by Rex Stout
“At eight o’clock in the evening of August 19, 1948, twenty men were gathered in a living room on the ninth floor of an apartment house on East 84th Street, Manhattan. All of them were high in the councils of the American Communist party, and this meeting was one of a series to decide strategy and tactics for controlling the election campaign of the Progressive party and its candidate for President of the United States, Henry Wallace. One of them, a tall lanky man with a clipped brown mustache, was saying:
“‘We must never forget that we can’t trust Wallace. We can’t trust either his character or his intelligence. We can count on his vanity, that’s all right, but while we’re playing him up we must remember that any minute he might pull something that will bring an order from Policy to let go of him.’
“‘Policy’ is the word the top American Communists use when they mean Moscow or the Kremlin. It may be a precaution, though it’s hard to see why they need one when they are in secret session, or it may be merely their habit of calling nothing by its right name.
“Another of them, a beefy man with a bald head and a pudgy face, spoke up:”
Wolfe, referring frequently to the sheets he had taken from his pocket, kept on until I had filled thirty-two pages of my notebook, then stopped, sat a while with his lips puckered, and told me to type it. I did so, double spacing as instructed. As I finished a page I handed it over to him and he went to work on it with a pencil. He rarely made changes in anything he had dictated and I had typed, but apparently he regarded this as something extra special. I fully agreed with him. That stuff, getting warmer as it went along, contained dozens of details that nobody lower than a Deputy Commissar had any right to know about—provided they were true. That was a point I would have liked to ask Wolfe about, but if the job was supposed to be finished when Lon Cohen arrived there was no time to spare, so I postponed it.
I had the last page out of the typewriter, but Wolfe was still fussing with it, when the bell rang and I went to the front and let Lon in.
Lon had been rank and file, or maybe only rank, when I first met him, but was now second in command at the Gazette’s city desk. As far as I knew his elevation had gone to his head only in one little way: he kept a hairbrush in his desk, and every night when he was through, before making a dash for the refreshment counter he favored, he brushed his hair good. Except for that there wasn’t a thing wrong with him.
He shook hands with Wolfe and turned on me.
“You crook, you told me if I didn’t stop—oh, here it is. Hello, Fritz. You’re the only one here I can trust.” He lifted the highball from the tray, nodded at Wolfe, swallowed a third of it, and sat in the red leather chair.
“I brought the stationery,” he announced. “Three sheets. You can have it and welcome if you’ll give me a first on how someone named Sperling willfully and deliberately did one Louis Rony to death.”
“That,” Wolfe said, “is precisely what I have to offer.”
Lon’s head jerked up. “Someone named Sperling?” he snapped.
“No. I shouldn’t have said ‘precisely.’ The name will have to wait. But the rest of it, yes.”
“Damn it, it’s midnight! You can’t expect—”
“Not tonight. Nor tomorrow. But if and when I have it, you’ll get it first.”
Lon looked at him. He had entered the room loose and carefree and thirsty, but now he was back at work again. An exclusive on the murder of Louis Rony was nothing to relax about.
“For that,” he said, “you’d want more than three letterheads, even with envelopes. What if I throw in postage stamps?”
Wolfe nodded. “That would be generous. But I have something else to offer. How would you like to have, for your paper only, a series of articles, authenticated for you, describing secret meetings of the group that controls the American Communist party, giving the details of discussions and decisions?”
Lon cocked his head to one side. “All you need,” he declared, “is long white whiskers and a red suit.”
“No, I’m too fat. Would that interest you?”
“It ought to. Who would do the authenticating?”
“I would.”
“You mean with your by-line?”
“Good heavens, no. The articles would be anonymous. But I would give my warranty, in writing if desired, that the source of information is competent and reliable.”
“Who would have to be paid and how much?”
“No one. Nothing.”
“Hell, you don’t even need whiskers. What would the details be like?”
Wolfe turned. “Let him read it, Archie.”
I took Lon the original copy of what I had typed, and he put his glass down on the table at his elbow, to have two hands. There were seven pages. He started reading fast, then went slower, and when he reached the end returned to the first page and reread it. Meanwhile I refilled his glass and, knowing that Fritz was busy, went to the kitchen for beer for Wolfe. Also I thought I could stand a highball myself, and supplied one.
Lon put the sheets on the table, saw that his glass had been attended to, and helped himself.
“It’s hot,” he admitted.
“Fit to print, I think,” Wolfe said modestly.
“Sure it is. How about libel?”
“There is none. There will be none. No names or addresses are used.”
“Yeah, I know, but an action might be brought anyhow. Your source would have to be available for testimony.”
“No, sir.” Wolfe was emphatic. “My source is covered and will stay covered. You may have my warranty, and a bond for libel damages if you want it, but that’s all.”
“Well—” Lon drank. “I love it. But I’ve got bosses, and on a thing like this they would have to decide. Tomorrow is Friday, and they—good God, what’s this? Don’t tell me—Archie, come and look!”
I had to go anyway, to remove the papers so Fritz could put the tray on the table. It was really a handsome platter. The steak was thick and brown with charcoal braid, the grilled slices of sweet potato and sautéed mushrooms were just right, the watercress was high at one end out of danger, and the overall smell made me wish I had asked Fritz to make a carbon.
“Now I know,” Lon said, “it’s all a dream. Archie, I would have sworn you phoned me to come down here. Okay, I’ll dream on.” He sliced through the steak, letting the juice come, cut off a bite, and opened wide for it. Next came a bite of sweet potato, followed by a mushroom. I watched him the way I have seen dogs watch when they’re allowed near the table. It was too much. I went to the kitchen, came back with two slices of bread on a plate, and thrust it at him.
“Come on, brother, divvy. You can’t eat three pounds of steak.”
“It’s under two pounds.”
“Like hell it is. Fix me up.”
After all he was a guest, so he had to give in.
When he left a while later the platter was clean except for the bone, the level in the bottle of Scotch was down another three inches, the letterheads and envelopes were in my desk drawer, and the arrangement was all set, pending an okay by the Gazette high brass. Since the weekend was nearly on us, getting the okay might hold it up, but Lon thought there was a fair chance for Saturday and a good one for Sunday. The big drawback, in his opinion, was the fact that Wolfe would give no guarantee of the life of the series. He gave a firm promise for two articles, and said a third was likely, but that was as far as he would commit himself. Lon tried to get him to sign up for a minimum of six, but nothing doing.
Alone with Wolfe again, I gave him a look.
“Quit staring,” he said gruffly.
“I beg your pardon. I was figuring something. Two pieces of two thousand words each, four thousand words. Fifteen thousand—that comes to three seventy-five a word. And he doesn’t even write the pieces. If you’re going to ghost—”
“It’s bedtime.”
“Yes, sir. Besides writing the second piece, what comes next?”
“Nothing. We sit and wait.
Confound it, if this doesn’t work …”
He told me good night and marched out to the elevator.
Chapter 20
The next day, Friday, two more articles got dictated, typed, and revised. The second one was delivered to Lon Cohen and the third one was locked in our safe. They carried the story through Election Day up to the end of the year, and while they had no names or addresses they had about everything else. I even got interested in them myself, and was wondering what was going to come next.
Lon’s bosses were glad to get them on Wolfe’s terms, including the surety protection against libel suits, but decided not to start them until Sunday. They gave them a three-column play on the front page:
HOW THE AMERICAN COMMUNISTS PLAY IT
THE RED ARMY IN THE COLD WAR
THEIR GHQ IN THE USA
There was a preface in italics:
The Gazette presents herewith the first of a series of articles showing how American Communists help Russia fight the cold war and get ready for the hot one if and when it comes. This is the real thing. For obvious reasons the name of the author of the articles cannot be given, but the Gazette has a satisfactory guaranty of their authenticity. We hope to continue the series up to the most recent activities of the Reds, including their secret meetings before, during, and after the famous trial in New York. The second article will appear tomorrow. Don’t miss it!
Then it started off just as Wolfe had dictated it.
I am perfectly willing to hold out on you so as to tell it in a way that will give Wolfe’s stratagem the best possible build-up, as you may know by this time, but I am now giving you everything I myself had at the time. That goes for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday up to 8:30 P.M. You know all that I knew, or you will when I add that the third article was revised Sunday and delivered to Lon Monday noon for Tuesday’s paper, that Weinbach’s final report on the stone verified the first one, that nothing else was accomplished or even attempted, and that during those four days Wolfe was touchier than I had ever known him to be for so long a period. I had no idea what he expected to gain by becoming a ghost writer for Mr. Jones and telling the Commies’ family secrets.
I admit I tried to catch up. For instance, when he was up in the plant rooms Friday morning I did a thorough check of the photographs in his desk drawer, but they were all there. Not one gone. I made a couple of other well-intentioned efforts to get a line on his script, and not a glimmer. By Monday I was grabbing the mail each time a delivery came for a quick look, and hoping it was a telegram whenever the doorbell rang, and answering the phone in a hurry, because I had decided that the articles were just a gob of bait on a hook and we were merely sitting on the bank, hoping against hope for a bite. But if the bite was expected in the form of a letter or telegram or phone call, no fish.
Then Monday evening, in the office right after dinner, Wolfe handed me a sheet from his memo pad covered with his handwriting, and asked, “Can you read that, Archie?”
The question was rhetorical, since his writing is almost as easy to read as print. I read it and told him, “Yes, sir, I can make it out.”
“Type it on a Gazette letterhead, including the signature as indicated. Then I want to look at it. Address a Gazette envelope to Mr. Albert Enright, Communist Party of the USA, Thirty-five East Twelfth Street. One carbon, single-space.”
“With a mistake or two, maybe?”
“Not necessarily. You are not the only one in New York who can type well.”
I pulled the machine around, got the paper out and put it in, and hit the keys. When I took it out I read it over:
June 27, 1949.
Dear Mr. Enright:
I send this to you because I met you once and have heard you speak at meetings twice. You wouldn’t know me if you saw me, and you wouldn’t know my name.
I work at the Gazette. Of course you have seen the series that started on Sunday. I am not a Communist, but I approve of many things they stand for and I think they are getting a raw deal, and anyway I don’t like traitors, and the man who is giving the Gazette the material for those articles is certainly a traitor. I think you have a right to know who he is. I have never seen him and I don’t think he has ever come to the office, but I know the man here who is working with him on the articles, and I had a chance to get something which I believe will help you, and I am enclosing it in this letter. I have reason to know that it was in the folder that was sent to one of the executives to show him that the articles are authentic. If I told you more than that it might give you a hint of my identity, and I don’t want you to know who I am.
More power to you in your fight with the imperialists and monopolists and warmakers.
A Friend.
I got up to hand it to Wolfe and returned to the typewriter to address the envelope. And, though I had done the whole letter without an error, on the envelope I fumbled and spelled Communist “Counimmst,” and had to take another one. It didn’t irritate me because I knew why: I was excited. In a moment I would know which photograph was going to be enclosed in that letter, unless the big bum dealt me out.
He didn’t, but he might as well have. He opened his drawer and dug, held one out to me, and said, “That’s the enclosure. Mail it where it will be collected tonight.”
It was the picture, the best one, of the Communist party membership card of William Reynolds, Number 128–394. I withered him with a look, put the letter and picture in the envelope, sealed it and put a stamp on it, and left the house. In my frame of mind I thought a little air wouldn’t hurt me any, so I walked to the Times Square Station.
I expected nothing more from Wolfe that evening, and that was what I got. We went to bed fairly early. Up in my room undressing, I was still trying to map it, having been unable to sketch one I would settle for. The main stratagem was now plain enough, but what was the follow up? Were we going to start sitting and waiting again? In that case, how was William Reynolds going to be given another name, and when and why and by whom? Under the sheet, I chased it out of my mind in order to get some sleep.
The next day, Tuesday, until noon and a little after, it looked like more sitting and waiting. It wasn’t too dull, on account of the phone. The third article was in that morning’s Gazette, and they were wild for more. My instructions were to stall. Lon called twice before ten o’clock, and after that it was practically chain phoning: city editor, managing editor, executive editor, publisher, everybody. They wanted it so bad that I had a notion to write one myself and peddle it for fifteen thousand bucks flat. By noon there would have been nothing to it.
When the phone rang again a little before lunchtime I took it for granted it was one of them, so instead of using my formula I merely said, “Yep?”
“Is this Nero Wolfe’s office?” It was a voice I had never heard, a sort of an artificial squeak.
“Yes. Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“Is Mr. Wolfe there?”
“Yes. He’s engaged. Who is it, please?”
“Just tell him rectangle.”
“Spell it, please?”
“R-e-c-t-a-n-g-l-e, rectangle. Tell him immediately. He’ll want to know.”
The connection went. I hung up and turned to Wolfe.
“Rectangle.”
“What?”
“That’s what he said, or rather squeaked. Just to tell you rectangle.”
“Ah.” Wolfe sat up and his eyes came clear open. “Get the national office of the Communist party, Algonquin four two two one five. I want Mr. Harvey or Mr. Stevens. Either one.”
I swiveled and dialed. In a moment a pleasant feminine voice was in my ear. Its being pleasant was a shock, and also I was a little self-conscious, conversing for the first time with a female Commie, so I said, “My name’s Goodwin, comrade. Is Mr. Harvey there? Mr. Nero Wolfe would like to speak to him.”
“You say Nero Wolfe?”
“Yes. A detective.”
“I’ve heard the name. I’ll see. Hold the wire.”
I wai
ted. Accustomed to holding the wire while a switchboard girl or secretary saw, I leaned back and got comfortable, but it wasn’t long before a man told me he was Harvey. I signaled to Wolfe and stayed on myself.
“How do you do, sir,” Wolfe said politely. “I’m in a hole and you can help me if you want to. Will you call at my office at six o’clock today with one of your associates? Perhaps Mr. Stevens or Mr. Enright, if one of them is available.”
“What makes you think we can help you out of a hole?” Harvey asked, not rudely. He had a middle bass, a little gruff.
“I’m pretty sure you can. At least I would like to ask your advice. It concerns a man whom you know by the name of William Reynolds. He is involved in a case I’m working on, and the matter has become urgent. That’s why I would like to see you as soon as possible. There isn’t much time.”
“What makes you think I know a man named William Reynolds?”
“Oh, come, Mr. Harvey. After you hear what I have to say you may of course deny that you know him if that’s the way you want it. This can’t be done on the telephone, or shouldn’t be.”
“Hold the wire.”
That wait was longer. Wolfe sat patiently with the receiver at his ear, and I did likewise. In three or four minutes he started to frown, and by the time Harvey’s voice came again he was tapping the arm of his chair with a forefinger.
“If we come,” Harvey asked, “who will be there?”
“You will, of course, and I will. And Mr. Goodwin, my assistant.”
“Nobody else?”
“No, sir.”
“All right. We’ll be there at six o’clock.”
I hung up and asked Wolfe, “Does Mr. Jones always talk with that funny squeak? And did ‘rectangle’ mean merely that the letter from a friend had been received? Or something more, such as which commissars had read it?”
