by Rex Stout
Chapter 21
I never got to see the Albert Enright I had typed a letter to, because the associate that Mr. Harvey brought along was Mr. Stevens.
Having seen one or two high-ranking Commies in the flesh, and many published pictures of more than a dozen of them, I didn’t expect our callers to look like wart hogs or puff adders, but even so they surprised me a little, especially Stevens. He was middle-aged, skinny, and pale, with thin brown hair that should have been trimmed a week ago, and he wore rimless spectacles. If I had had a daughter in high school, Stevens was the guy I would have wanted her to ask for directions in a strange neighborhood after dark. I wouldn’t have gone so far with Harvey, who was younger and much huskier, with sharp greenish-brown eyes and a well-assembled face, but I certainly wouldn’t have singled him out as the Menace of the Month.
They didn’t want cocktails or any other liquid, and they didn’t sit back in their chairs and get comfortable. Harvey announced in his gruff bass, but still not rude, that they had an engagement for a quarter to seven.
“I’ll make it as brief as I can,” Wolfe assured them. He reached in the drawer and got one of the pictures and extended his hand. “Will you glance at this?”
They arose, and Harvey took the picture, and they looked at it. I thought that was carrying things a little too far. What was I, a worm? So when Harvey dropped it on the desk I stepped over and got an eye on it, and then handed it to Wolfe. Some day he’ll get so damn frolicsome that I’ll cramp his style sure as hell. I was now caught up.
Harvey and Stevens sat down again, without exchanging a glance. That struck me as being overcautious, but I suppose Commies, especially on the upper levels, get the habit early and it becomes automatic.
Wolfe asked pleasantly, “It’s an interesting face, isn’t it?”
Stevens stayed deadpan and didn’t speak.
“If you like that kind,” Harvey said. “Who is it?”
“That will only prolong it.” Wolfe was a little less pleasant. “If I had any doubt that you knew him, none was left after the mention of his name brought you here. Certainly you didn’t come because you were grieved to learn that I’m in a hole. If you deny that you know that man as William Reynolds you will have had your trip for nothing, and we can’t go on.”
“Let’s put it this way,” Stevens said softly. “Proceed hypothetically. If we say we do know him as William Reynolds, then what?”
Wolfe nodded approvingly. “That will do, I think. Then I talk. I tell you that when I met this man recently, for the first time, his name was not Reynolds. I assume you know his other name too, but since in his association with you and your colleagues he has been Reynolds, we’ll use that. When I met him, a little more than a week ago, I didn’t know he was a Communist; I learned that only yesterday.”
“How?” Harvey snapped.
Wolfe shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that out. In my years of work as a private detective I have formed many connections—the police, the press, all kinds of people. I will say this: I think Reynolds made a mistake. It’s only a conjecture, but a good one I think, that he became frightened. He apprehended a mortal peril—I was responsible for that—and he did something foolish. The peril was a charge of murder. He knew the charge could be brought only if it could be shown that he was a Communist, and he thought I knew it too, and he decided to guard against that by making it appear that while pretending to be a Communist he was actually an enemy of communism and wanted to help destroy it. As I say, that is only a conjecture. But—”
“Wait a minute.” Apparently Stevens never raised his voice, even when he was cutting in. “It hasn’t quite got to where you can prove a man committed murder just by proving he’s a Communist.” Stevens smiled, and, seeing what he regarded as a smile, I decided to have my daughter ask someone else for directions. “Has it?”
“No,” Wolfe conceded. “Rather the contrary. Communists are well advised to disapprove of private murders for private motives. But in this case that’s how it stood. Since we’re proceeding hypothetically, I may include in the hypothesis that you know about the death of a man named Louis Rony, run over by a car on the country estate of James U. Sperling, and that you know that William Reynolds was present. May I not?”
“Go on,” Harvey rumbled.
“So we don’t need to waste time on the facts that have been made public. The situation is this: I know that Mr. Reynolds murdered Mr. Rony. I want to have him arrested and charged. But to get him convicted it is essential to show that he is a member of the Communist party, because only if that is done can his motive be established. You’ll have to accept that statement as I give it; I’m not going to show you all my cards, for if I do so and you choose to support Mr. Reynolds I’ll be in a deeper hole than I am now.”
“We don’t support murderers,” Harvey declared virtuously.
Wolfe nodded. “I thought not. It would be not only blameworthy, but futile, to try to support this one. You understand that what I must prove is not that William Reynolds is a member of the Communist party; that can be done without much difficulty; but that this man who was at the scene of Mr. Rony’s death is that William Reynolds—whatever else he may be. I know of only two ways to accomplish that. One would be to arrest and charge Mr. Reynolds and put him on trial, lay the ground by showing that membership in the Communist party is relevant to his guilt, subpoena you and your associates—fifty of them, a hundred—as witnesses for the State, and put the question to you. ‘Is the defendant, or was he, a member of the Communist party?’ Those of you who know him, and who answer no, will be committing perjury. Will all of you risk it—not most of you, but all of you? Would it be worth such a risk, to protect a man who murdered as a private enterprise? I doubt it. If you do risk it, I think we can catch you up. I shall certainly try, and my heart will be in it.”
“We don’t scare easy,” Harvey stated.
“What’s the other way?” Stevens asked.
“Much simpler for everybody.” Wolfe picked up the photograph. “You write your names across this. I paste it on a sheet of paper. Below it you write, ‘The man in the above photograph, on which we have written our names, is William Reynolds, whom we know to be a member of the Communist Party of the USA.’ You both sign it. That’s all.”
For the first time they swapped glances.
“It’s still a hypothesis,” Stevens said. “As such, we’ll be glad to think it over.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow or next day.”
“I don’t like it.”
“The hell you don’t.” Harvey’s manners were showing. “Do you have to?”
“I suppose not.” Wolfe was regretful. “But I don’t like to leave a man around loose when I know he’s a murderer. If we do it the simple way, and do it now, we’ll have him locked up before midnight. If we postpone it—” Wolfe shrugged. “I don’t know what he’ll be doing—possibly nothing that will block us—”
I had to keep a grin back. He might as well have asked them if they wanted to give Reynolds a day or two to do some more articles for the Gazette, because of course that was where he had them. Knowing that was in their minds, I tried to find some sign of it, any sign at all, in their faces, but they were old hands. They might have been merely a couple of guys looking over a hypothesis and not liking it much.
Stevens spoke, in the same soft voice. “Go ahead and arrest him. If you don’t get it the simple way you can try the other one.”
“No, sir,” Wolfe said emphatically. “Without your statement it won’t be easy to get him charged. It can be done, but not just by snapping my fingers.”
“You said,” Harvey objected, “that if we sign that thing that will be all, but it won’t. We’d have to testify at the trial.”
“Probably,” Wolfe conceded. “But only you two, as friendly witnesses for the prosecution, helping to get a murderer punished. The other way it will be you two and many more, and, if you answer in
the negative, you will be shielding a murderer merely because he is a fellow Communist, which will not raise you in public esteem—in addition to risking perjury.”
Stevens stood up. “We’ll let you know in half an hour, maybe less.”
“Good. The front room is soundproofed, or you can go upstairs.”
“There’s more room outdoors. Come on, Jerry.”
Stevens led the way. I went to the front to let them out and then returned to the office. What I saw, reentering, gave me an excuse to use the grin I had squelched. Wolfe had opened a drawer and got out a sheet of paper and the tube of paste.
“Before they’re hatched?” I inquired.
“Bah. The screw is down hard.”
“Taking candy from a baby,” I admitted. “Though I must say they’re no babies, especially Stevens.”
Wolfe grunted. “He’s third from the top in the American Communist hierarchy.”
“He doesn’t look it but he acts it. I noticed they didn’t even ask what evidence you’ve got that Reynolds did the killing, because they don’t give a damn. All they want is to get the articles stopped and him burned. What I don’t get, why did they just swallow the letter from a friend? Why didn’t they give Reynolds a chance to answer a question?”
“They don’t give chances.” Wolfe was scornful. “Could he have proved the letter was a lie? How? Could he have explained the photograph of his membership card? He could only have denied it, and they wouldn’t have believed him. They trust no one, especially not one another, and I don’t blame them. I suppose I shouldn’t put paste on this thing until they have written their names on it.”
I wasn’t quite as cocksure as he seemed to be. I thought they might have to take it to a meeting, and that couldn’t be done in half an hour. But apparently he knew more than I did about Stevens’s rank and authority. I had let them out at 6:34, and at 6:52 the bell rang and I went to let them in again. Only eighteen minutes, but the nearest phone booth was only half a block away.
They didn’t sit. Harvey stood gazing at me as if there were something about me he didn’t like, and Stevens advanced to the end of Wolfe’s desk and announced, “We don’t like the wording. We want it to read this way:
“As loyal American citizens, devoted to the public welfare and the ideals of true democracy, we believe that all lawbreakers should be punished, regardless of their political affiliations. Therefore, in the interest of justice, we have written our names on the above photograph, and we hereby attest that the man in that photograph is known to us as William Reynolds, and that to our knowledge he has been for eight years, until today, a member of the Communist Party of the USA. Upon learning that he was to be charged with murder, the Communist Party’s Executive Committee immediately expelled him.”
My opinion of Stevens went up a notch, technically. With nothing to refer to, not even a cuff, he rattled that off as if he had known it by heart for years.
Wolfe lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “If you like it better with all that folderol. Do you want Mr. Goodwin to type it, or will you write it by hand?”
I was just as well pleased that he preferred to use his pen. It would have been an honor to type such a patriotic paragraph, but I wouldn’t put anything beneath a Commie, and what if one of them happened to take a notion to pull the letter from a friend out of his pocket and compare the typing? Even with the naked eye it would have been easy to spot the n slightly off line and the faint defect in the w. So I gladly let Stevens sit at my desk to write it. He did so, and signed it, and wrote his name on the picture. Then Harvey did likewise. Wolfe and I signed as witnesses, after Wolfe had read it over. Having the tube of paste at hand, as I have said, he proceeded to attach the photograph to the top of the sheet.
“May I see it a moment?” Stevens asked.
Wolfe handed it to him.
“There’s a point,” Stevens said. “We can’t let you have this without some kind of guarantee that Reynolds will be locked up tonight. You said before midnight.”
“That’s right. He will be.”
“You can have this as soon as he is.”
I knew damn well they’d have a monkey wrench. If it had been something not tearable, a stone for instance, I would simply have liberated it, and Harvey could have joined in if he felt like it.
“Then he won’t be,” Wolfe said, not upset.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s the key I’m going to lock him in with. Otherwise, would I have gone to all this trouble to get it? Nonsense. I’m about to invite some people to come here this evening, but not unless I have that document. Please don’t crumple it.”
“Will Reynolds be here?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll come and bring this with us.”
Wolfe shook his head. “You don’t seem to listen to me. That paper stays here, or you’re out of it until you get a subpoena. Give it to me, and I’ll be glad to have you and Mr. Harvey come this evening. That’s an excellent idea. You will be excluded from part of it, but you can be comfortable in the front room. Why don’t you do that?”
That was the way it was finally compromised. They were plenty stubborn but, as Wolfe had said, the screw was down hard. They didn’t know what Reynolds might spill in the next article, and they wanted him nailed quick, and Wolfe stood pat that he wouldn’t move without the document. So he got it. It was arranged that they would return around ten o’clock and would stay put in the front room until invited to join the party.
When they had gone Wolfe put the document in his middle drawer.
“We’re overstocked on photographs,” I remarked. “So that’s why Mr. Jones didn’t need to load up. He knew him and one look was all he needed. Huh?”
“Dinner’s waiting.”
“Yes, sir. It would be a funny coincidence if Harvey or Stevens happened to be Mr. Jones. Wouldn’t it?”
“No. You can find coincidence in the dictionary. Get Mr. Archer on the phone.”
“Now? Dinner’s waiting.”
“Get him.”
That wasn’t so simple. At my first try, the District Attorney’s office in White Plains, someone answered but couldn’t help me any. I then got Archer’s home and was told that he was out for the evening, but I wasn’t to know where, and I had to press even to sell the idea that he should be informed immediately that Nero Wolfe wanted him to call. I hung up and settled back to wait for anything from five minutes to an hour. Wolfe was sitting up straight, frowning, with his lips tight; a meal was spoiling. After a while the sight of him was getting on my nerves, and I was about to suggest that we move to the dining room and start, when the phone rang. It was Archer.
“What is it?” He was crisp and indignant.
Wolfe said he needed his advice.
“What about? I’m dining with friends. Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, sir. I’ve got the murderer of Louis Rony, with evidence to convict, and I want to get rid of him.”
“The murderer—” A short silence. Then, “I don’t believe it!”
“Of course you don’t, but it’s true. He’ll be at my office this evening. I want your advice on how to handle it. I can ask Inspector Cramer of the New York Police to send men to take him into custody, or I can—”
“No! Now listen, Wolfe—”
“No, listen to me. If your dinner is waiting, so is mine. I would prefer that you take him, for two reasons. First, he belongs to you. Second, I would like to clean it up this evening, and in order to do that the matter of Mr. Kane’s statement will have to be disposed of. That will require the presence not only of Mr. Sperling and Mr. Kane, but also of the others who were there the evening Mr. Rony was killed. If you come or send someone, they’ll have to come too. All of them, if possible; under the circumstances I don’t think they’ll be reluctant. Can you have them here by ten o’clock?”
“But my God, this is incredible! I need a minute to think—”
“You’ve had a week to think but pref
erred to let me do it for you. I have, and acted. Can you have them here by ten o’clock?”
“I don’t know, damn it! You fire this at me point-blank!”
“Would you rather have had me hold it a day or two? I’ll expect you at ten, or as close to that as you can make it. If you don’t bring them along you won’t get in; after all, in this jurisdiction you’re merely visitors. If ends have to be left dangling I’ll let the New York Police have him.”
Wolfe and I hung up. He pushed his chair back and arose.
“You can’t dawdle over your dinner, Archie. If we’re to keep our promise to Mr. Cohen, and we must, you’ll have to go to see him.”
Chapter 22
As I understand it, the Commies think that they get too little and capitalists get too much of the good things in life. They sure played hell with that theory that Tuesday evening. A table in the office was loaded with liquids, cheese, nuts, homemade pâté, and crackers, and not a drop or a crumb was taken by any of the thirteen people there, including Wolfe and me. On a table in the front room there was a similar assortment in smaller quantities, and Harvey and Stevens, just two of them, practically cleaned it up. If I had noticed it before the Commies left I would have called it to their attention. I admit they had more time, having arrived first, at ten sharp, and also they had nothing to do most of the evening but sit and wait.
I don’t think I have ever seen the office more crowded, unless it was at the meeting of the League of Frightened Men. Either Archer had thought pressure was called for or Wolfe had been correct in assuming that none of the Stony Acres bunch would be reluctant about coming, for they were all there. I had let them choose seats as they pleased, and the three Sperling women—Mom, Madeline, and Gwenn—were on the big yellow couch in the corner, which meant that my back was to them when I faced Wolfe. Paul and Connie Emerson were on chairs side by side over by the globe, and Jimmy Sperling was seated near them. Webster Kane and Sperling were closer to Wolfe’s desk. District Attorney Archer was in the red leather chair; I had put him there because I thought he rated it. What made it thirteen was the fact that two dicks were present: Ben Dykes, brought by Archer, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide, who had informed me that Westchester had invited him. Purley, my old friend and even older enemy, sat over by the door.
