The Second Confession

by Rex Stout

  The others got seated, except Sperling, who stood and demanded, “All right, justify this. You said you could.”

  Chapter 7

  Wolfe stayed motionless for seconds. He raised his hands to press his fingertips against his eyes, and again was motionless. Finally he let his hands fall to the chair arms, opened the eyes, and directed them at Gwenn.

  “You look intelligent, Miss Sperling.”

  “We’re all intelligent,” Sperling snapped. “Get on.”

  Wolfe looked at him. “It’s going to be long-winded, but I can’t help it. You must have it all. If you try prodding me you’ll only lengthen it. Since you head a large enterprise, sir, and therefore are commander-in-chief of a huge army, surely you know when to bullyrag and when to listen. Will you do me a favor? Sit down. Talking to people who are standing makes my neck stiff.”

  “I want to say something,” Gwenn declared.

  Wolfe nodded at her. “Say it.”

  She swallowed. “I just want to be sure you know that I know what you’re here for. You sent that man”—she flashed a glance at me which gave me a fair idea of how my personal relationship with her stood as of now—“to snoop on Louis Rony, a friend of mine, and that’s what this is about.” She swallowed again. “I’ll listen because my family—my mother and sister asked me to, but I think you’re a cheap filthy little worm, and if I had to earn a living the way you do I’d rather starve!”

  It was all right, but it would have been better if she had ad libbed it instead of sticking to a script that she had obviously prepared in advance. Calling Wolfe little, which she wouldn’t have done if she had worded it while looking at him, weakened it.

  Wolfe grunted. “If you had to earn a living the way I do, Miss Sperling, you probably would starve. Thank you for being willing to listen, no matter why.” He glanced around. “Does anyone else have an irrepressible comment?”

  “Get on,” said Sperling, who was seated.

  “Very well, sir. If at first I seem to wander, bear with me. I want to tell you about a man. I know his name but prefer not to pronounce it, so shall call him X. I assure you he is no figment; I only wish he were. I have little concrete knowledge of the immense properties he owns, though I do know that one of them is a high and commanding hill not a hundred miles from here on which, some years ago, he built a large and luxurious mansion. He has varied and extensive sources of income. All of them are illegal and some of them are morally repulsive. Narcotics, smuggling, industrial and commercial rackets, gambling, waterfront blackguardism, professional larceny, blackmailing, political malfeasance—that by no means exhausts his curriculum, but it sufficiently indicates his character. He has, up to now, triumphantly kept himself invulnerable by having the perspicacity to see that a criminal practicing on a large scale over a wide area and a long period of time can get impunity only by maintaining a gap between his person and his crimes which cannot be bridged; and by having unexcelled talent, a remorseless purpose, and a will that cannot be dented or deflected.”

  Sperling jerked impatiently in his chair. Wolfe looked at him as a sixth-grade teacher looks at a restless boy, moved his eyes for a roundup of the whole audience, and went on.

  “If you think I am describing an extraordinary man, I am indeed. How, for instance, does he maintain the gap? There are two ways to catch a criminal: one, connect him with the crime itself; or two, prove that he knowingly took a share of the spoils. Neither is feasible with X. Take for illustration a typical crime—anything from a triviality like pocket picking or bag snatching up to a major raid on the public treasury. The criminal or gang of criminals nearly always takes full responsibility for the operation itself, but in facing the problem of disposal of the loot, which always appears, and of protection against discovery and prosecution, which is seldom entirely absent, he cannot avoid dealing with others. He may need a fence, a lawyer, a witness for an alibi, a channel to police or political influence—no matter what; he will almost inevitably need someone or something. He goes to one he knows, or knows about, one named A. A, finding a little difficulty, consults B. We are already, observe, somewhat removed from the crime, and B now takes us still further away by enlisting the help of C. C, having trouble with a stubborn knot in the thread, communicates with D. Here we near the terminal. D knows X and how to get to him.

  “In and around New York there are many thousands of crimes each month, from mean little thefts to the highest reaches of fraud and thuggery. In a majority of them the difficulties of the criminals are met, or are not met, either by the criminals themselves or by A or B or C. But a large number of them get up to D, and if they reach D they go to X. I don’t know how many D’s there are, but certainly not many, for they are selected by X after a long and hard scrutiny and the application of severe tests, since he knows that a D once accepted by him must be backed with a fierce loyalty at almost any cost. I would guess that there are very few of them and, even so, I would also guess that if a D were impelled, no matter how, to resort to treachery, he would find that that too had been foreseen and provision had been made.”

  Wolfe turned a palm up. “You see where X is. Few criminals, or A’s or B’s or C’s, even know he exists. Those few do not know his name. If a fraction of them have guessed his name, it remains a guess. Estimates of the total annual dollar volume involved in criminal operations in the metropolitan area vary from three hundred million to half a billion. X has been in this business more than twenty years now, and the share that finds its way tortuously to him must be considerable, after deducting his payments to appointed and elected persons and their staffs. A million a year? Half that? I don’t know. I do know that he doesn’t pay for everything he gets. Some years ago a man not far from the top of the New York Police Department did many favors for X, but I doubt if he was ever paid a cent. Blackmailing is one of X’s favorite fields, and that man was susceptible.”

  “Inspector Drake,” Jimmy blurted.

  Wolfe shook his head. “I am not giving names, and anyway I said not far from the top.” His eyes went from right to left and back again. “I am obliged for your forbearance; these details are necessary. I have told you that I know X’s name, but I have never seen him. I first got some knowledge of him eleven years ago, when a police officer came to me for an opinion regarding a murder he was working on. I undertook a little inquiry through curiosity, a luxury I no longer indulge in, and found myself on a trail leading onto ground where the footing was treacherous for a private investigator. Since I had no client and was not committed, I reported what I had found to the police officer and dropped it. I then knew there was such a man as X, and something of his activities and methods, but not his name.

  “During the following eight years I saw hints here and there that X was active, but I was busy with my own affairs, which did not happen to come into contact with his. Then, early in 1946, while I was engaged on a job for a client, I had a phone call. A voice I had never heard—hard, cold, precise, and finicky with its grammar—advised me to limit my efforts on behalf of my client. I replied that my efforts would be limited only by the requirements of the job I had undertaken to do. The voice insisted, and we talked some, but only to an impasse. The next day I finished the job to my client’s satisfaction, and that ended it.”

  Wolfe closed his fingers into fists and opened them again. “But for my own satisfaction I felt that I needed some information. The character of the job, and a remark the voice had made during our talk, raised the question whether the voice could have been that of X himself. Not wishing to involve the men I often hire to help me, and certainly not Mr. Goodwin, I got men from an agency in another city. Within a month I had all the information I needed for my satisfaction, including of course X’s name, and I dismissed the men and destroyed their reports. I hoped that X’s affairs and mine would not again touch, but they did. Months later, a little more than a year ago, I was investigating a murder, this time for a client—you may remember it. A man named Orchard poisoned while appearing on
a radio program?”

  All but Sperling nodded, and Mrs. Sperling said she had been listening to the program the day it happened. Wolfe went on.

  “I was in the middle of that investigation when the same voice called me on the phone and told me to drop it. He was not so talkative that second time, perhaps because I informed him that I knew his name, which was of course childish of me. I ignored his fiat. It soon transpired that Mr. Orchard and a woman who had also been killed had both been professional blackmailers, using a method which clearly implied a large organization, ingeniously contrived and ably conducted. I managed to expose the murderer, who had been blackmailed by them. The day after the murderer was sentenced another phone call came from X. He had the cheek to congratulate me on keeping my investigation within the limits he had prescribed! I told him that his prescription had been ignored. What had happened was that I had caught the murderer, which was my job, without stretching the investigation to an attack on X himself, which had been unnecessary and no part of my commitment.”

  Sperling had been finding it impossible to get properly settled in his chair. Now he broke training and demanded,

  “Damn it, can’t you cut this short?”

  “Not and earn my fee,” Wolfe snapped. He resumed.

  “That was in May of last year—thirteen months ago. In the interval I have not heard from X, because I haven’t happened to do anything with which he had reason to interfere. That good fortune ended—as I suppose it was bound to do soon or late, since we are both associated with crime—day before yesterday, Saturday, at six-ten P.M. He phoned again. He was more peremptory than formerly, and gave me an ultimatum with a time limit. I responded to his tone as a man of my temperament naturally would—I am congenitally tart and thorny—and I rejected his ultimatum. I do not pretend that I was unconcerned. When Mr. Goodwin returned from his weekend here, after midnight on Sunday, yesterday, and gave me his report, I told him of the phone call and we discussed the situation at length.”

  Wolfe looked around. “Do any of you happen to know that there are plant rooms on the roof of my house, in which I keep thousands of orchids, all of them good and some of them new and rare and extremely beautiful?”

  Yes, they all did, again all but Sperling.

  Wolfe nodded. “I won’t try to introduce suspense. Mr. Goodwin and I were in my office talking, between two and three o’clock this morning, when we heard an outlandish noise. Men hired by X had mounted to the roof of a building across the street, armed with submachine guns, and fired hundreds of rounds at my plant rooms, with what effect you can guess. I shall not describe it. Thirty men are there now, salvaging and repairing. That my gardener was not killed was fortuitous. The cost of repairs and replacements will be around forty thousand dollars, and some of the damaged or destroyed plants are irreplaceable. The gunmen have not been found and probably never will be, and what if they are? It was incorrect to say they were hired by X. They were hired by a D or C or B—most likely a C. Assuredly X is not on speaking terms with anyone as close to crime as a gunman, and I doubt if a D is. In any—”

  “You say,” Sperling put in, “this just happened? Last night?”

  “Yes, sir. I mentioned the approximate amount of the damage because you’ll have to pay it. It will be on my bill.”

  Sperling made a noise. “It may be on your bill, but I won’t have to pay it. Why should I?”

  “Because you’ll owe it. It is an expense incurred on the job you gave me. My plant rooms were destroyed because I ignored X’s ultimatum, and his demand was that I recall Mr. Goodwin from here and stop my inquiry into the activities and character of Louis Rony. You wanted me to prove that Mr. Rony is a Communist. I can’t do that, but I can prove that he is one of X’s men, either a C or a D, and is therefore a dangerous professional criminal.”

  The quickest reaction was from Madeline. Before Wolfe had finished she said, “My God!” and got up, crossed impolitely in front of people to Gwenn, and put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Then Mrs. Sperling was up too, but she just stood a second and sat down again. Jimmy, who had been frowning at Wolfe, shifted the frown to his father.

  The Chairman of the Board sat a moment gazing at Wolfe, then gazed a longer moment at his younger daughter, and then arose and went to her and said, “He says he can prove it, Gwenn.”

  I am not lightning, but I had caught on quite a while back that Wolfe’s real target was Gwenn, so it was her I was interested in. When Wolfe had started in, the line of her pretty lips and the stubbornness in her eyes had made it plain that she simply didn’t intend to believe a word he said, but as he went on telling about a mysterious X who couldn’t possibly be her Louis she had relaxed a little, and was even beginning to think that maybe it was an interesting story when suddenly Rony’s name popped in, and then the shot straight at her. When she felt Madeline’s hand on her shoulder she put her own hand up to place it on top of her sister’s, and said in a low voice, “It’s all right, Mad.” Then she spoke louder to Wolfe.

  “It’s a lot of bunk!”

  When Sperling stood in front of her, Wolfe and I couldn’t see her. Wolfe stated to Sperling’s back, “I’ve barely started, you know. I’ve merely given you the background. Now I must explain the situation.”

  Gwenn was on her feet at once, saying firmly, “You won’t need me for that. I know what the situation is well enough.”

  They all started talking. Madeline had hold of Gwenn’s arm. Mrs. Sperling was out of her depth but was flapping. Jimmy was being completely ignored but kept trying. Wolfe allowed them a couple of minutes and then cut in sharply.

  “Confound it, are you a bunch of ninnies?”

  Sperling wheeled on him. “You shouldn’t have done it like this! You should have told me! You should—”

  “Nonsense! Utter nonsense. For months you have been telling your daughter that Mr. Rony is a Communist, and she has quite properly challenged you to prove it. If you had tried to tell her this she would have countered with the same challenge, and where would you have been? I am better armed. Will you please get out of the way so I can see her?—Thank you.—Miss Sperling, you were not afraid to challenge your father to show you proof. But now you want to walk out. So you’re afraid to challenge me? I don’t blame you.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything!”

  “Then sit down and listen. All of you. Please?”

  They got back to their chairs. Gwenn wasn’t so sure now that all she needed was a simple and steadfast refusal to believe a word. Her lower lip was being held tight by her teeth, and her eyes were no longer straight and stubborn at Wolfe. She even let me have a questioning, unsure glance, as if I might contribute something that would possibly help.

  Wolfe focused on her. “I didn’t skimp on the background, Miss Sperling, because without it you can’t decide intelligently, and, though your father is my client, the decision rests with you. The question that must be answered is this: am I to proceed to assemble proof or not? If I—”

  “You said you had proof!”

  “No, I didn’t. I said I could prove it, and I can—and if I must I will. I would vastly prefer not to. One way out would be for me simply to quit—to return the retainer your father has paid me, shoulder the expense of my outlay on this job and restoration of my damaged property, and let X know that I have scuttled. That would unquestionably be the sensible and practical thing to do, and I do not brag that I’m not up to it. It is a weakness I share with too many of my fellow men, that my self-conceit will not listen to reason. Having undertaken to do a job offered to me by your father in good faith, and with no excuse for withdrawal that my vanity will accept, I do not intend to quit.

  “Another way out would be for you to assume that I am not a liar; or that if I am one, at least I am incapable of such squalid trickery as the invention of this rigmarole in order to earn a fee by preventing you from marrying a man who has your affection and is worthy of it. If you make either of those assumptions, it follows that Mr. Rony is a
blackguard, and since you are plainly not a fool you will have done with him. But—”

  “You said you could prove it!”

  Wolfe nodded. “So I can. If my vanity won’t let me scuttle, and if you reject both those assumptions, that’s what I’ll have to do. Now you see why I gave you so full a sketch of X. It will be impossible to brand Mr. Rony without bringing X in, and even if that were feasible X would get in anyway. Proof of that already exists, on the roof of my house. You may come home with me and take a look at it—by the way, I have failed to mention another possibility.”

  Wolfe looked at our client. “You, sir, could of course pay my bill to date and discharge me. In that event I presume your daughter would consider my indictment of Mr. Rony as unproven as yours, and she would proceed —to do what? I can’t say; you know her better than I do. Do you want to send me home?”

  Sperling was slumped in his chair, his elbow resting on its arm and his chin propped on his knuckles, with his gaze now on Gwenn and now on Wolfe. “Not now,” he said quietly. “Only—a question—how much of that was straight fact?”

  “Every word.”

  “What is X’s name?”

  “That will have to wait. If we are forced into this, and you still want me to work for you, you will of course have to have it.”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  Wolfe went back to Gwenn. “One difficulty in an attempt to expose X, which is what this would amount to, will be the impossibility of knowing when we are rubbing against him. I am acquainted, more or less, with some three thousand people living or working in New York, and there aren’t more than ten of them of whom I could say with certainty that they are in no way involved in X’s activities. None may be; any may be. If that sounds extreme, Miss Sperling, remember that he has been devising and spreading his nets all your lifetime, and that his talents are great.