by Rex Stout
Mr. Warner took the contracts and went to his room. That night was the most uncomfortable one he had ever known. He had seen a glorious vision of a little Timmie sitting on his knee, and to have it so rudely snatched away was sadly bewildering. It was this experience that planted within him the germ of dissatisfaction with life which was destined to prove his salvation.
By this morning on which we have seen Mr. Warner descend to his breakfast this germ had grown and begotten a family. It stirred around within him as he consumed his shirred eggs, and made him gloomy. Even the remembrance of his brilliant victory at solitaire the night before could not bring ease to his mind.
“Something’s wrong with me,” he muttered to himself as he wandered into the library. “Something inside, I mean.” He kicked viciously at a chair that had thoughtlessly gotten in his path. “Can’t be stomach—breakfast tasted good. I guess I need some air.”
He went out for a walk. Down the broad residential-street, lined with great trees and extensive lawns, he strolled aimlessly; but as soon as the fresh morning air got well into his lungs he quickened his pace, and soon found himself on the outer edge of the city.
After another half-hour of brisk walking he was surrounded by woods and fields and green meadows; and, turning down a narrow, winding lane, entered a shady wilderness. Somewhere quite near he could hear a brook. He found it, and flopped down on the bank.
For two hours he lay there, dozing.
Three o’clock found him at home again, feeling a little guilty that he had not been there to lunch with his wife. He always liked to hear her talk of the proceedings at court on days when she attended, not to mention the fact that she liked him to listen. Besides, was there not something in particular he wanted to ask about?
Something—to be sure. The Hamlin & Hamlin case, of course. No doubt it would be all right, but he really should not have neglected it, and she should have told him sooner that it had been put forward. A glance at the clock showed him that it was past four; too late now, anyway. He wandered aimlessly around the house for a while; then took a book from the library and went up to his room to read.
An hour later he heard the hall door leading into the adjoining room open and close, followed by the patter of quick footsteps to and fro, barely audible through the thick wall. Mr. Warner laid down his book and leaned forward attentively, trying to discover the temperature of the room beyond the wall by whatever sounds might reach his ear.
Suddenly his wife’s voice came:
“Timmie!”
He jumped hastily to his feet, crossed to the mirror and arranged his tie, cleared his throat twice and walked reluctantly, by a circuitous route, to the door. There he stood.
“Timmie!”
He opened the door and went in.
“Good evening, my dear,” said he, stopping three paces from the threshold.
Mrs. Warner was seated at the dressing table arranging her hair. Her lovely face, wearing an unwonted flush, looked across at her husband from the mirror. There was also an unusual redness about her eyes, which he noted and wondered at.
“I didn’t see you at lunch,” she began abruptly.
Mr. Warner blinked. “No,” he said, and stopped.
“Where were you?”
“Why—I—the fact is, I went for a walk.”
Mrs. Warner turned around to look at him.
“A walk?”
“Yes, in the country. The jolliest woods out on the Wakarusa Road. Perfectly full of trees.”
“That is a habit of woods, isn’t it?” suggested Mrs. Warner sarcastically. Then she had the grace to laugh at herself; but Mr. Warner thought she was laughing at him and became uncomfortable.
“I was sorry to miss lunch,” said he, to change the subject. “I wanted to ask about Hamlin & Hamlin. I suppose it came out all right.”
“Well, you suppose wrong. It didn’t.”
“What!” Mr. Warner took a step forward. “You don’t mean—”
“Yes. We lost.”
“But that’s impossible!” cried the little man, aghast.
“No. It’s true. Good heavens, Timmie, do you think I can always win?”
He answered simply:
“Yes.”
At that tribute she turned again to look at him, and her eyes softened. “I believe you really do think so,” she said. “You’re a dear, Timmie.” Then she exploded with sudden violence: “I just wish old Hamlin had heard you say that!”
Her husband blinked at her, utterly bewildered.
“What?” he stammered.
“What you just said.” She turned about to face him. “Timmie, do you think I am a woman naturally inclined to give way to tears?”
“My dear goodness, no!” Mr. Warner actually smiled, the idea was so very amusing.
“Well, I did this afternoon. It was old Hamlin’s fault.
I hate him! Do you know what he said? He said that you win my cases for me. At least he intimated it. ‘My dear Mrs. Warner, it is quite evident that we have not had the benefit of your husband’s advice in this case. I shall pay your fee with reluctance.’ That was the way he put it. Just because he was angry at losing! I won’t take a cent!”
“But why on earth should he say such a thing?” demanded Mr. Warner.
“I don’t know. Of course, it’s absurd. But he’ll shout it all over town, and I have enough enemies to make it embarrassing.”
“No one will believe it.”
“Oh, yes they will. The envious are easily persuaded. But not for long. I’ll show them.” Mrs. Warner’s pretty lips narrowed to a thin line. “As far as old Hamlin is concerned,” she continued, “it is easy enough to understand him. He hasn’t forgotten ten years ago, when he had the impudence to try to make love to me. I told you about it at the time.”
“I know,” said the little man, looking away. He was thinking that old Hamlin was not the only one, and telling himself that this was a good opportunity to say something that had been on his mind for months, if he could only find the courage. He ended by blurting out:
“There is young Nelson, too.”
Mrs. Warner looked up, frowning. “What do you mean by that?”
“Why—you know—he is—that is, you see him—”
“Don’t be a goose, Timmie.” The pretty lips parted in a smile, possibly at the idea of her husband being jealous. “Of course I see him. I can’t very well snub the son of the man who owns the Granton Electric Railway Company—they are my best clients. But don’t get any silly notions in your head. You know very well I haven’t time to allow myself to be in love with Jack Nelson or anyone else. Not even you, Timmie, dear. Now off with you; I must get ready for dinner. It’s nearly time.”
“But people are bound to talk—”
“Timmie!”
Mr. Warner went. The germ of dissatisfaction was stirring within him, and he wore a gloomy countenance as he took off his brown tweed suit and got into a dinner jacket. He wondered why it should render him utterly speechless to hear his wife say “Timmie!” like that.
Then the dinner bell sounded, and he gave it up with a sigh.
II
During the month that followed, Mrs. Warner found abundant justification for her prophecy that old Mr. Hamlin would “shout it all over town.” More accurately, he whispered it, which in such cases is far more effective.
The first rumor of his pernicious utterances came to her ears from the lips of her friend Mrs. Lodge, at a dinner party at the latter’s home. It appeared that Mr. Hamlin had assured Mr. Lodge—strictly sub rosa, of course—that the brilliant and eminent Mrs. Warner was really nothing more than a pretty dummy whose strings were worked by the subtle brain of her insignificant-looking husband.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Lodge in conclusion, “it’s all the veriest bosh. Haven’t we all heard you make the most wonderful speeches? Thomas Hamlin is an old crank. But it is really too bad, because some people are going to believe it.”
And a week later, at a mee
ting of the city bar association, of which she was vice president, Mrs. Warner overheard several unpleasant witticisms that were quite evidently intended for her ears. They were actuated, she told herself, by the contemptible envy of disgruntled lawyers who hated her for her preeminent success. Nevertheless, they left their mark.
She began to fear for her prestige.
Fed for ten years on a rich diet of eulogy and adulation, the horrible thought entered her mind that she might end by finding a seat at the table of ridicule. As for a shrinkage in fees, she did not care about that, having made herself independently rich.
But the fees, instead of shrinking, were augmented, and new clients came while old ones stayed. She naturally considered this a good sign and her fear dwindled. And when President Nelson, of the Granton Electric Railway Company, informed her that the defense of the famous Holdup Suit, as the conservative press had nicknamed it, was to be left entirely in her hands, she felt herself able to laugh at her enemies and detractors.
The Holdup Suit, brought by the City of Granton against the Granton Electric Railway Company, to collect thirty thousand dollars in profits in accordance with a clause of the franchise, was a political move on the part of the new liberal city administration.
Everyone knew that the city could not possibly win. Every lawyer in Granton had declared both in public and private that the case had not a leg to stand on. But the administration was making an immense hit with the people by bringing it, and it was being gloriously frontpaged by the press.
No wonder Mrs. Warner felt proud that she had been selected to defend it, though she was naturally a little vexed that it should be so universally known that her task was absurdly simple. As she overheard one lawyer say, “Nelson won’t even have to defend the action. As soon as the city presents its case the judge will throw it out of court.”
It was in connection with the Holdup Suit that Mrs. Warner conceived her great idea.
One sunny afternoon in August as she was being carried swiftly down Main Street in her motorcar on her way to the offices of the railway company, her face suddenly took on an expression of deep thought, then lighted up with a victorious smile.
“I’ll do it!” she said to herself with prompt decision. “It’s just the thing! Nobody could talk after that.”
She spent two hours with President Nelson in his private office, examining innumerable documents and pamphlets. When they had finished, and Mr. Nelson had expressed his admiration of her sagacity and penetration, she informed him that she had a question to ask.
“Fire away,” said the great man genially.
“I want to know,” returned Mrs. Warner, rising and putting on her gloves to indicate that the point was really unimportant, “if it would make any difference to you if Mr. Warner—my husband—should be chosen to represent the city in this case?”
Mr. Nelson stared for a moment, then permitted himself a smile of surprise. “Of course not,” he ended by declaring. “But why—I didn’t know—”
“It isn’t decided yet,” Mrs. Warner explained. “But I have reason to believe he is going to be retained. Of course, this is in the strictest confidence.”
Mr. Nelson, still smiling, assured her that he would keep the secret. “I don’t care if they retain Satan himself,” he declared. “We can’t lose.” Then he added hastily, “with you.”
Mrs. Warner thanked him for the expression of confidence and departed. At the door of the outer office she found herself suddenly confronted by a tall young man, hat in hand, bowing and smiling.
“Mrs. Warner, I’ve been waiting here two endless hours for a word with you. I had begun to fear Father was going to keep you locked in there forever. Won’t you let me drive you home? My car is outside.” This all came out in a breath.
“My car, too, is outside,” smiled Mrs. Warner.
“Please,” said the young man persuasively.
She ended by accepting. No sooner had they seated themselves on the soft leather cushions than the young man pulled out his watch and preferred a second request.
“Couldn’t we drive round awhile?” he pleaded. “It’s only four o’clock, and such a jolly day.”
But this met with a firm refusal. “I am not good-for-nothing like you, Jack. I have work to do. Straight home!”
“Please?”
It was difficult to resist the pleading brown eyes, for he was a good-looking and pleasant youth, besides being the son of Henry Blood Nelson. But Lora Warner was not the woman to make even so slight a mistake as this would have been. She repeated, “Straight home!” in a firmer tone than before, and shook a menacing finger at him. The car shot off down Main Street.
Twenty minutes later, as she stood on the steps of her home shaking hands with her escort, she looked up to see a familiar figure turn in from the street and come up the walk. Nelson, noting her raised eyes, turned and caught sight of the newcomer.
“Good evening, Mr. Warner,” he said pleasantly.
“Good evening,” replied the husband, coming up to them. The men shook hands. “Home so early, my dear?” he continued, turning to his wife. Then, without waiting for an answer, he went into the house.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” said Lora; and the young man lifted his hat and departed.
At the dinner table that evening Mr. Warner wore the appearance of one who has communed with himself in sorrow. His constitutional cheerfulness had been slipping away from him for some time now, thanks to the ravages of the germ of dissatisfaction; but on this occasion he was absolutely dumpish. Lora noticed it with surprise and a little discomfort.
“Is there something wrong, Timmie?” she demanded.
“Everything,” he replied rashly, without thinking; and then, aghast at his own nihilism, he stammered something about not feeling well.
“I’m sorry,” said his wife, not without feeling. “Is there anything I can do?”
He replied with a simple “No,” and attacked the roast.
After dinner Mrs. Warner led the way to the library, saying she had an important matter in mind which it would be necessary to discuss at length. In dreary silence Mr. Warner followed her to a divan between the windows and seated himself on the arm of a chair.
This in itself was a revolution. Only a free and bold man, a man of initiative, deposits himself on the arm of a chair. Mr. Warner had never done it before save in the privacy of his own room, having, like all others who are timid, weak, or downtrodden, invariably chosen the seat.
He went still further. Before his wife had time to introduce her important matter he opened his mouth and said distinctly:
“I saw old Mr. Hamlin today.”
Lora, feeling the electricity in his tone, looked up quickly.
“Well? Is there anything so very strange about that?”
“He came to see me at the office.”
“At the office?”
“At my office.”
“Oh, he did! What about?”
“About his case against the Central Sash and Door Company. You know, he appealed.”
“But why should he go to see you?”
Mr. Warner appeared to hesitate. The fact was, he hadn’t intended to mention this affair at all. What was it that forced the words to his lips? Perhaps the memory of seeing his wife standing on the steps with her hand in that of young Nelson; perhaps merely—and this is a better guess—the germ of dissatisfaction within him. He continued:
“He wanted me to take the case. In spite of the fee he seemed to think it wasn’t necessary—that is, to think about you.”
“Did you take it?”
“Of course not. No. Hadn’t he insulted you? I told him so. I told him some other things, too. He’s a very energetic man.”
“Energetic?”
“Yes. He actually tried to throw me out of the office. Must be fifty years old if he’s a day. But then I’m not so very big, and he thought he could do it. I pushed him out and locked the door.”
Mrs. Warner smiled. “I
t must have been a very exciting encounter.”
“It was. Quite hot for a minute. I thought you might want to know about it.”
“Of course. I’m glad you told me. I didn’t know you were a fighter, Timmie.”
“Well”—the little man was evidently trying not to look pleased with himself—“to tell the truth, I didn’t, either. But I couldn’t stand still and let him put me out of my own office.”
“I’m glad to know it,” continued Mrs. Warner. “That you’re a fighter, I mean. Because it will make it all the more interesting. You have to fight me now.”
Mr. Warner blinked three times before he could find his tongue.
“Fight you!” he exclaimed finally, quite as though he had been informed that he was about to charge on the German army.
“Yes. That is what I wanted to talk to you about. My dear Timmie, you are to represent the city in the Holdup Suit.”
“The city! Me! What—why—” He was staggered out of coherence.
“Exactly. The city and you. You are to handle the case for the City of Granton.”
Mr. Warner was blinking at the rate of fifty times a second.
“My dear Lora,” said he—and you may believe he was strongly agitated when he called his wife his dear Lora—”my dear Lora, I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about.”
Mrs. Warner began her explanation. “It’s very simple,” she declared. “In fact, there’s nothing more to say. As you know, I am retained for the railway company. You will represent the city. We will be opponents. It is my own idea.”
“But why?” He was still bewildered.
“Silly! Don’t you see it will put an end to all these absurd rumors about my being—what old Hamlin says?”
“Oh!” said Mr. Warner, suddenly comprehending.
“They can’t very well say we are in partnership when we are opposed to each other,” continued his wife. “It will work out beautifully. The only difficulty is to get the brief for you. But you ought to be able to manage it. Mayor Slosson is still a good friend of yours, isn’t he?”
