Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 46 (14 page)

He got up and walked out. Marched out. He always moves as if he weighed a twelfth of a ton instead of a seventh. When the door to the warm room had closed behind him, Theodore said, “It’s always bad when you come up here.”

I concede that as an orchid man Theodore may be as good as he thinks he is, but as a boon companion—a term I once looked up because Wolfe told me it was trite and shouldn’t be used—you can have him. So I didn’t bother to answer, and I would have liked to leave the box there for him to put back where it belonged, but that would have been like him, not me, so I didn’t. I picked it up and returned it before leaving.

Wolfe had of course taken the elevator. When I entered the office he was standing over by the big globe, slowly turning it. Probably deciding where he wished he was, maybe with me along. I went to my desk and sat and said, “When Saul or Fred or Orrie hears the news he’ll probably call, especially Saul. If so, what do I tell him?”

He turned the globe a few inches with his back to me. “To call Monday morning.”

“He may be in the can Monday morning.”

“Then call when Mr. Parker has got him out.”

I got up and marched out. To the stairs and up to my room. One, the desire to kick his ample rump was so strong it was advisable to go where I couldn’t see him, and two, what I had put on for a weekend in the country was not right for a weekend where I might spend it. While I got out more appropriate items and stripped, I tried to remember a time when he had been as pigheaded as this and couldn’t. Then there must be a reason, and what was it? I was still working on that and putting on one of my oldest jackets when the phone rang and I went and got it.

“Nero Wolfe’s—”

“You there, Archie? I thought you were going—”

“So did I. I got a piece of news.” Saul Panzer. “Evidently you did too.”

“Yes. Just now on the radio. I thought you were gone and he might need something.”

“He does. He needs a kick in the ass and I was about to deliver it, so I came upstairs. I asked him what to say if you called, and he said tell you to call Monday morning.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“My god, doesn’t he realize the cat’s loose?”

“Certainly. I remarked that if he wanted to sleep here tonight he’d have to unload, and he just scowled at me. What did the radio tell you?”

“Only that she got it and the police are investigating. And that she was the daughter of Pierre Ducos. I called not only to ask if he needed something but also to report. I phoned her this morning at nine o’clock and told her that Nero Wolfe wanted me to see her and ask her a couple of questions. She said go ahead and ask them, and I said not on the phone, and she said to call
her around noon. When I called at nine o’clock a woman answered, I suppose the one you call the white apron, and I told her my name and I was working for Nero Wolfe.”

“Good. That helps. That makes it even better. You’d better stick a toothbrush in your pocket.”

“And a couple of paperbacks to read. If I’m going to stand mute I’ll have plenty of leisure.”

“Happy weekend,” I said and hung up.

There’s a shelf of books in my room, my property, and I went to get one—I don’t know why, since I wasn’t in a mood for any book I had ever heard of—but realized that Fritz was probably wondering what the hell was going on. So I left, descended the two flights, and turned right at the bottom instead of left. In the kitchen Fritz was at the big table doing something to something. Normally I would have noticed what, but not that time. All the walls and doors on that floor are soundproofed, so I don’t know why he wasn’t surprised to see me. He merely asked, “Something happened?”

I got on a stool. “Yes, and more to come. A woman got killed, and it should mean a change of program, but he’s trying to set a new world record for mules. Don’t bother about lunch for me, I’ll chew nails. I know you have problems with him too, garlic and juniper berries and bay leaf, but—”

The doorbell. I slid off the stool, went to the hall, took one look through the one-way glass panel, and entered the office. Wolfe was at his desk with the middle drawer open, counting beer-bottle caps.

“Sooner even than I expected,” I said. “Cramer. Saul called. He phoned Lucile Ducos at nine o’clock this morning. The maid answered and he told her his name and said he was working for you. He told Lucile Ducos
he wanted to see her and ask her some questions, and she told him to call her around noon.”

The doorbell rang.

He said, “Grrrhh.”

“I agree. Do I let Cramer in?”

“Yes.”

I went to the front and opened the door, swung it wide, and he stepped in. I stood on the sill and looked out and down. His car was double-parked, with the driver in front at the wheel and one in the back seat I had seen but had never met. When I turned, no Cramer. I shut the door and went to the office. He was standing at the edge of Wolfe’s desk, his hat and coat on, talking.

“… and I may sit down and I may not. I’ve got a stenographer out in the car. If I bring him in, will you talk?”

“No.”

“It’s barely possible that I have news for you. Do you know that Pierre Ducos’s daughter was shot down in front of her house four hours ago?”

“Yes.”

“You do. The old man still won’t talk, in
any
language, but a Homicide Bureau man and I have just spent an hour with Marie Garrou, the maid.
Will
you talk?”

“No.”

“Goddam it, Wolfe, what’s eating you?”

“I told you three days ago that I was outraged and out of control. I am no longer out of control, but I am still outraged. Mr. Cramer. I respect your integrity, your ability, and your understanding. I even trust you up to a point; of course no man has complete trust in another, he merely thinks he has because he needs to and hopes to. And in this matter I trust only myself. As I said, I am outraged.”

Cramer turned his head to look at me, but he didn’t see me. He turned back to Wolfe and leaned over to flatten his palms on the desk. “I came here with a stenographer,” he said, “because I trust you too, up to a point. I want to say something not as Inspector Cramer or Mr. Cramer to a private investigator or Mr. Wolfe, but just as Cramer to Wolfe. Man to man. If you don’t let go, you’re sunk. Done. Let me bring him in and talk to
me. Now.
”

Wolfe shook his head. “I appreciate this. I do. But even as Wolfe to Cramer, no.”

Cramer straightened up and turned and went.

When the sound came of the front door opening and closing, I didn’t even go to the hall for a look. If he had stayed inside, all right, he had. I merely remarked to Wolfe, “About any one little fact, I never know for sure whether you have bothered to know it or not. You may or may not know that the Homicide Bureau is a bunch of cops that don’t take orders from Cramer. They’re under the DA.”

“Yes.”

So he might have known it and he might not. “And,” I said, “one of them helped him buzz Marie Garrou. I now know her name. And Cramer came straight here because he was sorry for you. That’s hard to believe, but he did, and you should send him a Christmas card if you’re where you can get one.”

He squinted at me. “You changed your clothes.”

“Certainly. I like to dress properly. This is my cage outfit. Coop. Hoosegow.”

He opened the drawer, slid the bottle caps into it, shut the drawer, pushed his chair back, rose, and headed for the door. I supposed to tell Fritz to hurry lunch, but he turned right, and the elevator door opened and closed. Going up to tell Theodore to come
tomorrow, Sunday. But I was wrong again; it went up only one flight. He was going to his room to change to
his
cage outfit, whatever that might be. It was at that point that I quit. The only possible explanation was that he really had a screw loose, and therefore my choice was plain. I could bow out for good, go to Twentieth Street, to either Stebbins or Cramer, and open the bag, or I could stick and take it as it came. Just wait and see.

I don’t know, actually, why I stuck. I honestly don’t know. Maybe it was just habit, the habit of watching him pull rabbits out of hats. Or maybe it was good old-fashioned loyalty, true-blue Archie Goodwin, hats off everybody. Or maybe it was merely curiosity; what
was
eating him and could he possibly get away with it?

But I know why I did what I did. It wasn’t loyalty or curiosity that sent me to the kitchen to get things from the refrigerator—just plain horse sense. It would probably be Coggin, and he would like it even better if we were just sitting down to lunch, and I had had enough of the sandwiches they brought you at the DA’s office. As I got out sturgeon and bread and milk and cucumber rings and celery and brandied cherries, Fritz looked but said nothing. He knows it is understood that it’s his kitchen, and if I take liberties without asking, it is not the moment for conversation. My copy of the
Times
was still in the rack on the little table, and I opened it to Sports. I felt sporty. I was on the cherries when the sound came of the elevator. When I went to the office Wolfe was at his desk with a crossword puzzle.

I admit I have been working up to a climax, and here it is. Wolfe
had
gone up to change. But he had changed not to his oldest suit but his newest one—a soft light-brown with tiny yellow specks that you could see only under a strong light. He had paid Boynton $345.00 for it only a month ago. The same shirt, yellow of course, but
another tie, solid dark-brown silk. I couldn’t see his shoes, but he had probably changed them too. As I went to my desk and sat, I was trying to prepare a suitable remark, but it didn’t come because I knew I should have just learned something new about him, but what?

“The mail,” he said.

I hadn’t opened it. I reached to my desk tray, a hollowed-out slab of green marble, for the opener and began to slit, and for the next twenty minutes you might have thought it was just a normal weekday. I had my notebook and Wolfe was starting on the third letter when Fritz came to announce lunch, and Wolfe got up and went without a glance at me. I don’t know how he knew I had had mine.

I had typed the two letters and was doing the envelopes when the doorbell rang. My watch said 1:22, and the clock agreed. Evidently Coggin knew that Wolfe’s lunch hour was a quarter past one. I got up and went. But it wasn’t Coggin. It was a pair I had never seen before, standing stiff-backed shoulder to shoulder, and each one had a folded paper in his hand. When I opened the door, the one on the right said, “Warrants to take Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. You’re Goodwin. You’re under arrest.”

“Well,” I said, “come in. While we get our coats on.”

They crossed the sill and I shut the door. They were 5 feet 11, 180 pounds, very erect. I say “they” because they were twins, long narrow faces and big ears, but one was white and the other one black. “I’ve had my lunch,” I said, “but Mr. Wolfe has just started his. Could we let him finish? Half an hour?”

“Sure, why not?” White said and started shedding his coat.

“No hurry at all,” Black said.

They took their time hanging up their coats. No
hats. I showed them the door to the office and entered the dining room. Wolfe was opening his mouth for a forkful of something. “Two from the Homicide Bureau,” I said. “With warrants. I’m under arrest. I asked if you could finish your lunch, and they said sure, no hurry.”

He nodded. I turned and went, in no hurry, in case he wished to comment, but he didn’t. In the office, White was in the red leather chair with Wolfe’s copy of the
Times
, and Black was over at the bookshelves looking at titles. I went to my desk, finished the envelopes and put things away, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. Sometimes it takes ten minutes to get Lon Cohen, but that time it only took two.

“So you’re still around,” he said.

“No. Here’s that one little bean I said I would spill. Maybe in time for today. A scoop. Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin are under arrest as material witnesses. Just now. We are being taken down.”

“Then why are you making phone calls?”

“I don’t know. See you in court.”

I hung up. Black said, “You’re not supposed to do that.” He was on a yellow chair with a book.

“Of course not,” I said, “and I wonder why. ‘No hurry at all.’ I’m just curious. Do you feel sorry for me? Or for Nero Wolfe?”

“No. Why the hell should we?”

“Then you don’t like the guy who sent you.”

“Oh, he’ll do. He’s not the best but he’s not the worst.”

“Look,” White said, “we know about you. Yeah, you’re curious, more ways than one. Just forget it. It’s Saturday afternoon, and we’re off at four o’clock, and if we don’t get there too soon we’ll
be
off. So there’s no hurry. If you have no objection.”

He turned to another page of the
Times
. Black opened his book; I couldn’t see the title. I got my nail file from the drawer and attended to a rough spot on my right thumbnail.

It was twenty-five minutes past two when we descended the seven steps of the stoop and climbed into the cars, Wolfe with White and me with Black.

S
tand mute” sounds simple, as if all you had to do is keep your mouth shut, but actually it’s not simple at all. Assistant District Attorneys have had a lot of practice using words. For instance:

“Why did you compel, physically compel, Lucile Ducos to stay with you in her father’s room while you searched the room?”

“In the signed statement you gave Sergeant Stebbins you said you included everything Pierre Ducos said to you. But you left out that he saw one of the men at that dinner hand Bassett a slip of paper. Why did you tell that lie?”

“If Ducos didn’t tell you who had been at that dinner meeting, how did you learn about Benjamin Igoe?”

“If Ducos didn’t tell you about that dinner meeting, who did?”

“Why did you tell Saul Panzer that Lucile Ducos must be kept from talking?”

“When did you learn that Nero Wolfe had persuaded Léon Ducos not to talk to the police?”

“What did you take from the pockets of Pierre Ducos before you reported your discovery of his body?”