The Second Confession

by Rex Stout

  “This isn’t just a summer night,” Madeline said shortly, “and you know darned well it isn’t. How did I know—anyway, you haven’t even got a jacket on.”

  “I know I haven’t. What time is it?”

  I aimed the light at my wrist and told her. “Five past eleven.”

  “Then he didn’t come on that train, either.”

  “Who didn’t?” Madeline asked.

  “Who do you suppose?” Gwenn was pent up. “That dangerous criminal! Oh, I suppose he is. All right, he is. But I wasn’t going to cross him off without telling him first, and not on the phone or in a letter, either. I phoned him to come here.”

  “Sure,” Madeline said, not like a loving sister. “So you could make him tell you who X is and make him reform.”

  “Not me,” Gwenn declared. “Reforming is your department. I was simply going to tell him we’re through—and good-by. I merely preferred to do it that way, before telling Dad and the rest of you. He was coming up on the nine-twenty-three and taxi from the station and meet me here. I thought he had missed it—and now I guess he didn’t get the next one either—but there’s a—what time is it?”

  I told her. “Nine minutes after eleven.”

  “There’s a train at eleven-thirty-two, and I’ll wait for that and then quit. I don’t usually wait around for a man for two hours, but this is different. You admit that, don’t you, Mad?”

  “If you could use a suggestion from a detective,” I offered, “I think you ought to phone him again and find out what happened. Why don’t you girls go and do that, and I’ll wait here in case he shows up. I promise not to say a word to him except that you’ll soon be back. Get a jacket, too.”

  That appealed to them. The only part that didn’t appeal to me was that they might wave flashlights around on their way to the drive, but they went in another direction, a shortcut by way of the rose garden. I waited until they were well started and then headed toward the drive, used the light to spot the object on the ground by the bush, and went to it.

  First, was he dead? He was. Second, what killed him? The answer to that wasn’t as conclusive, but there weren’t many alternatives. Third, how long ago had he died? I had a guess for that one, with some experience to go by. Fourth, what was in his pockets? That took more care and time on account of complications. For instance, when I had frisked him at the roadside Sunday night, after Ruth Brady had prepared him for me, I had used a fair amount of caution, but now fair wasn’t good enough. I gave his leather wallet a good rub with my handkerchief, inside and out, put prints from both of his hands all over it but kept them haphazard, and returned it to his pocket. It contained a good assortment of bills, so he must have cashed a check since I had cleaned him. I wanted very much to repeat the performance on the Communist party membership card and its cellophane holder, but couldn’t because it wasn’t there. Naturally that irritated me, and I felt all the seams and linings to make sure. It wasn’t on him.

  My mind was completely on getting the job done right and in time, before the girls returned, but when I finally gave up on the membership card I felt my stomach suddenly go tight, and I stood up and backed off. It will happen that way sometimes, no matter how thick and hard you think your shell is, when you least expect it. I turned to face the other way, made my chest big, and took some deep breaths. If that doesn’t work the only thing to do is lie down. But I didn’t have to, and anyhow I would have had to pop right up again, for in between two breaths I heard voices. Then I saw that I had left the flashlight turned on, there on the ground. I got it and turned it off, and made my way back to the clearing beyond the thicket in the dark, trying not to sound like a charging moose.

  I was at my post, a patient sentinel, when the girls appeared and crossed the open space to me, with Madeline asking as they approached, “Did he come?”

  “Not a sound of him,” I told them, preferring the truth when it will serve the purpose. “Then you didn’t get him?”

  “I got a phone-answering service.” That was Gwenn. “They said he would be back after midnight and wanted me to leave a message. I’m going to stay here a little while, in case he came on the eleven-thirty-two, and then quit. Do you think something happened to him?”

  “Certainly something happened to him, if he stood you up, but God knows what. Time will tell.” The three of us were making a little triangle. “You won’t need me, and if he comes you won’t want me. I’m going in to Mr. Wolfe. His nerves are on edge with the suspense, and I want to ease his mind. I won’t go around the house shouting it, but I want to tell him he’ll be going home soon.”

  They didn’t care for that much but had to admit it was reasonable, and I got away. I took the shortcut as they directed, got lost in the woods twice but finally made it to the open, skirted the rose garden and crossed the lawn, and entered the house by the front door. In the room upstairs Wolfe was still reading the book. As I closed the door behind me he started to scorch me with an indignant look for being gone so long, but when he saw my face, which he knows better than I do, he abandoned it.

  “Well?” he asked mildly.

  “Not well at all,” I declared. “Somebody has killed Louis Rony, I think by driving a car over him, but that will take more looking. It’s behind a bush about twenty yards from the driveway, at a point about two-thirds of the distance from the house to the public road. It’s a rotten break in every way, because Gwenn had decided to toss him out.”

  Wolfe was growling. “Who found it?”

  “I did.”

  “Who knows about it?”

  “No one. Now you.”

  Wolfe got up, fast. “Where’s my hat?” He looked around. “Oh, downstairs. Where are Mr. and Mrs. Sperling? We’ll tell them there is nothing more for us to do here and we’re going home—but not in a flurry—merely that it’s late and we can go now—come on!”

  “Flurry hell. You know damn well we’re stuck.”

  He stood and glared at me. When that didn’t seem to be improving the situation any he let himself go back onto the chair, felt the book under his fanny, got up and grabbed it—and for a second I thought he was going to throw it at something, maybe even me. For him to throw a book, loving them as he did, would have been a real novelty. He controlled himself in time, tossed the book onto a handy table, got seated again, and rasped at me, “Confound it, sit down! Must I stretch my neck off?”

  I didn’t blame him a particle. I would have been having a tantrum myself if I hadn’t been too busy.

  Chapter 9

  The first thing,” I said, “is this: have I seen it or not? If I have, there’s the phone, and any arrangements to be made before company comes will have to be snappy. If I haven’t, take your time. It’s behind the bush on the side away from the drive and might not be noticed for a week, except for dogs. So?”

  “I don’t know enough about it,” Wolfe said peevishly. “What were you doing there?”

  I told him. That first question was too urgent, for me personally, to fill in with details such as stopping at the barn to count the horses, but I didn’t skip any points that mattered, like Madeline’s reason for being upset over Gwenn’s trip outdoors, or like my handling of the fingerprint problem on the wallet. I gave it to him compact and fast but left out no essentials. When I finished he had only three questions:

  “Have you had the thought, however vaguely, with or without evidence to inspire it, that Miss Sperling took you past that spot intentionally?”

  “No.”

  “Can footprints be identified in the vicinity of the body?”

  “I’m not sure, but I doubt it.”

  “Can your course be traced, no matter how, as you went from the thicket to the body and back again?”

  “Same answer. Davy Crockett might do it. I didn’t have him in mind at the time, anyhow it was dark.”

  Wolfe grunted. “We’re away from home. We can’t risk it. Get them all up here—the Sperlings. Go for the young women yourself, or the young one may not com
e. Just get them; leave the news for me. Get the young women first, and the others when you’re back in the house. I don’t want Mr. Sperling up here ahead of them.”

  I went, and wasted no time. It was only a simple little chore, compared with other occasions when he had sent me from the office to get people, and this time my heart was in my work. Evidently the answer to the question whether I had seen the body was to be yes, and in that case the sooner the phone got used the better. Wolfe would do his part, that was all right, but actually it was up to me, since I was old enough to vote and knew how to dial a number. On the long list of things that cops don’t like, up near the top is acting as if finding a corpse is a purely private matter.

  It was simple with the girls. I told Gwenn that Wolfe had just received information which made it certain that Rony would not show up, and he wanted to see her at once to tell her about it, and of course there was no argument. Back at the house, the others were just as simple. Jimmy was downstairs playing ping-pong with Connie, and Madeline went and got him. Mr. and Mrs. Sperling were in the living room with Webster Kane and Paul Emerson, and I told them that Wolfe would like to speak with them for a minute. Just Sperlings.

  There weren’t enough chairs for all of us in the bedroom, so for once Wolfe had to start a conversation with most of his audience standing, whether he liked it or not. Sperling was obviously completely fed up with his long wait, a full seven hours now, for an important decision about his affairs to be made by someone else, even his own daughter, and he wanted to start in after Gwenn, but Wolfe stopped him quick. He fired a question at them.

  “This afternoon we thought we were discussing a serious matter. Didn’t we?”

  They agreed.

  He nodded. “We were. Now it is either more serious or less, I don’t know which. It’s a question of Mr. Rony alive or Mr. Rony dead. For he is now dead.”

  There’s a theory that it’s a swell stunt to announce a man’s death to a group of people when you think one of them may have killed him, and watch their faces. In practice I’ve never seen it get anybody to first base, let alone on around, not even Nero Wolfe, but it’s still attractive as a theory, and therefore I was trying to watch all of them at once, and doubtless Wolfe was too.

  They all made noises, some of them using words, but nobody screamed or fainted or clutched for support. The prevailing expression was plain bewilderment, all authentic as far as I could tell, but as I say, no matter how popular a theory may be, it’s still a theory.

  Gwenn demanded, “You mean Louis?”

  Wolfe nodded. “Yes, Miss Sperling, Louis Rony is dead. Mr. Goodwin found his body about an hour ago, when he was out with your sister looking for you. It is on this property, behind a bush not far from where they found you. It seems—”

  “Then—then he did come!”

  I doubt if it was as heartless as it looks. I would not have called Gwenn heartless. In the traffic jam in her head caused by the shock, it just happened that that little detail got loose first. I saw Madeline dart a sharp glance at her. The others were finding their tongues for questions. Wolfe pushed a palm at them.

  “If you please. There is no time—”

  “What killed him?” Sperling demanded.

  “I was about to tell you. The indications are that a car ran over him, and the body was dragged from the drive for concealment behind the bush, but of course it requires further examination. It hadn’t been there long when it was found, not more than two hours. The police must be notified without delay. I thought, Mr. Sperling, you might prefer to do that yourself. It would look better.”

  Gwenn was starting to tremble. Madeline took her arm and led her to a bed and pushed her onto it, with Jimmy trying to help. Mrs. Sperling was stupefied.

  “Are you saying—” Sperling halted. He was either incredulous or doing very well. “Do you mean he was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. Murder requires premeditation. If after inquiry the police decide it was murder they’ll still have to prove it. That, of course, will start the routine hunt for motive, means, opportunity—I don’t know whether you’re familiar with it, but if not, I’m afraid you soon will be. Whom are you going to notify, the county authorities or the State Police? You have a choice. But you shouldn’t postpone it. You will—”

  Mrs. Sperling spoke for the first time. “But this is—this will be terrible! Here on our place! Why can’t you take it away—away somewhere for miles—and leave it somewhere—”

  No one paid any attention to her. Sperling asked Wolfe, “Do you know what he was doing here?”

  “I know what brought him. Your daughter phoned him to come.”

  Sperling jerked to the bed. “Did you do that, Gwenn?”

  There was no reply from Gwenn. Madeline furnished it. “Yes, Dad, she did. She decided to drop him and wanted to tell him first.”

  “I hope,” Wolfe said, “that your wife’s suggestion needs no comment, for a dozen reasons. He took a cab here from the station—”

  “My wife’s suggestions seldom need comment. There is no way of keeping the police out of it? I know a doctor—”

  “None. Dismiss it.”

  “You’re an expert. Will they regard it as murder?”

  “An expert requires facts to be expert about. I haven’t got enough. If you want a guess, I think they will.”

  “Shouldn’t I have a lawyer here?”

  “That will have to come later. You’ll probably need one or more.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “It can’t be delayed longer, sir. Mr. Goodwin and I are under an obligation, both as citizens and as men holding licenses as private detectives.”

  “You’re under obligation to me too. I’m your client.”

  “We know that. We haven’t ignored it. It was eleven o’clock when Mr. Goodwin found a corpse with marks of violence, and it was his legal duty to inform the authorities immediately. It is now well after midnight. We felt we owed you a chance to get your mind clear. Now I’m afraid I must insist.”

  “Damn it, I want to think!”

  “Call the police and think while they’re on the way.”

  “No!” Sperling yanked a chair around and sat on its edge, close to Wolfe, facing him. “Look here. I hired you on a confidential matter, and I have a right to expect you to keep it confidential. There is no reason why it should be disclosed, and I certainly don’t want it to be. It was a privileged—”

  “No, sir.” Wolfe was crisp. “I am not a member of the bar, and communications to detectives, no matter what you’re paying them, are not privileged.”

  “But you—”

  “No, please. You think if I repeat the conversation I had with you and your family this afternoon it will give the impression that all of you, except one, had good reason to wish Mr. Rony dead, and you’re quite right. That will make it next to impossible for them to regard his death as something short of murder, and, no matter what your position in this community may be, you and your family will be in a devil of a fix. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I have withheld information from the police many times, but only when it concerned a case I was myself engaged on and I felt I could make better use of it if I didn’t share it. Another—”

  “Damn it, you’re engaged on this case!”

  “I am not. The job you hired me for is ended, and I’m glad of it. You remember how I defined the objective? It has been reached—though not, I confess, by my—”

  “Then I hire you for another job now. To investigate Rony’s death.”

  Wolfe frowned at him. “You’d better not. I advise against it.”

  “You’re hired.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “You’re in a panic and you’re being impetuous. If Mr. Rony was murdered, and if I undertake to look into it, I’ll get the murderer. It’s conceivable that you’ll regret you ever saw me.”

  “But you’re hired.”

  Wolfe shrugged. “I know. Your immediate problem is to keep me from repeating that conversation to the police, and, being pugnac
ious and self-assured, you solve your problems as they come. But you can’t hire me today and fire me tomorrow. You know what I would do if you tried that.”

  “I know. You won’t be fired. You’re hired.” Sperling arose. “I’ll phone the police.”

  “Wait a minute!” Wolfe was exasperated. “Confound it, are you a dunce? Don’t you know how ticklish this is? There were seven of us in that conversation—”

  “We’ll attend to that after I’ve phoned.”

  “No, we won’t. I’ll attend to it now.” Wolfe’s eyes darted around. “All of you, please. Miss Sperling?”

  Gwenn was face down on the bed and Madeline was seated on the edge.

  “Do you have to bark at her now?” Madeline demanded.

  “I’ll try not to bark. But I do have to speak to her—all of you.”

  Gwenn was sitting up. “I’m all right,” she said. “I heard every word. Dad hired you again, to—oh, my God.” She hadn’t been crying, which was a blessing since it would have demoralized Wolfe, but she looked fairly ragged. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “You know,” Wolfe told them curtly, “what the situation is. I must first have a straight answer to this: have any of you repeated the conversation we had in the library, or any part of it, to anyone?”

  They all said no.

  “This is important. You’re sure?”

  “Connie was—” Jimmy had to clear his throat. “Connie was asking questions. She was curious.” He looked unhappy.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Oh, just—nothing much.”

  “Damn it, how much?” Sperling demanded.

  “Not anything, Dad, really. I guess I mentioned Louis—but nothing about X and all that crap.”

  “You should have had more sense.” Sperling looked at Wolfe. “Shall I get her?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “By no means. We’ll have to risk it. That was all? None of you has reported that conversation?”

  They said no again.

  “Very well. The police will ask questions. They will be especially interested in my presence here—and Mr. Goodwin’s. I shall tell them that Mr. Sperling suspected that Mr. Rony, who was courting his daughter, was a Communist, and that—”