelope of course, address typed, marked personal. Postmarked New York, Station R, 7:30 p.m. Friday. My first impulse was to turn it over to the F.B.I., but I decided that wouldn’t be fair to you fellows, so I telephoned Harold—Colonel Ryder. I was coming to New York today anyway—speaking at a dinner tonight of the National Industrial Association—and we agreed this was the way to handle it.”
“You haven’t—you didn’t take it up with General Carpenter?”
“No.” Shattuck smiled. “After that performance when he appeared to testify before my committee a couple of months ago—I didn’t feel like crossing his path.”
“This is his path.”
“I know, but he’s not patrolling this sector of it at this moment—” Shattuck’s eyes widened—“or is he?”
Fife shook his head. “He’s stewing in Washington. Or sizzling. Or both. So you’re turning the letter over to us for investigation. Is that it?”
“I don’t know.” Shattuck hesitated. He was meeting the general’s eyes. “It came to me as chairman of a Congressional committee. I came here—to discuss the matter.”
“You know—” Fife also hesitated. He went on, choosing words: “You know, of course, I could merely say military security is involved and the question cannot be discussed.”
“I know,” Shattuck agreed. “You could say that.” He bore down a little on the “could.”
Fife regarded him without affection.
“This is unofficial and off the record. There is nothing in that letter to show that the writer has any useful information. Anyone with any sense would know that in our war production, with thousands of men in positions of trust, and enormous interests and billions of dollars involved, things happen. Lots of them, probably including the sort of thing that letter hints at. One of the jobs of Military Intelligence is to help to prevent such things from happening, as far as we can.”
“Of course,” Shattuck put in, “I had no idea this would be a bolt from the blue for you.”
“Thank you.” Fife didn’t sound grateful. “It isn’t. Did you see that pink thing Ryder put in his desk drawer? You did. That’s a new kind of grenade—not only new in construction, but in its contents. Somebody wanted some samples, and got them. Not the enemy—at least we don’t think so. Captain Cross, who died last week, was working on it. Nobody on earth except the men in this room knew what Cross was doing. Cross found the trail, we don’t know how, because he hadn’t reported in since Monday, and now we may never know. Major Goodwin did a neat piece of work with an entry in Cross’s memo book which apparently didn’t mean anything, and found the grenades in a shipping carton in the checkroom at a bus terminal where Cross had left them. I tell you about this because Cross is mentioned in that letter, and also as an instance to show that if the writer of the letter wants to tell us anything we don’t know he’ll have to come again.”
Shattuck remonstrated. “Good heavens, General, I know very well you weren’t born yesterday. And ordinarily any anonymous letter I receive gets tossed in the wastebasket. But I thought you ought to know about it—and then the one specific thing in it—about Cross. Of course that was investigated?”
“It was. By the police.”
“And,” Shattuck insisted, “by you?” Then he added hastily, “I think that’s a proper question. Unofficially. Since a police investigation would be somewhat ineffectual unless they were told exactly what Cross was doing and were given the names of those who were—well—aware of it. I don’t suppose you felt free to disclose that to the police?”
Fife said slowly, choosing his words again, “We co-operate with the police to the limit of discretion. As for your first question, proper or not, it is no military secret that Nero Wolfe has worked with us on various matters as a civilian consultant—since it has been published in newspapers. Do you regard Wolfe as a competent investigator?”
Shattuck smiled. “I’m a politician. You’re not apt to find me in a minority of one.”
“Well, he’s investigating Cross’s death. For us. If you find out who wrote you that letter, tell him that. That ought to satisfy him.”
“It satisfies me,” Shattuck declared. “I wonder if you’d mind—could I ask Mr. Wolfe a couple of questions?”
“Certainly. If he wants to answer them. I can’t order him to. He’s not in the Army.”
Wolfe grunted. He was displaying all the signs, long familiar to me, of impatience, annoyance, discomfort, and an intense desire to get back home where chairs had been built to specifications to fit the case, and the beer was cold. He snapped:
“Mr. Shattuck. Perhaps I can make your questions unnecessary. Whether they come from idle curiosity, or are in fact sparks from the flame of your burning patriotism, Captain Cross was murdered. Does that answer them?”
Silence. Nobody made a sound. The look that General Fife flashed at Colonel Ryder met one coming back at him, and they both held. Colonel Tinkham’s finger tip made contact with his mustache. Lieutenant Lawson stared at Wolfe, frowning. Shattuck’s eyes, narrowed with a gleam in them, went from face to face.
Lieutenant Lawson said, “Oh, lord.”
Chapter 2
Wolfe was pretending that nothing startling was happening. Not that any of the others could tell there was any pretense about it; nobody else knew him as I did. They probably were not even aware that his half-closed eyes were not missing the slightest twitch of a muscle among the group.
“I’m afraid,” he said dryly, “that there’s nothing in it for you, Mr. Shattuck. No votes, no acclaim, no applause from the multitude. I made the announcement in your presence because there’s no way of proving it and probably never will be. Not a scrap of evidence. Anyone could have taken the hotel elevator and gone to Captain Cross’s room on the twelfth floor, but no one was seen doing so. The mountain of the police machinery has labored—and no mouse. The window was wide open, and he was below on the pavement, squashed, dead. That’s all.”
“Then why the devil,” Lawson demanded, “do you say he was murdered?”
“Because he was. He was as likely to fall from that window by accident as I would be to run for Congress—by accident. He did not deliberately jump out or crawl out. He phoned Colonel Ryder at eight o’clock that evening that he would come to the office in the morning to make a report; that he had had no sleep for two nights and had to rest. He sent a telegram to his fiancée in Boston that he would see her on Saturday. And then committed suicide? Pfui.”
“Oh,” Fife said, crossing his arms on the back of the chair again. “I thought—perhaps you had something.”
“I have that.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “The man was murdered. But no guiding thread can be fastened to the smashed body on the pavement or in the room it fell from. The police have done a thorough job, and there is nothing. Some other point of departure is needed. If the motive was personal, out of his past as a man, the police may find it. They’re trying to. If it was professional, out of his work as a soldier, we may find it in the course of our present activities. That is, if we are to continue? Along the line as it is being developed? With the same personnel?”
Fife studied the corner of Ryder’s desk.
Wolfe said brusquely, “I put a question, General.”
Fife’s head jerked to him. “By all means. Continue? Certainly.”
Shattuck said in a tone of satisfaction, “I don’t think I need to ask you any questions, Mr. Wolfe.”
“May I” Tinkham inquired, “offer a comment?”
“Go ahead,” Fife told him.
“About the—personnel, as Mr. Wolfe put it. This is a complic
ated and difficult business; we all know that, even if it’s all we know. And judging from what happened to Cross, if Mr. Wolfe is correct, somewhat dangerous. It’s not the sort of enterprise to be entrusted to a kindergarten, and if that’s Mr. Wolfe’s opinion of us—specifically of me—”
“Skin tender?” Fife demanded. “The orders come from me.”
“I was trying,” Wolfe declared, “to educate you, Colonel, not obliterate you.”
“I’m not worrying about my skin.” Tinkham’s voice had emotion in it, which for him was remarkable. “I would like to stay on this job. I merely want to be sure I understand the purpose of Mr. Wolfe’s question about personnel.”
“To get an answer.” Wolfe was eyeing him. “I got it.”
“All the same,” Lawson broke in, addressing General Fife, “Colonel Tinkham has a point. For example, sir, you said just now the orders come from you. But they don’t. At least they haven’t in the two weeks I’ve been in on this. They come either from Colonel Ryder or from Nero Wolfe, and that’s apt to be confusing, and besides, from the tone Wolfe takes he ought to have four stars on his shoulder, and he hasn’t.”
“My God,” Fife said in disgust. “You too. Feelings hurt by the tone Wolfe takes! He’s right. This damn Army is turning into a kindergarten. And if I ship you overseas or back to Washington I’ll only get somebody worse.” He turned to Wolfe. “What about you and Ryder? Has there been any conflict in orders?”
“None that I know of,” Wolfe said patiently.
Fife switched to Ryder. “Any that you know of?”
“No, sir.” Ryder’s answer was a brush-off, as if the matter were of no interest or significance. “Mr. Wolfe has been entirely co-operative and helpful. No one but a fool would resent his mannerisms. But I ought to say— The circumstances— You should know that there will be a change in the setup. I would like to make a request. I respectfully request permission to go to Washington to see General Carpenter. Today.”
For the third time a sudden dead silence fell. Since the rest of us were not professional soldiers, we didn’t grasp immediately all the implications of that request made in that manner; what got us was what happened to General Fife’s face. It froze. I had never seen the old bozo look stupid before, but he sure did then, staring across Ryder’s desk at him.
“Perhaps, sir,” Ryder said, meeting the stare, “I should add that it is not a personal matter. I wish to see General Carpenter on Army business. I have a reservation on the five o’clock plane.”
Silence again. The muscles of Fife’s neck moved, then he spoke. “This is a strange performance, Colonel.” His voice was cold and controlled. “I suppose it can be charged to your unfamiliarity with Army custom. This sort of thing is usually done, if at all, in a less public manner. I offer a suggestion, not official. If you care to, you may discuss it with me privately. Now. Or after lunch, when you’ve thought it over.”
“I’m sorry.” Ryder didn’t sound happy, but he sounded firm. “It wouldn’t help any. I know what I’m doing, sir.”
“By God, I hope you do.”
“Yes, sir. I do. Have I permission to go?”
“You have.” The expression on Fife’s face plainly added, and keep right on going and never come back, but he was being an officer and gentleman in the presence of witnesses. To be fair to him, he didn’t do a bad job at all. He stood up and told Tinkham and Lawson they could go, which they did. Then he invited John Bell Shattuck to have lunch with him, and Shattuck accepted. Fife turned to Wolfe and said it would be a pleasure to have him join them, but Wolfe declined with thanks, saying he had another engagement, which was a lie. He disliked all restaurants, and claimed that the one where General Fife lunched put sulphur in curried lamb. Fife and Shattuck went out together, without another word to Ryder.
Wolfe stood by Ryder’s desk, frowning down at him, waiting for him to look up. Finally Ryder did.
“I think,” Wolfe said, “that you’re a nincompoop. Not a conclusion, merely an opinion.”
“File it for reference,” Ryder said.
“I shall do so. Your brain is not functioning. Your son died. Captain Cross, one of your men, was killed. You are in no condition to make hard decisions. If you have an intelligent friend with a head that works, consult him. Or even a lawyer. Or me.”
“You?” Ryder said. “Now that would be good. That would be just fine.”
Wolfe lifted his shoulders a quarter of an inch, let them drop back into place, said, “Come, Archie,” and started for the door. I returned the suitcase to the chair where I had found it, and followed him. Sergeant Bruce glanced up as we passed through the anteroom. Wolfe ignored her. I halted at her desk and said, “I’ve got something in my eye.”
“That’s too bad,” she said and stood up. “Which eye? Let me see.” I thought, Good lord, where’s she been all these years, falling for that old gag? I bent over to stare into her eyes, not ten inches away, and she stared back into mine.
“I see it,” she said.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“It’s me. In both eyes. No way of getting it out.”
She sat down again and went on typing, absolutely deadpan. I had utterly misjudged her. “Okay,” I conceded, “you’re one up,” and dashed after Wolfe, and found him at the elevator.
There were about a dozen assorted questions I had in mind to ask him, with a chance of finding him inclined to supply at least some of the answers, but the opportunity never arrived. Of course en route was no good, with him in the back seat resenting. The minute we got home he beat it to the kitchen to give Fritz a hand with lunch. They were trying out some kind of a theory involving chicken fat and eggplant. At the table business was always taboo, so I had to listen to him explain why sustained chess-playing would ruin any good field general. Then, because he had missed his morning session up in the plant rooms with the orchids, he had to go up there, and I knew that was no place to start a conversation. I asked him if I should report back downtown, and he said no, he might need me, and since my orders were to nurse Nero Wolfe as required, I went into the office, on the ground floor, did some chores at my desk, and listened to news broadcasts.
At 3:25 the phone rang. It was General Fife. He instructed me, speaking to a subordinate, to deliver Nero Wolfe at his office at four o’clock. I informed him it wouldn’t work. He stated that I should make it work and rang off.
I called him back and said, “Listen. Sir. Do you want him or don’t you? I respectfully remind you that there is no way on God’s earth of getting him except for you, or at least a colonel, to speak to him and tell him what you want.”
“Damn him. Let me talk to him.”
I buzzed the plant room extension, got Wolfe, was told by him to listen in, and did so. It was nothing new. All Fife would say on the phone was that he must have a talk with Wolfe, together with Tinkham and Lawson and me, without delay. Wolfe finally said he’d go. When he came downstairs ten minutes later, I told him, on the way out to the car, “One item you may want, in case you’ve got it entered that it was something that was said this morning that made Ryder decide to go to Washington to see Carpenter. He already had his suitcase there packed.”
“I saw it. Confound the blasted Germans. Don’t let it give that jerk when you start. I’m in no humor for pleasantries.”
We were in the lobby at 17 Duncan Street at 3:55, a few minutes ahead of time. Absent-mindedly, from force of habit, I said “ten” to the elevator man, and it wasn’t until after we had got out at the tenth that I woke up. Fife’s office was on the eleventh. Wolfe was starting the usual rigmarole with the corporal. I said, “Hey, our mistake. We’re on the—”
I never finished, because it came at that instant. The noise wasn’t loud, certainly it wasn’t deafening, but there was something about it that hit you in the spine. Or maybe it wasn’t the noise, but the shaking of the building. Everybody agreed later that the building shook. I doubt it. Maybe it was something that happened to the air. Anyhow, for a sec
ond everything inside of me stopped working, and, judging from the look on the corporal’s face, him ditto. Then we both stared in all directions. But Wolfe had already started for the door leading to the inner corridor, barking at me, “It’s that thing. Didn’t I tell you?”
I beat him to the door with a skip and a jump, and closed it when we were through. In the corridor people, mostly in uniform, were looking out of doors, and popping out. Some were headed for the far end of the corridor, a couple of them running. Voices came from up ahead, and a curtain of smoke or dust, or both, came drifting toward us, pushing a sour sharp smell in front of it. We went on into it, to the end, and turned right.
It was one swell mess. It looked exactly like a blurred radiophoto with the caption, Our Troops Taking an Enemy Machine-Gun Nest in a Sicilian Village. Debris, crumbled plaster, a door hanging by one hinge, most of a wall gone, men in uniform looking grim. Standing in what had been the doorway, facing out, was Colonel Tinkham. When two men tried to push past him into what had been Ryder’s room, he barred the way and bellowed, “Stand back! Back to that corner!” They backed up, but only about five paces, where they bumped into Wolfe and me. Others were behind us and around us.
From the commotion in the rear one voice was suddenly heard above the others: “General Fife!”
A lane opened up, and in a moment Fife came striding through. At sight of him Tinkham moved forward from the doorway, and behind Tinkham, from within, came Lieutenant Lawson. They both saluted, which may sound silly, but somehow didn’t look silly. Fife returned it and asked, “What’s in there?”
Lawson spoke. “Colonel Ryder, sir.”
“Dead?”
“Good God, yes. All blown apart.”
“Anyone else hurt?”
“No, sir. No sign of anybody.”
“I’ll take a look. Tinkham, clear this hall. Everybody back where they belong. No one is to leave the premises.”
Nero Wolfe rumbled in my ear, “This confounded dust. And smell. Come, Archie.”
That was the only occasion I remember when he willingly climbed a flight of stairs. Not knowing what orders had already been given to the corporal by the elevators, he probably wanted to avoid delay. Nobody interfered with us, since going to the eleventh floor was not leaving the premises. He marched straight through the anteroom to General Fife’s office, with me at his heels, straight to the big leather chair with its back to a window, sat down, got himself properly adjusted, and told me:
