The Second Confession

by Rex Stout

  “You don’t need to.” Gwenn’s hands were clasped tight. “I’ve decided. I’m a conceited nosy little fool!”

  “You use too many adjectives,” Wolfe said dryly. “For me it was cheap filthy little worm. Now, for you, it is conceited nosy little fool. Let’s just say fool. Why? What about?”

  “About everything. About Louis Rony. I knew darned well I wasn’t really in love with him, but I thought I’d teach my father something. If I hadn’t had him there he wouldn’t have thought he could pique me by playing with Connie Emerson, and she wouldn’t have played with him, and he wouldn’t have got killed. Even if everything you said about him is true, it’s my fault he got killed, and what am I going to do?”

  Wolfe grunted. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you. How was it your fault that Mr. Kane went to mail some letters and accidentally ran over Mr. Rony?”

  She stared. “But you know that’s not true!”

  “Yes, but you don’t—or do you?”

  “Of course I do!” Her hands came unclasped. “I may be a fool, I guess I can’t go back on that, but I’ve known Webster a long time and I know he couldn’t possibly do such a thing!”

  “Anyone can have an accident.”

  “I know they can; I don’t mean that. But if he had run a car over Louis and saw he was dead, he would have gone back to the house, straight to a phone, and called a doctor and the police. You’ve met him. Couldn’t you see he was like that?”

  This was a new development, a Sperling trying to persuade Wolfe that Kane’s statement was a phony.

  “Yes,” Wolfe said mildly. “I thought I saw he was like that. Does your father know you’re here?”

  “No. I—I didn’t want to quarrel with him.”

  “It won’t be easy to avoid it when he finds out. What made you decide to come?”

  “I wanted to yesterday, and I didn’t. I’m a coward.”

  “A fool and a coward.” Wolfe shook his head. “Don’t rub it in. And today?”

  “I heard someone say something. Now I’m an eavesdropper too. I used to be when I was a child, but I thought I was completely over it. Today I heard Connie saying something to Paul, and I stayed outside the door and listened.”

  “What did she say?”

  Gwenn’s face drew together. I thought she was going to cry, and so did she. That would have been bad, because Wolfe’s wits leave him when a woman cries.

  I snapped at her. “What did you drive down here for?”

  She pulled out of it and appealed to Wolfe. “Do I have to tell you?”

  “No,” he said curtly.

  Naturally that settled it. She proceeded to tell. She looked as if she would rather eat soap, but she didn’t stammer any.

  “They were in their room and I was going by. But I didn’t just happen to overhear it; I stopped and listened deliberately. She hit him or he hit her, I don’t know which—with them you don’t know who is doing the hitting unless you see it. But she was doing the talking. She told him that she saw Goodwin—” Gwenn looked at me. “That was you.”

  “My name’s Goodwin,” I admitted.

  “She said she saw Goodwin finding a stone by the brook and she tried to get it and throw it in the water, but Goodwin knocked her down. She said Goodwin had the stone and would take it to Nero Wolfe, and she wanted to know what Paul was going to do, and he said he wasn’t going to do anything. She said she didn’t care what happened to him but she wasn’t going to have her reputation ruined if she could help it, and then he hit her, or maybe she hit him. I thought one of them was coming to the door and I ran down the hall.”

  “When did this happen?” Wolfe growled.

  “Just before dinner. Dad had just come home, and I was going to tell him about it, but I decided not to because I knew he must have got Webster to sign that statement, and he’s so stubborn—I knew what he would say. But I couldn’t just not do anything. I knew it was my fault Louis got killed, and after what you told us about him it didn’t matter about him but it did about me. I guess that sounds selfish, but I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to be perfectly honest. I’m going to be honest to everyone about everything. I’m going to quit being a fake. Take the way I acted the day you came. I should have just phoned Louis and told him I didn’t want to see him any more, that would have been the honest thing and that was what I really wanted to do; but no, I didn’t do that, I had to phone him to come and meet me so I could tell him face to face—and what happened? I honestly believe I was hoping that someone would listen in on one of the extensions so they would know how fine and noble I was! I knew Connie did that all the time, and maybe others did too. Anyhow someone did, and you know what happened. It was just as if I had phoned him to come and get killed!”

  She stopped for breath. Wolfe suggested, “You may be taking too much credit, Miss Sperling.”

  “That’s a nasty crack.” She wasn’t through. “I couldn’t say all this to my father or mother, not even to my sister, because—well, I couldn’t. But I wasn’t going to start being honest by hiding the worst thing I ever did. I thought it over very carefully, and I decided you were the one person who would know exactly what I meant. You knew I was afraid of you that afternoon, and you told me so. I think it was the first time anyone really understood me.”

  I had to keep back a snort. A fine freckled girl saying that to Wolfe with me present was approaching the limit. If there was anything on earth he didn’t understand and I did, it was young women.

  “So,” Gwenn went on, “I had to come and tell you. I know you can’t do anything about it, because Dad got Webster to sign that statement, and that ends it, but I felt I had to tell someone, and then when I heard what Paul and Connie said I knew I had to. But you’ve got to understand that I’m being absolutely honest. If this was me the way I was a year ago or a week ago I’d be pretending that I only came because I think I owe it to Louis to help to bring out the truth about how he died, but if he was the kind of man you said he was I don’t really believe I owe him anything. It’s only that if I’m going to be a genuine straightforward person I have to start now or I never will. I don’t want ever to be afraid of anyone again, not even you.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “You’re expecting a good deal of yourself. I’m more than twice your age, and up with you in self-esteem, but I’m afraid of someone. Don’t overdo it. There are numerous layers of honesty, and the deepest should not have a monopoly. What else was said by Mr. and Mrs. Emerson?”

  “Just what I told you.”

  “Nothing more—uh, informative?”

  “I told you everything I heard. I don’t—” She stopped, frowning. “Didn’t I? About his calling her an idiot?”

  “No.”

  “He did. When she said that about her reputation. He said, ‘You idiot, you might as well have told Goodwin you killed him, or that you knew I did.’ Then she hit him—or he hit her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. I ran.”

  “Had you already suspected that Mr. Emerson had murdered Mr. Rony?”

  “Why I—” Gwenn was shocked. “I don’t suspect that now. Do I?”

  “Certainly you do. You merely hadn’t put it so boldly. You may have got to honesty, Miss Sperling, but there is still sagacity. If I understand you, and you say I do, you think that Mr. Emerson killed Mr. Rony because he was philandering with Mrs. Emerson. I don’t believe it. I’ve heard some of Mr. Emerson’s broadcasts, and met him at your home, and I consider him incapable of an emotion so warm and direct and explosive. You said I can do nothing about Mr. Rony’s death. I think I can, and I intend to try, but if I find myself reduced to so desperate an assumption as that Mr. Emerson was driven to kill by jealousy of his wife, I’ll quit.”

  “Then—” Gwenn was frowning at him. “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.” Wolfe put his hands on the edge of his desk, pushed his chair back, and arose. “Are you going to drive back home tonight?”

  “Yes. But—”r />
  “Then you’d better get started. It’s late. Your newborn passion for honesty is admirable, but in that, as in everything, moderation is often best. It would have been honest to tell your father you were coming here; it would be honest to tell him where you have been when you get home; but if you do so he will think that you have helped me to discredit Mr. Kane’s statement, and that would be false. So a better honesty would be to lie and tell him you went to see a friend.”

  “I did,” Gwenn declared. “You are a friend. I want to stay and talk.”

  “Not tonight.” Wolfe was emphatic. “I’m expecting a caller. Some other time.” He added hastily, “By appointment, of course.”

  She didn’t want to go, but what could the poor girl do? After I handed her her neckpiece she stood and prolonged it a little, with questions that got answers in one syllable, but finally made the best of it.

  When she had gone I proceeded immediately to tell Wolfe what I thought of him. “You couldn’t possibly ask for a better chance,” I protested hotly. “She may not be Miss America 1949, but she’s anything but an eyesore, and she’ll inherit millions, and she’s nuts about you. You could quit work and eat and drink all day. Evenings you could explain how well you understand her, which is apparently all she asks for. You’re hooked at last, and it was about time.” I extended a paw. “Congratulations!”

  “Shut up.” He glanced at the clock.

  “In a minute. I approve of your lie about expecting a caller. That’s the way to handle it, tease her on with the hard to get—”

  “Go to bed. I am expecting a caller.”

  I eyed him. “Another one?”

  “A man. I’ll let him in. Put this stuff away and go to bed. At once.”

  That had happened not more than twice in five years. Once in a while I get sent out of the room, and frequently I am flagged to get off of my phone, when something is supposed to be too profound for me, but practically never am I actually chased upstairs to keep me from even catching a glimpse of a visitor.

  “Mr. Jones?” I asked.

  “Put this stuff away.”

  I gathered up the papers from his desk and returned them to my drawer before telling him, “I don’t like it, and you know I don’t. One of my functions is keeping you alive.” I started for the safe. “What if I come down in the morning and find you?”

  “Some morning you may. Not this one. Don’t lock the safe.”

  “There’s fifty grand in it.”

  “I know. Don’t lock it.”

  “Okay, I heard you. The guns are in my second drawer but not loaded.”

  I told him good night and left him.

  Chapter 19

  In the morning three-tenths of the fifty grand was no longer there. Fifteen thousand bucks. I told myself that before I died I must manage at least a look from a distance at Mr. Jones. A guy who could demand that kind of dough for piecework, and collect in advance, was something not to be missed.

  When I arose at seven I had had only five hours’ sleep. I had not imitated Gwenn and taken to eaves-dropping, but I certainly didn’t intend to snooze peacefully while Wolfe was down in the office with a character so mysterious I couldn’t be allowed to see him or hear him. Therefore, not undressing, I got the gun I keep on my table and went to the hall and sat at the top of the stairs. From there, two flights up, I heard his arrival, and voices in the hall—Wolfe’s and one other—and the office door closing, and then, for nearly three hours, a faint mumble that I had to strain my ears to catch at all. For the last hour of it I had to resort to measures to keep myself awake. Finally the office door opened and the voices were louder, and in half a minute he had gone and I heard Wolfe’s elevator. I beat it to my room. After my head touched the pillow I tossed and turned for nearly three seconds.

  In the morning my custom is not to enter the office until after my half an hour in the kitchen with Fritz and food and the morning paper, but that Friday I went there first and opened the safe. Wolfe is not the man to dish out fifteen grand of anybody’s money without having a clear idea of what for, so it seemed likely that something might need attention at any moment, and when, a little after eight, Fritz came down from taking Wolfe’s breakfast tray up to him, I fully expected to be told that I was wanted on the second floor. Nothing doing. According to Fritz, my name hadn’t been mentioned. At the regular time, three minutes to nine, then at my desk in the office, I heard the sound of the elevator ascending. Apparently his sacred schedule, nine to eleven in the plant rooms, was not to be interrupted. He and Theodore were now handling the situation, no more outside help being needed.

  There was one little cheep from him. Shortly after nine the house phone buzzed. He asked if any of the boys had called and I said no, and he said that when they did I was to call them off. I asked if that included Fred, and he said yes, all of them. I asked if there were fresh instructions, and he said no, just tell them to quit.

  That was all for then. I spent two hours with the morning mail and the accumulation in my drawer. At 11:02 he entered, told me good morning as he always did no matter how much we had talked on the phone, got installed behind his desk, and inquired grumpily, “Is there anything you must ask me?”

  “Nothing I can’t hold, no, sir.”

  “Then I don’t want to be interrupted. By anyone.”

  “Yes, sir. Are you in pain?”

  “Yes. I know who killed Mr. Rony, and how and why.”

  “You do. Does it hurt?”

  “Yes.” He sighed deep. “It’s the very devil. When you know all you need to know about a murderer, what is ordinarily the easiest thing to prove?”

  “That’s a cinch. Motive.”

  He nodded. “But not here. I doubt if it can be done. You have known me, in the past, to devise a stratagem that entailed a hazard. Haven’t you?”

  “That’s understanding it. I have known you to take chances that have given me nightmares.”

  “They were nothing to this. I have devised a stratagem and spent fifteen thousand dollars on it. But if I can think of a better way I’m not going to risk it.” He sighed again, leaned back, closed his eyes, and muttered, “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  That was the last of him for more than nine hours. I don’t think he uttered more than eighty words between 11:09 in the morning and 8:20 in the evening. While he was in the office he sat with eyes closed, his lips pushing out and in from time to time, and his chest expanding every now and then, I would say five inches, with a deep sigh. At the table, during lunch and dinner, there was nothing wrong with his appetite, but he had nothing to offer in the way of conversation. At four o’clock he went up to the plant rooms for his customary two hours, but when I had occasion to ascend to check on a few items with Theodore, Wolfe was planted in his chair in the potting room, and Theodore spoke to me only in a whisper. I have never been able to get it into Theodore’s head that when Wolfe is concentrating on a business problem he wouldn’t hear us yelling right across his nose, so long as we don’t try to drag him into it.

  Of the eighty words he used during those nine hours, only nine of them—one to an hour—had to do with the stratagem he was working on. Shortly before dinner he muttered at me, “What time is Mr. Cohen free in the evening?”

  I told him a little before midnight.

  When, in the office after dinner, he once more settled back and shut his eyes, I thought my God, this is going to be Nero Wolfe’s last case. He’s going to spend the rest of his life at it. I had myself done a good day’s work and saw no sense in sitting on my fanny all evening listening to him breathe. Considering alternatives, and deciding for Phil’s and a few games of pool, I was just opening my mouth to announce my intention when Wolfe opened his.

  “Archie. Get Mr. Cohen down here as soon as possible. Ask him to bring a Gazette letterhead and envelope.”

  “Yes, sir. Is the ironing done?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see. Get him.”

  At last, I thought, we’re off. I di
aled the number, and after some waiting because that was a busy hour for a morning paper, got him.

  His voice came. “Archie? Buy me a drink?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “Tonight you stay sober. What time can you get here?”

  “Where is here?”

  “Nero Wolfe’s office. He thinks he wants to tell you something.”

  “Too late.” Lon was crisp. “If it will rate the Late City, tell me now.”

  “It’s not that kind. It hasn’t come to a boil. But it’s good enough so that instead of sending an errand boy, meaning me, he wants to see you himself, so when can you get here?”

  “I can send a man.”

  “No. You.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “Yes. Possibly.”

  “In about three hours. Not less, maybe more.”

  “Okay. Don’t stop for a drink, I’ll have one ready, and a sandwich. Oh yes, bring along a Gazette letterhead and envelope. We’ve run out of stationery.”

  “What is it, a gag?”

  “No, sir. Far from. It may even get you a raise.”

  I hung up and turned to Wolfe. “May I make a suggestion? If you want him tender and it’s worth a steak, I’ll tell Fritz to take one from the freezer and start it thawing.”

  He said to do so and I went to the kitchen and had a conference with Fritz. Then, back in the office, I sat and listened to Wolfe breathe some more. It went on for minutes that added up to an hour. Finally he opened his eyes, straightened up, and took from his pocket some folded papers which I recognized as sheets torn from his memo pad.

  “Your notebook, Archie,” he said like a man who has made up his mind.

  I got it from the drawer and uncapped my pen.

  “If this doesn’t work,” he growled at me, as if it were all my fault, “there will be no other recourse. I have tried to twist it so as to leave an alternative if it fails, but it can’t be done. We’ll either get him with this or not at all. On plain paper, double-spaced, two carbons.”

  “Heading or date?”

  “None.” He gazed, frowning, at the sheets he had taken from his pocket. “First paragraph: