And Be a Villain

by Rex Stout

  “I’m already getting it, Bill,” Tully Strong called from a side of the room.

  “Flop here on the bed,” Miss Fraser said, getting her feet out of the way.

  “It’s nearly five o’clock.” It was Miss Koppel’s quiet determined voice. “We’re going to start to work right now or I’ll phone and cancel tomorrow’s broadcast.”

  I stood up, facing Madeline Fraser, looking down at her. “What about it? Can this be settled tonight?”

  “I don’t see how.” She was stroking Elinor Vance’s shoulder. “With a broadcast to get up, and people to consult …”

  “Then tomorrow morning?”

  Tully Strong, approaching with the drink for Elinor Vance, handed it to her and then spoke to me:

  “I’ll phone you tomorrow, before noon if possible.”

  “Good for you,” I told him, and beat it.

  Chapter 4

  WITHOUT AT ALL INTENDING TO, I certainly had turned it into a seller’s market.

  The only development that Monday evening came not from the prospective customers, but from Inspector Cramer of Homicide, in the form of a phone call just before Fritz summoned Wolfe and me to dinner. It was nothing shattering. Cramer merely asked to speak to Wolfe, and asked him:

  “Who’s paying you on the Orchard case?”

  “No one,” Wolfe replied curtly.

  “No? Then Goodwin drives your car up to Seventy-eighth Street just to test the tires?”

  “It’s my car, Mr. Cramer, and I help to pay for the streets.”

  It ended in a stalemate, and Wolfe and I moved across the hall to the dining room, to eat fried shrimps and Cape Cod clam cakes. With those items Fritz serves a sour sauce thick with mushrooms which is habit-forming.

  Tuesday morning the fun began, with the first phone call arriving before Wolfe got down to the office. Of course that didn’t mean sunup, since his morning hours upstairs with Theodore and the orchids are always and forever from nine to eleven. First was Richards of the Federal Broadcasting Company. It is left to my discretion whether to buzz the plant rooms or not, and this seemed to call for it, since Richards had done us a favor the day before. When I got him through to Wolfe it appeared that what he wanted was to introduce another FBC vice-president, a Mr. Beech. What Mr. Beech wanted was to ask why the hell Wolfe hadn’t gone straight to the FBC with his suggestion about murder, though he didn’t put it that way. He was very affable. The impression I got, listening in as instructed, was that the network had had its tongue hanging out for years, waiting and hoping for an excuse to hand Wolfe a hunk of dough. Wolfe was polite to him but didn’t actually apologize.

  Second was Tully Strong, the secretary of the Sponsors’ Council, and I conversed with him myself. He strongly hoped that we had made no commitment with Miss Fraser or the network or anyone else because, as he had surmised, some of the sponsors were interested and one of them was excited. That one, he told me off the record, was the Hi-Spot Company, which, since the poison had been served to the victim in a bottle of Hi-Spot, The Drink You Dream Of, would fight for its exclusive right to take Wolfe up. I told him I would refer it to Wolfe without prejudice when he came down at eleven o’clock.

  Third was Lon Cohen of the Gazette, who said talk was going around and would I kindly remember that on Saturday he had moved heaven and earth for me to find out where Madeline Fraser was, and how did it stand right now? I bandied words with him.

  Fourth was a man with a smooth, low-pitched voice who gave his name as Nathan Traub, which was one of the names that had been made familiar to the public by the newspaper stories. I knew, naturally, that he was an executive of the advertising agency which handled the accounts of three of the Fraser sponsors, since I had read the papers. He seemed to be a little confused as to just what he wanted, but I gathered that the agency felt that it would be immoral for Wolfe to close any deal with anyone concerned without getting an okay from the agency. Having met a few agency men in my travels, I thought it was nice of them not to extend it to cover any deal with anyone about anything. I told him he might hear from us later.

  Fifth was Deborah Koppel. She said that Miss Fraser was going on the air in twenty minutes and had been too busy to talk with the people who must be consulted, but that she was favorably inclined toward Wolfe’s suggestion and would give us something definite before the day ended.

  So by eleven o’clock, when two things happened simultaneously—Wolfe’s entering the office and my turning on the radio and tuning it to the FBC station, WPIT—it was unquestionably a seller’s market.

  Throughout Madeline Fraser’s broadcast Wolfe leaned back in his chair behind his desk with his eyes shut. I sat until I got restless and then moved around, with the only interruptions a couple of phone calls. Bill Meadows was of course on with her, as her stooge and feeder, since that was his job, and the guests for the day were an eminent fashion designer and one of the Ten Best-Dressed Women. The guests were eminently lousy and Bill was nothing to write home about, but there was no getting away from it that Fraser was good. Her voice was good, her timing was good, and even when she was talking about White Birch Soap you would almost as soon leave it on as turn it off. I had listened in on her the preceding Friday for the first time, no doubt along with several million others, and again I had to hand it to her for sitting on a very hot spot without a twitch or a wriggle.

  It must have been sizzling hot when she got to that place in the program where bottles of Hi-Spot were opened and poured into glasses—drinks for the two guests and Bill Meadows and herself. I don’t know who had made the decision the preceding Friday, her first broadcast after Orchard’s death, to leave that in, but if she did she had her nerve. Whoever had made the decision, it had been up to her to carry the ball, and she had sailed right through as if no bottle of Hi-Spot had ever been known even to make anyone belch, let alone utter a shrill cry, claw at the air, have convulsions, and die. Today she delivered again. There was no false note, no quiver, no slack or speedup, nothing; and I must admit that Bill handled it well too. The guests were terrible, but that was the style to which they had accustomed us.

  When it was over and I had turned the radio off Wolfe muttered:

  “That’s an extremely dangerous woman.”

  I would have been more impressed if I hadn’t known so well his conviction that all women alive are either extremely dangerous or extremely dumb. So I merely said:

  “If you mean she’s damn clever I agree. She’s awful good.”

  He shook his head. “I mean the purpose she allows her cleverness to serve. That unspeakable prepared biscuit flour! Fritz and I have tried it. Those things she calls Sweeties! Pfui! And that salad dressing abomination—we have tried that too, in an emergency. What they do to stomachs heaven knows, but that woman is ingeniously and deliberately conspiring in the corruption of millions of palates. She should be stopped!”

  “Okay, stop her. Pin a murder on her. Though I must admit, having seen—”

  The phone rang. It was Mr. Beech of FBC, wanting to know if we had made any promises to Tully Strong or to anyone else connected with any of the sponsors, and if so whom and what? When he had been attended to I remarked to Wolfe:

  “I think it would be a good plan to line up Saul and Orrie and Fred—”

  The phone rang. It was a man who gave his name as Owen, saying he was in charge of public relations for the Hi-Spot Company, asking if he could come down to West Thirty-fifth Street on the run for a talk with Nero Wolfe. I stalled him with some difficulty and hung up. Wolfe observed, removing the cap from a bottle of beer which Fritz had brought:

  “I must first find out what’s going on. If it appears that the police are as stumped as—”

  The phone rang. It was Nathan Traub, the agency man, wanting to know everything.

  Up till lunch, and during lunch, and after lunch, the phone rang. They were having one hell of a time trying to get it decided how they would split the honor. Wolfe began to get really irritated and so did
I. His afternoon hours upstairs with the plants are from four to six, and it was just as he was leaving the office, headed for his elevator in the hall, that word came that a big conference was on in Beech’s office in the FBC building on Forty-sixth Street.

  At that, when they once got together apparently they dealt the cards and played the hands without any more horsing around, for it was still short of five o’clock when the phone rang once more. I answered it and heard a voice I had heard before that day:

  “Mr. Goodwin? This is Deborah Koppel. It’s all arranged.”

  “Good. How?”

  “I’m talking on behalf of Miss Fraser. They thought you should be told by her, through me, since you first made the suggestion to her and therefore you would want to know that the arrangement is satisfactory to her. An FBC lawyer is drafting an agreement to be signed by Mr. Wolfe and the other parties.”

  “Mr. Wolfe hates to sign anything written by a lawyer. Ten to one he won’t sign it. He’ll insist on dictating it to me, so you might as well give me the details.”

  She objected. “Then someone else may refuse to sign it.”

  “Not a chance,” I assured her. “The people who have been phoning here all day would sign anything. What’s the arrangement?”

  “Well, just as you suggested. As you proposed it to Miss Fraser. No one objected to that. What they’ve been discussing was how to divide it up, and this is what they’ve agreed on …”

  As she told it to me I scribbled it in my notebook, and this is how it looked:

  Percent of Expenses

  Share of fee

  Hi-Spot

  50

  $10,000

  FBC

  28

  5,500

  M. Fraser

  15

  3,000

  White Birch Soap

  5

  1,000

  Sweeties

  2

  500

  100

  $20,000

  I called it back to check and then stated, “It suits us if it suits Miss Fraser. Is she satisfied?”

  “She agrees to it,” Deborah said. “She would have preferred to do it alone, all herself, but under the circumstances that wasn’t possible. Yes, she’s satisfied.”

  “Okay. Mr. Wolfe will dictate it, probably in the form of a letter, with copies for all. But that’s just a formality and he wants to get started. All we know is what we’ve read in the papers. According to them there are eight people that the police regard as—uh, possibilities. Their names—”

  “I know their names. Including mine.”

  “Sure you do. Can you have them all here at this office at half past eight this evening?”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But is that necessary?”

  “Mr. Wolfe thinks so. This is him talking through me, to Miss Fraser through you. I ought to warn you, he can be an awful nuisance when a good fee depends on it. Usually when you hire a man to do something he thinks you’re the boss. When you hire Wolfe he thinks he’s the boss. He’s a genius and that’s merely one of the ways it shows. You can either take it or fight it. What do you want, just the publicity, or do you want the job done?”

  “Don’t bully me, Mr. Goodwin. We want the job done. I don’t know if I can get Professor Savarese. And that Shepherd girl—she’s a bigger nuisance than Mr. Wolfe could ever possibly be.”

  “Will you get all you can? Half past eight. And keep me informed?”

  She said she would. After I had hung up I buzzed Wolfe on the house phone to tell him we had made a sale.

  It soon became apparent that we had also bought something. It was only twenty-five to six, less than three-quarters of an hour since I had finished with Deborah Koppel, when the doorbell rang. Sometimes Fritz answers it and sometimes me—usually me, when I’m home and not engaged on something that shouldn’t be interrupted. So I marched to the hall and to the front door and pulled it open.

  On the stoop was a surprise party. In front was a man-about-town in a topcoat the Duke of Windsor would have worn any day. To his left and rear was a red-faced plump gentleman. Back of them were three more, miscellaneous, carrying an assortment of cases and bags. When I saw what I had to contend with I brought the door with me and held it, leaving only enough of an opening for room for my shoulders.

  “We’d like to see Mr. Nero Wolfe,” the topcoat said like an old friend.

  “He’s engaged. I’m Archie Goodwin. Can I help?”

  “You certainly can! I’m Fred Owen, in charge of public relations for the Hi-Spot Company.” He was pushing a hand at me and I took it. “And this is Mr. Walter B. Anderson, the president of the Hi-Spot Company. May we come in?”

  I reached to take the president’s hand and still keep my door block intact. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “it would be a help if you’d give me a rough idea.”

  “Certainly, glad to! I would have phoned, only this has to be rushed if we’re going to make the morning papers. So I just persuaded Mr. Anderson, and collected the photographers, and came. It shouldn’t take ten minutes—say a shot of Mr. Anderson looking at Mr. Wolfe as he signs the agreement, or vice versa, and one of them shaking hands, and one of them side by side, bending over in a huddle inspecting some object that can be captioned as a clue—how about that one?”

  “Wonderful!” I grinned at him. “But damn it, not today. Mr. Wolfe cut himself shaving, and he’s wearing a patch, and vain as he is it would be very risky to aim a camera at him.”

  That goes to show how a man will degrade himself on account of money. Meaning me. The proper and natural thing to do would have been to kick them off the stoop down the seven steps to the sidewalk, especially the topcoat, and why didn’t I do it? Ten grand. Maybe even twenty, for if Hi-Spot had been insulted they might have soured the whole deal.

  The effort, including sacrifice of principle, that it took to get them on their way without making them too sore put me in a frame of mind that accounted for my reaction somewhat later, after Wolfe had come down to the office, when I had explained the agreement our clients had come to, and he said:

  “No. I will not.” He was emphatic. “I will not draft or sign an agreement one of the parties to which is that Sweeties.”

  I knew perfectly well that was reasonable and even noble. But what pinched me was that I had sacrificed principle without hesitation, and here he was refusing to. I glared at him:

  “Very well.” I stood up. “I resign as of now. You are simply too conceited, too eccentric, and too fat to work for.”

  “Archie. Sit down.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I am no fatter than I was five years ago. I am considerably more conceited, but so are you, and why the devil shouldn’t we be? Some day there will be a crisis. Either you’ll get insufferable and I’ll fire you, or I’ll get insufferable and you’ll quit. But this isn’t the day and you know it. You also know I would rather become a policeman and take orders from Mr. Cramer than work for anything or anyone called Sweeties. Your performance yesterday and today has been highly satisfactory.”

  “Don’t try to butter me.”

  “Bosh. I repeat that I am no fatter than I was five years ago. Sit down and get your notebook. We’ll put it in the form of a letter, to all of them jointly, and they can initial our copy. We shall ignore Sweeties”—he made a face—”and add that two per cent and that five hundred dollars to the share of the Federal Broadcasting Company.”

  That was what we did.

  By the time Fritz called us to dinner there had been phone calls from Deborah Koppel and others, and the party for the evening was set.

  Chapter 5

  THERE ARE FOUR ROOMS on the ground floor of Wolfe’s old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street not far from the Hudson River. As you enter from the stoop, on your right are an enormous old oak clothes rack with a mirror, the elevator, the stairs, and the door to the dining room. On your left are the doors to the front room, wh
ich doesn’t get used much, and to the office. The door to the kitchen is at the rear, the far end of the hall.

  The office is twice as big as any of the other rooms. It is actually our living room too, and since Wolfe spends most of his time there you have to allow him his rule regarding furniture and accessories: nothing enters it or stays in it that he doesn’t enjoy looking at. He enjoys the contrast between the cherry of his desk and the cardato of his chair, made by Meyer. The bright yellow couch has to be cleaned every two months, but he likes bright yellow. The three-foot globe over by the bookshelves is too big for a room that size, but he likes to look at it. He loves a comfortable chair so much that he won’t have any other kind in the place, though he never sits on any but his own.

  So that evening at least our guests’ fannies were at ease, however the rest of them may have felt. There were nine of them present, six invited and three gate-crashers. Of the eight I had wanted Deborah Koppel to get, Nancylee Shepherd hadn’t been asked, and Professor F. O. Savarese couldn’t make it. The three gate-crashers were Hi-Spot’s president and public relations man, Anderson and Owen, who had previously only got as far as the stoop, and Beech, the FBC vice-president.

  At nine o’clock they were all there, all sitting, and all looking at Wolfe. There had been no friction at all except a little brush I had with Anderson. The best chair in the room, not counting Wolfe’s, is one of red leather which is kept not far from one end of Wolfe’s desk. Soon after entering Anderson had spotted it and squat-claimed it. When I asked him courteously to move to the other side of the room he went rude on me. He said he liked it there.

  “But,” I said, “this chair, and those, are reserved for the candidates.”

  “Candidates for what?”

  “For top billing in a murder trial, Mr. Wolfe would like them sort of together, so they’ll all be under his eye.”

  “Then arrange them that way.”