Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 02 (18 page)

I couldn’t figure the runt at all. Was it possible that a dick that looked like that was as honest as that? Who was paying him enough to make him look at forty dollars like it was soap wrappers? Who was so particular
about its not being known that he was having Paul Chapin tailed? The inspector’s idea didn’t seem to me to make sense, even if Leopold Elkus had helped out that day with Dreyer’s highball. Why would he put a shadow on Chapin? Of course it was possible, but my practice was to let the brain off easy on an idea until it got a little better than possible. If it wasn’t Elkus, who was it? It might have been any one of the bunch who was too scared for Wolfe’s memorandum to quiet him down and thought he needed his own reports of the cripple’s activities, but in that case why all the mystery? Driving uptown, I went over the list in my mind, without any results.

I put the roadster in the garage and walked home. It was nearly dinner time when I got there. Wolfe was in the office, at his desk. He was doing something. His beer tray had been pushed to one side, and he was leaning over a piece of paper, inspecting it with a magnifying glass, with the strong light turned on. He looked up to nod at me, and then resumed. There was a little pile of similar papers under a weight. The typewriting on the paper began,
Ye should have killed me, watched the last mean sigh.
It was the first warning.

Pretty soon he looked up again, and blinked. He put the magnifying glass on the table. I asked, “These are Farrell’s samples?”

“Yes. Mr. Farrell brought them ten minutes ago. He decided to get a specimen from each machine in Mr. Oglethorpe’s office. I have examined two, and discarded them—those marked with red pencil.” He sighed. “You know, Archie, it is remarkable how the shortening of the days at this time of year, the early darkness, seems to lengthen the period between luncheon
and dinner. I suppose I have made that comment before.”

“Not very often, sir. Not more than once or twice a day.”

“Indeed. It deserves more. You haven’t washed.”

“No, sir.”

“There are two pheasants which should not be kept waiting.”

I went upstairs.

After dinner we worked together at Farrell’s samples; there were sixteen of them. He wasn’t so good at the typewriter; he had exed out a good deal, but for our purpose that didn’t matter. I brought a glass down from the plant-rooms and Wolfe went on with his. It didn’t matter which of the originals we used, so long as it wasn’t one of the carbons, since it had been definitely determined that they had all been written on the same machine. We did a thorough job of it, not finally eliminating one until we had both examined it. Wolfe loved that kind of work, every minute of it; when he had gone through a sample and made sure that the a wasn’t off the line and the
n
wasn’t cockeyed, he grunted with satisfaction. I liked it only when it got results. As we neared the bottom of the pile with the red pencil unanimous, I wasn’t getting any gayer.

Around ten o’clock I got up and handed the last one across to him, and then went to the kitchen and got a pitcher of milk. Fritz, sitting there reading the French paper, giggled at me: “You drink milk looking like that, you curdle it.” I stuck my tongue out at him and went back to the office. Wolfe had fastened the sheets together with a clip and was putting the originals back in the envelope.

I said, “Well. This has been a fine pregnant
evening. Huh?” I drank some milk and licked my lips.

Wolfe leaned back and got his fingers twined. He kept his eyes nearly open. He finally remarked, “We have sacrificed it to Mr. Chapin’s adroitness, a tribute to him. And established a fact: that he did not type the warnings in his publisher’s office. But he did type them, and doubtless holds himself in readiness to type another; so the machine exists and can be found. I have already another suggestion ready for Mr. Farrell—a little complicated, but worth the experiment.”

“Maybe I could offer one. Tell him to get samples from the machines in Leopold Elkus’s office.”

Wolfe’s brows went up. “Why particularly Elkus?”

“Well, for one thing Inspector Cramer got the idea of having someone in Italy get in touch with Mr. Santini. Dumb idea, of course, but he got it. Santini says that he has remembered that after they all left the office that day Elkus went back for something and was in there alone for maybe half a minute. Plenty of time to drop some tablets into a highball.”

“But hardly enough to filch the bottle from Mr. Dreyer’s pocket and return it again, not to mention the dexterity required.”

“That’s all right. Chapin did that himself some time previously, maybe the week before, and gave them to Elkus.”

“Indeed. This was in the news reels?”

“It’s in Cramer’s bean. But it may also be in his bag one of these days. We would have to get a mirror and see how we look in it, if it turns out to be the dope and he bags it first. Another item is that Elkus has got a shadow on Chapin.”

“That likewise is in Mr. Cramer’s bean?”

“Yeah, likewise. But one of those dicks—”

“Archie.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at me. “I think it would be as well to correct your perspective. You must not let the oddities of this case perplex you to the point of idiocy. For instance, Inspector Cramer. He is an excellent man. In nine murder cases out of ten his services would be much more valuable than mine; to mention a few points only, I need to keep regular hours, I could not function even passably where properly chilled beer was not continually available, and I cannot run fast. If I am forced to engage in extreme physical effort, such as killing a snake, I am hungry for days. But it is utterly futile, in this case or any other case in which we are interested, to give consideration to the contents of Mr. Cramer’s bean. I supposed that in seven years you had learned that.”

“Sure. His bean’s out.” I waved it out with my hand. “But what about his facts? Such as Elkus going back alone to the office?”

Wolfe shook his head. “You see, Archie? The dizzy revolutions of Mr. Chapin’s cunning wheel of vengeance have hurled you off on a tangent. Consider what we have engaged to do under our memorandum: free our clients from fear of Paul Chapin’s designs. Even if it were possible to prove that Dr. Elkus poisoned Mr. Dreyer’s drink—which I strongly doubt—to what purpose should we attempt it? No; let us stick to the circumference of our own necessities and desires. Inspector Cramer might some day have a fact for us, as anyone might, there is no denying that, but he is welcome to this one. It is beyond our circle of endeavor.”

“Still I don’t see it. Look here. Say Elkus put the stuff in Dreyer’s glass. Of course Chapin was in on it, look at the second warning. How are you going to
prove Chapin guilty of Dreyer’s murder unless you also prove how Elkus did his part?”

Wolfe nodded. “Your logic is impeccable. Your premise is absurd. I haven’t the slightest expectation of proving Chapin guilty of Dreyer’s murder.”

“Then what the devil—”

I got that much out before I realized exactly what he had said. I stared at him. He went on:

“It could not be expected that you should know Paul Chapin as I know him, because you have not had the extended and intimate association that I have enjoyed—through his books. He is possessed of a demon. A fine old melodramatic phrase. The same thing can be said in modern scientific terms, but it would mean no more and its flavor would be much impaired. He is possessed of a demon, but he is also, within certain limits, an extraordinarily astute man. Emotionally he is infantile—he even prefers a vicar to a substitute, when the original object is unattainable, as witness his taking Dora Ritter to proxy for her mistress. But his intellectual competence is such that it is problematical whether factual proof could ever be obtained of any act of his which he intended to remain anonymous.”

He stopped for some beer. I said, “If you mean you give up, you’re wasting a lot of time and money. If you mean you’re waiting for him to croak another one, and you’re tailing him to watch him do it, and he’s as smart as you say he is …”

I drank milk. Wolfe wiped his lips and went on: “Of course we have our usual advantage: we are on the offensive. And of course the place to attack the enemy is his weak spot; those are truisms. Since Mr. Chapin has an aversion to factual proof and has the intellectual equipment to preclude it, let us abandon the
intellectual field, and attack him where he is weak. His emotions. I am acquainting you now with this decision which was made last Sunday. We are gathering what ammunition we may. Certainly facts are not to be sneered at; I need two more of them, possibly three, before I can feel confident of persuading Mr. Chapin to confess his guilt.”

Wolfe emptied his glass, I said, “Confess, huh? That cripple?”

He nodded. “It would be simple. I am sure it will be.”

“What are the three facts?”

“First, to find Mr. Hibbard. His meat and bone; we can do without the vital spark if it has found another errand. That, however, is more for the satisfaction of our clients and the fulfillment of the terms of our memorandum than for the effect on Mr. Chapin. That sort of fact will not impress him. Second, to find the typewriter on which he wrote the menacing verses. That I must have, for him. Third—the possibility—to learn if he has ever kissed his wife. That may not be needed. Given the first two, I probably should not wait for it.”

“And with that you can make him confess?”

“I should think so. I see no other way out for him.”

“That’s all you need?”

“It seems ample.”

I looked at him. Sometimes I thought I could tell how much he was being fanciful; sometimes I knew I couldn’t. I grunted. “Then I might as well phone Fred and Bill and Orrie and the others to come up and check out.”

“By no means. Mr. Chapin himself might lead us to the typewriter or the Hibbard meat and bone.”

“And I’ve been useful too. According to you. Why
did you buy the gasoline I burned up yesterday and today if you decided Sunday night you couldn’t get the goods on him? It seems as if I’m like a piece of antique furniture or a pedigreed dog, I’m in the luxury class. You keep me on for beauty. Do you know what I think? I think that all this is just your delicate way of telling me that on the Dreyer thing you’ve decided I’m a washout and you think I might try something else. Okay. What?”

Wolfe’s cheeks unfolded a little. “Veritably, Archie, you are overwhelming. The turbulence of a Carpathian torrent. It would be gratifying if you should discover Mr. Hibbard.”

“I thought so. Forget Dreyer?”

“Let him rest in peace. At least for tomorrow.”

“A thousand dicks and fifteen thousand cops have been looking for Hibbard for eight days. Where shall I bring him when I find him?”

“If alive, here. If dead, he will care as little as I. But his niece will care, I presume, to her.”

“Do you tell me where to look?”

“Our little globe.”

“Okay.”

I went upstairs. I was riled. We had never had a case, and I suppose never will have, without Wolfe getting cryptic about it sooner or later; I was used to it and expected it, but it always riled me. In the Fairmont-Avery thing he had deliberately waited for twenty-four hours to close in on Pete Avery after he had him completely sewed up, just for the pleasure of watching me and Dick Morley of the D.A.’s office play fox-and-goose with that old fool that couldn’t find his ear trumpet. I suppose his awful conceit was one of the wheels that worked the machinery that got his results, but that didn’t make it any more enjoyable
when I was doing the worrying for both of us. That Wednesday night I nearly took the enamel off of my teeth with the brush, stabbing with it at Wolfe’s conceit.

The next morning, Thursday, I had had my breakfast and was in the office by eight o’clock, taking another good look at the photograph of her uncle which Evelyn Hibbard had given to us. Saul Panzer had phoned and I had told him to meet me in the McAlpin lobby at eight-thirty. After I had soaked in all I could of the photograph I made a couple of phone calls, one to Evelyn Hibbard and one to Inspector Cramer. Cramer was friendly. He said that on Hibbard he had spread the net pretty wide. If a body of a man was washed up on the sand at Montauk Point, or found in a coal mine at Scranton, or smelled in a trunk in a Village roominghouse, or pulled out of a turnip pit in south Jersey, he would know about it in ten minutes, and would be asking for specifications. That satisfied me that there was no sense in my wasting time or shoe leather looking for a dead Hibbard; I’d better concentrate on the possibility of a live one.

I went to the McAlpin and talked it over with Saul Panzer. He, with his wrinkled little mug not causing any stranger to suspect how cute he was, and he could be pretty damn cute—he sat on the edge of a tapestry chair, smoking a big slick light-brown cigar that smelled like something they scatter on lawns in the early spring, and told me about it to date. It was obvious from the instructions Saul had been following, either that Wolfe had reached the same conclusion that I had, that if Hibbard had been croaked the police routine was the best and quickest way of finding him,
or that Wolfe thought Hibbard was still alive. Saul had been digging up every connection Hibbard had had in and around the city for the past five years, every degree of intimacy, man, woman, and child, and calling on them. Since Hibbard had been an instructor at a large university, and also a sociable man, Saul hadn’t made much more than a start. I supposed that Wolfe’s idea was that there was a possibility that Chapin’s third warning was a fake, that Hibbard had just got too scared to breathe and had run off to hide, and that in that case he was practically certain to get in touch with someone he knew.

My heart wasn’t really in it. For my part, I believed the cripple, third warning and all. In the first place, Wolfe hadn’t said definitely that he didn’t; and secondly, I had known Wolfe to be wrong, not often, but more than once. When the event proved that he had been wrong about something, it was a delight to see him handle it. He would wiggle his finger a little more rapidly and violently than usual, and mutter with his eyes nearly open at me, “Archie, I love to make a mistake, to assume the burden of omniscience.”