by Rex Stout
"No. But you haven't. May I ask, do you dance?"
"Sometimes."
"I'd know more about you if you danced with me. I don't mean about the possibility that you're playing with the FBI. If they had you, right here in the house, they wouldn't be dogging her and the whole family. The only reason I-"
The client showed at the door. I hadn't heard her footsteps. That was bad. Miss Dacos was attractive, but not enough to keep me from hearing footsteps, even though I was talking. That could only mean that my opinion of the job wouldn't let me get fully on it, all of me, and that wouldn't do. As I went and followed the client to the front my jaw was set. The man in black opened the door, and I got the vestibule door, and we were out in the January wind. We headed east, toward Park Avenue, and stopped at the corner.
"We can talk better standing," I said. "First, our getting you in a hurry if we have to. There's absolutely no telling what's going to happen. It's even possible that Mr Wolfe and I will have to leave his house and hole up somewhere. If you get a message, by phone or otherwise, no matter how, that the pizza is sour, go at once to the Churchill Hotel and find a man named William Coffey. He's a house dick there-an assistant security officer. You can do that openly. He'll have something for you, either to tell you or give you. Pizza is sour. Churchill Hotel, William Coffey. Remember it. Don't write it down."
"I won't." She was frowning. "I suppose you're sure you can trust him?"
"Yes. If you knew Mr Wolfe better, and me, you wouldn't ask that. Have you got it?"
"Yes." She pulled the collar of her coat, not the sable, something else, closer.
"Okay. Now your getting us if you have to, for something not to be spilled. Go to a phone booth and ring Mr Wolfe's number and tell whoever answers that Fido is sick, just that, and hang up. Wait two hours and go to the Churchill and William Coffey. Of course this is just for something they are not to know. For anything they have done or already know about, just ring us. Fido is sick."
She was still frowning. "But they'll know about William Coffey after the first time if I go to him openly."
"We may use him only once. Leave that to us. Actually, Mrs Bruner, you're more or less out of it now, the operation. We'll be working for you, but not on you or about you. We probably won't need to make contact with you at all. All this is just a precaution in case. But there's something we ought to know now. You said you came to Mr Wolfe and gave him that six-figure check merely because you're being annoyed. Of course you're a very wealthy woman, but that's hard to believe. It's a good guess that there's something buried somewhere-about you or yours-that you don't want dug up, and you're afraid they will. If that's so we ought to know it-not what it is, but how urgent it is. Are they getting close?"
A gust of wind slapped her and she bent her head and hunched a shoulder. "No," she said, but the wind swept it away and she said it louder. "No."
"But of course they might."
Her eyes were focused on me, but the wind made it a squint. "We won't discuss that, Mr Goodwin," she said. "I suppose every family has its… something. Perhaps I didn't consider that risk enough when I sent those books, but I did it, and I don't regret it. They're not 'getting close' to anything, as far as I know. Not yet."
"That's all you want to say about it?"
"Yes."
"Okay. If and when you want to say more you know what to do. What is sour?"
"The pizza."
"Who is sick?"
"Fido."
"What's his name?"
"William Coffey. At the Churchill."
"Good enough. You'd better get back in, your ears are red. I'll probably see you again some day, but God knows when."
She touched my arm. "What are you going to do?"
"Look around. Buzz. Pry."
She was going to say something, decided not to, and turned and went. I stood until she reached her door and went in, then headed west. There was no point in casing areaways or windows, but I gave the parked cars a glance as I passed, and a little this side of Madison Avenue there was one with two men in the front seat. I stopped. They weren't looking at me, the way they are trained not to look in Washington. I backed up a couple of steps, got my notebook out, and jotted down the license number. If they wanted it open, why not? They still not-looked, and I went on.
Turning down Madison, I didn't bother about spotting a tail, since I had made arrangements on the phone, from a booth the night before, with a hackie I knew, Al Goller. My watch said 11:35, so I had plenty of time and stopped here and there on the way to look in shop windows. At the corner of Sixty-fifth Street I entered a drugstore with a lunch counter, mounted a stool near the front, and ordered a corned-beef sandwich on rye and a glass of milk. There is never any corned beef or rye bread at Wolfe's table. When that was down I requested a piece of apple pie and coffee. At 12:27 I finished the second cup and twisted around on the stool to look through the window. At 12:31 a brown and yellow taxi rolled to a stop out in front, and I moved, fast-almost not fast enough because a woman was making for the door. I beat her to it and climbed in, and Al pushed the OFF DUTY sign up, and the flag, and we were off.
"Not the cops, I hope," Al said over his shoulder.
"Nope," I said. "Arabs on camels. Turn corners awhile. A very slim chance, but I need to be loose. Excuse my back." I turned around on the seat to watch the rear. Six turns and ten minutes later there was no question about being clear and I told him First Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street. There I gave him a sawbuck and told him to sit twenty minutes and then shove off if I didn't show. A finif would have been enough, but the client could afford it, and we would probably need Al again. Again and again. I walked a block and a half south, entered a building that hadn't been there three years back, consulted the directory on the wall of the lobby, learned that Evers Electronics, Inc., was on the eighth floor, and took the elevator.
They had the whole floor; the receptionist's desk was right there when I left the elevator, and at it was not the regulation female but a broad-shouldered husky with a square chin and unfriendly eyes. I crossed to him and said, "Mr Adrian Evers, please. My name is Archie Goodwin."
He didn't believe it. He wouldn't have believed it if I had said today is January sixth. He asked, "You have an appointment?"
"No. I work for Nero Wolfe, the private investigator. I have some information for Mr Evers."
He didn't believe that either. "You say Nero Wolfe?"
"I do. Got a Bible?"
Not bothering to resent it, he got at a phone and did some talking and listening, hung up, told me, "Wait here," and cocked his head at me. He was probably deciding how much of a job it would be to take me. To show him I wasn't fazed I turned my back and went to inspect a picture on the wall, a photograph of a sprawling two-story building with the inscription EVERS ELECTRONICS DAYTON PLANT. I had about finished counting the windows when a door opened to admit a woman who pronounced my name and told me to come, and I followed her down a hall and around a corner to a door that had MR EVERS on it. She opened it and I entered, but she didn't.
He was at a desk between two windows, taking a bite from a sandwich. Two steps in I stopped and said, "But I don't want to butt in on your lunch."
He chewed the bite, sizing me up through his rimless cheaters. His neat little face was the kind that doesn't register unless you make a point of it. When the bite was down he took a sip of coffee from a paper cup and said, "Someone always butts in. What's this about Nero Wolfe and information? What kind of information?" He took a bite of the sandwich, lox on white toast.
I went to a chair near the end of his desk and sat. "You may already have it," I said. "It's in connection with a government contract."
He chewed and swallowed and asked, "Is Nero Wolfe working for the government?"
"No. He's working for a private client. The client is interested in the fact that after a security check of an officer of your company the government has canceled a contract, or is about to. That's a matter of public interest, an
d-"
"Who is the client?"
"I can't name him. It's confidential, and-"
"Is it anyone connected with this company?"
"No. Not in any way. As I was saying, Mr Evers, the public interest is involved, you realize that. If the right to make security checks is being abused so that the personal or property rights of citizens are being violated, that isn't just a private matter. Mr Wolfe's client is concerned with that aspect of it. Anything you tell me will be strictly confidential and will be used only with your permission. Naturally you don't want to lose your contract, we understand it's a big one, but also as a citizen you don't want to see any injustice done. From the standpoint of Mr Wolfe's client, that's the issue.
He had put the sandwich down, what was left of it, and was eying me. "You said you had information. What?"
"Well, we thought it possible that you didn't know that the contract is going to be canceled."
"A hundred people know that. What else?"
"Apparently the reason for the cancelation is that the security check on your senior vice-president uncovered certain facts about his personal life. That raises two questions: how accurate are the so-called facts, and do they actually make him or your company a security risk? Is he, and are you, getting a raw deal?"
"What else?"
"That's it. I should think that's enough, Mr Evers. If you don't want to discuss it with me, discuss it with Mr Wolfe himself. If you don't know about his standing and reputation, check on it. He told me to make it clear that if you get any benefit from anything he does he would expect no payment of any kind. He isn't looking for a client; he has one."
He was frowning at me. "I don't get it. The client-is it a newspaper?"
"No."
"A magazine? Time?"
"No." I decided to stretch my instructions a little. "I can only tell you it's a private citizen who thinks the FBI is getting too big for its britches."
"I don't believe it. And I damn well don't like it." He pushed a button on a slab. "Are you FBI?"
I said no and was going on, but the door opened and a woman was there, the one who had led me in, and Evers snapped at her, "See this man out, Miss Bailey. Into the elevator."
I objected. I said that if he discussed it with Nero Wolfe the worst that could happen would be losing his contract, and evidently it was lost anyway, and if there was any chance of saving it- But the look on his face showed me it was no good, as he reached for the slab to push another button. No sale and no hope for one. I got up and walked out, with the woman tagging, and found, out in the ante-room, that it just wasn't my day. As I entered, the elevator door opened and a man came out, and it wasn't a stranger. Working on a case about a year ago I had had dealings with a G-man named Morrison, and there he was. Our eyes met, and then we met. As he offered a hand he spoke. "Well, well. Is Nero Wolfe using electronics now?"
I gave him a friendly grip and a grin. "Oh," I said, "we try to keep up. We're going to bug a certain building on Sixty-ninth Street." I stepped to the elevator and pushed the button. "I'm getting the latest angles."
He laughed to be polite and said he guessed they'd have to do all their talking in code. The elevator door opened, and I entered and the door slid shut. It certainly wasn't my day. Not that it mattered much, since I had got nowhere with Evers, but it's always bad to have the breaks going wrong, and God knows if we ever needed the breaks we did then. I was walking on hard pavement, not air, as I emerged to the sidewalk and turned uptown.
It had been more than twenty minutes, and Al had gone. There are plenty of taxis on First Avenue at that hour, and I flagged one and gave the backie an address.
4
At a quarter to eleven that Wednesday night, pessimistic and pooped, I mounted the stoop of the old brownstone and pushed the button. With the chain bolt on I had to be let in. When Fritz came he asked if I wanted some warmed-up curried duck, and I growled the no. I shed my hat and coat and went to the office, and there was the oversized genius at his desk, in the chair made to order for his seventh of a ton, with a bottle of beer and a glass on the tray, comfortably reading his current book, The Treasure of Our Tongue, by Lincoln Barnett. I went to my desk and whirled my chair and sat. He would look up when he finished a paragraph.
He did. He even inserted his bookmark, a thin strip of gold given him years before by a client who couldn't afford it, and put the book down. "You have dined, of course," he said.
"Dined, no." I crossed my legs. "Excuse me for waving my legs around. I ate something greasy, I forget what, in a dump in the Bronx. It has been-"
"Fritz will warm the duck, and-"
"No he won't. I told him not to. It has been by far the lousiest day I have ever had and I'll finish it up right. I'll report in full and go to bed tasting grease. First, the-"
"Confound it, you must eat!"
"I say no. First, the client."
I gave it to him verbatim, and the action, including the two men in the parked car of which I had the license number. At the end I added some opinions: that [a] it would be wasting a dime to bother to check the license number, [b] Sarah Dacos could probably be crossed off, or at least filed for future reference, and [c] whatever dirt there might be under cover in the Bruner family, the lid was still on as far as the client knew. When I got up to hand him the paper Mrs Bruner had signed he merely glanced at it and said to put it in the safe.
I also gave him the Evers thing verbatim, of course including Morrison. My only opinion on that was that I hadn't handled it right, that I should have told him we had secret information he didn't have and couldn't get, and we might be able to put on pressure that would save his contract, and if we did we would expect to be paid. Of course it would have been risky, but it might have opened him up. Wolfe shook his head and said it would have made us too vulnerable. I rose and circled around his desk to the stand that held the dictionary, opened it and found what I wanted, and returned to my chair.
"Capable of being wounded," I said. "Liable to attack or injury. That's what 'vulnerable' means. It would be quite a trick to get any more vulnerable than we are now. But to finish the day. It took me all afternoon to run down Ernst Muller, who is charged with conspiring to transport stolen property across state lines and is out on bail, and he was even worse than Evers. He had the idea of slugging me, and he wasn't alone, so I had to react, and I may have broken his arm. Then-"
"Were you hurt?"
"Only my feelings. Then, after eating the grease, I set out for Julia Fenster, who was or wasn't framed for espionage and was tried and acquitted, and that's how I spent the evening, all of it, trying to find her. I finally found her brother, but not her, and he's a fish. No man ever got less out of a day. It's a record. And those were the three we picked as the best prospects. I can't wait to see the program you've planned for tomorrow. I'll put it under my pillow."
"It's partly your stomach," he said. "If not the duck, then an omelet."
"No."
"Caviar. There's a fresh pound."
"You know damn well I love caviar. I wouldn't insult it."
He poured beer, waited until the foam was down to half an inch, drank, licked his lips, and regarded me. "Archie. Are you trying to pester me into returning that retainer?"
"No. I know I couldn't."
"Then you're twaddling. You're quite aware that we have undertaken a job which, considered logically, is preposterous. We have both said so. It's extremely unlikely that any of the suggestions Mr Cohen gave us will give us a start, but it's conceivable that one might. There's some hit-or-miss in every operation, but this one is all hit-or-miss. We are at the mercy of the vicissitudes of fortune; we can only invite, not command. I have no program for tomorrow; it depended on today. You don't know that today was bootless. Some prick may have stirred someone to action. Or tomorrow it may, or next week. You're tired and hungry. Confound it, eat something!"
I shook my head. "What about tomorrow?"
"We'll consider that in the morning. Not t
onight." He picked up his book.
I left my chair, gave it a kick, got the paper from my desk and put it in the safe, and went to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. Fritz had gone down to bed. Realizing that what would be an insult to caviar would also be an insult to milk, I poured it back in the carton, got another glass and the bottle of Old Sandy bourbon, poured three fingers, and took a healthy swig. That took care of the grease all right, and after going to see that the back door was bolted I finished the bourbon, rinsed the glasses, went and mounted the two flights to my room, and changed into pajamas and slippers.
I considered taking my electric blanket but vetoed it. In a pinch a man must expect hardship. From my bed I took only the pillow, and got sheets and blankets from the closet in the hall. With my arms loaded I descended, went to the office, removed the cushions from the couch, and spread the sheets. As I was unfolding a blanket Wolfe's voice came.
"I question the need for that."
"I don't." I spread the blanket, and the other one, and turned. "You've read that book. They can move fast if and when. With some of the stuff in the files they could have a picnic-and the safe."
"Bah. You're stretching it. Blow open a safe in an occupied house?"
"They wouldn't have to, that antique. You ought to get some books on electronics." I tucked the blankets in at the foot.
He pushed his chair back, levered himself up, said good night, and went, taking The Treasure of Our Tongue.
Thursday morning there was an off chance that when Fritz came down from delivering the breakfast tray he would bring word for me to go up for a briefing, but he didn't. So, since Wolfe wouldn't be down from the plant rooms until eleven, I took my time with the routine, and it was going on ten when everything was under control-the bedding back upstairs, breakfast inside me, the Times looked at, the mail opened and under a paperweight on Wolfe's desk, and Fritz explained to. Explained to, but not at ease. He had a vivid memory, as we all did, of the night that machine guns on a roof across the street had strafed the plant rooms, shattering hundreds of panes of glass and ruining thousands of orchids, and his idea was that I was sleeping in the office because my room faced Thirty-fifth Street and there was going to be a repeat performance. I explained that I was a guard, not a refugee, but he didn't believe it and said so.
