Some Buried Caesar (25 page)

“Tell them,” Basil said, “that the offer of a dime to join is withdrawn. Tell them that the privilege of being charter members expires at noon and after that we may let them in and we may not. Tell them that our platform is Brotherhood, Universal Suffrage, and Freedom. Tell—”

“Universal Suffering?”

“No. Suf—leave that one out. Brotherhood and Freedom. Tell them that if they don’t like the idea of a public-spirited woman coming around and the provisions with regard to bathing, the only way these demands can be changed is by the membership of the C. C. P. U., which is organized and functioning, and if they don’t become members they can’t help change them. Incidentally, our President will pay you two bits for each and every one you get to sign.”

“Two bits? That’s on the level?”

“Absolutely. Wait a minute, come back here. Since you’re a trusty and are therefore technically one of us, you’re eligible to join yourself if you want to. But you don’t get any two bits for signing yourself up. It wouldn’t be ethical. Would it, President Goodwin? Wouldn’t that be
e pluribus unum corpus delicti?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Go ahead, Slim. Noon is the deadline.”

Basil went back and sat down and picked up the brush. “No damn good as an agitator?” he inquired sarcastically.

“As an agitator, above average,” I admitted. “As a treasurer, only so-so. You’re inclined to overdraw.”

I don’t know to this day what the C. C. P. U. membership amounted to at its peak. When Slim had got 4 new members signed up he came to our cell and requested a dollar before proceeding further, and I paid him, and by 10 o’clock he had 4 more and got another dollar, but at that point I was removed from the scene by a keeper coming to get me. I started out, but Basil interposed to say that I had better leave the other $1.75 with him, since I had assumed the obligation, just in case. I told him he shouldn’t be so pessimistic about the President but agreed that his point was valid, and shelled out.

Captain Barrow, still with no sign of flinching, was waiting in the hall outside the warden’s office. He told me curtly to come on, and from behind my elbow directed me out of that wing of the building, up two flights of stairs, and along an upper corridor to a door which I had entered on Tuesday afternoon in the company of Osgood and Wolfe. We passed through the anteroom to the inner chamber, and there sat District Attorney Waddell at his desk, with bleary eyes that made him look pudgier than ever.

I marched up to the desk and told him offensively, “Nero Wolfe wants to see you, mister.”

Barrow snarled, “Sit down, you.”

I sat, and scratched my thigh and shoulder and side and arm ostentatiously.

Waddell demanded, “What about it? Have you changed your mind?”

“Yes,” I said, “I have. I used to think that the people who make speeches and write books about
prison reform are all sentimental softies, but no more. They may or may not—”

“Turn it off,” Barrow growled. “And quit scratching.”

Waddell said sternly, “I advise you not to be flippant. We have evidence that you possess vital information in a murder case. We want it.” He laid a fist on his desk and leaned forward. “We’re going to get it.”

I grinned at him. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. My head is fairly buzzing with this new idea I’ve got and I can’t think of anything else, not even murder.” I erased the grin and pointed a finger at him and made my tone ominous: “Your head will soon be buzzing too. Don’t think it won’t. The C. C. P. U. is going to clean up, and how would you like to be kicked out of office?”

“Bah. You damn fool. Do you think Osgood runs this county? What’s the C. C. P. U.?”

I knew he’d ask, since elected persons are always morbid about organizations. I told him impressively, “The Crowfield County Prisoners Union. I’m President. We’ll be 100 percent by noon. Our demands include—”

I stopped and got my feet under my chair ready for leverage, because Barrow had got up and taken two steps and from his expression I thought for a second he was going to haul off and aim one. He halted and said slowly, “Don’t get scared, I couldn’t do it here. But there’s a room down in the basement or I could take you out to the barracks. Get this. You cut the comedy.”

I shrugged. “If you fellows really want to talk seriously, I’ll tell you something. Do you?”

“You’ll find out how serious we are before we finish with you.”

“Okay. First, if you think you can scare me by threats about basements you’re too dumb for a mother’s tears. Common sense is against it, the probabilities are against it, and I’m against it. Second, the comedy. You asked for it by starting it, yesterday afternoon. You have no judgment. It’s perfectly true that there are people who can be opened up by making faces at them and talking loud, but if I was one of them how long do you think I’d last as Nero Wolfe’s favorite employee, eating with him at his table? Look at me, anyhow! Can’t you tell one kind of mug from another kind? Third, the situation we’re in. It’s so simple I understand it myself. You think I have knowledge which is your legal property because you’re cops working on a murder, and I say I haven’t. Under those circumstances, what can I do? I can keep my mouth shut. What can you do? You can arrest me and put me under bond to appear on demand. Finally, when you’ve gathered up everything you can find and put it in order, you can either pin something on me, like obstruction of justice or accessory or perjury if I’ve been under oath, or any of that crap, or you can’t. I return for a moment to your objection to my comedy. You deserved it because you’ve acted like a pair of comics yourselves.”

I turned my palms up. “Were any of the words too long for you?”

Barrow sat down and looked at Waddell. The District Attorney said, “We don’t think you have knowledge of facts, we know you have. And that’s no comedy. Will you give them to us?”

“Nothing to give.”

“Do you know your jeopardy? Have you had legal advice?”

“I don’t need it. Didn’t you hear my lecture? Find a lawyer that can beat it.”

“You mentioned a bond. If you apply for release on bail, I’ll oppose it. If your application is granted, it will be as high as I can make it.”

“That’s jake. Don’t start worrying your little head about that on top of all your other troubles. I don’t believe a rustic judge can look me in the eye and hold me without bail. The amount is a matter of indifference. My sister’s father is a rich sewer tycoon.”

“Your father? Where?”

“I said my sister’s father. My family connections are none of your business, and besides, they’re too complicated for you to understand. He is also occasionally my mother’s father, on account of the fact that on the telephone last night my sister was my mother. But he isn’t my father because I’ve never met him.”

Barrow’s head was twisted with his eyes fixed on me searchingly. “By God, I don’t know,” he said in a tone of doubtful surprise. “Maybe we ought to have Doc Sackett examine you.”

Waddell disagreed. “It would cost 5 dollars and it’s not worth it. Put him back in the cooler. If he’s starting any trouble down there with this C. C. P. U. stuff, tell Ollie to put him in solitary. Tell Ollie he’d better investigate—”

The door popped open and Nero Wolfe walked in.

He looked neat and rested, with a clean yellow shirt on and the brown tie with tan stripes which Constanza
Berin had sent him from Paris, but his shoes hadn’t been shined. My glance took in those details as he crossed the room to us with his customary unhurried waddle. I scratched my leg furiously.

He stopped in front of me and demanded, “What are you doing? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I itch.”

“Look at your coat. Look at your trousers. Did you sleep in them?”

“What do you think I slept in, silken raiment? I’m glad you stopped in, it’s nice to see you. We’ve been chatting. They’re just sending me back to the you know. Did you hear from my mother? She’s stricken.”

He muttered, “Pfui,” turned from me and looked at the other two and said good morning, and cast his eyes around. Then he took a step toward Barrow and said in his best manner, “Excuse me, Captain, but you have the only chair that is endurable for me. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind changing.” Barrow opened his mouth, but shut it again and got up and moved.

Wolfe nodded thanks, sat down, and directed a composed gaze at the district attorney. “You’re a hard man to catch, sir,” he observed. “I spent hours last evening trying to find you. I even suspect I was being evaded.”

“I was busy.”

“Indeed. To any effect?”

Barrow growled. Waddell leaned forward again with his fist on his desk. “Look here, Wolfe,” he said in a nasty tone. “I’ve concluded you’re no better than a waste of time, and probably worse. Thinking over what you told me about your talk with Bronson, what does it add up to? Zero. You were stringing me. You
talk about evading! For the present I’ve only got one thing for you: a piece of advice. Either instruct your man here to open up and spill it, or do so yourself.”

Wolfe sighed. “You’re in a huff. Yesterday Captain Barrow, now you. You gentlemen are extraordinarily touchy.”

“I’m touchy enough to know when I’m being strung. I don’t enjoy it. And you’re making a mistake when you figure that with Fred Osgood behind you, you can get away with anything you want to. Osgood may have owned this county once, but not any more, and he may be headed for a disagreeable surprise himself.”

“I know.” Wolfe was mild, and look resigned. “It’s incredible, but judging from rumors that have reached Mr. Osgood you are actually entertaining a theory that Bronson killed his son, and the killing of Bronson was an eye for an eye. Mr. Waddell, that is infantile. It is so obviously infantile that I refuse to expound it for you. And your suggestion that I rely on Mr. Osgood’s position and influence to protect me from penalties I have incurred is equally infantile. If I palaver with you at all—”

“You don’t need to,” Waddell snapped. “Peddle it somewhere else.” Abruptly he stood up. “For two cents I’d stick you in with Goodwin. Beat it. On out. The next time I listen to you it will be in a courtroom. Take Goodwin down, Captain.”

“Oh, no.” Wolfe was still mild. “No, indeed. I bothered to see you only on Mr. Goodwin’s account. You’ll listen to me now.”

“And who’ll tell me why?”

“I will. Because I know who murdered Clyde Osgood and Howard Bronson, and you don’t.”

Barrow straightened. Waddell stared. I grinned, and wished Basil was there to tell me which spoon the bean was under.

“Furthermore,” Wolfe went on quietly, “there is a very slim chance that you could ever find out, and no chance at all that you would ever be able to prove it. I have already found out, and I shall soon have proof. Under the circumstances, I should say it is even your duty to listen to me.”

Barrow snapped, “I’d suggest having a judge listen to you.”

“Pfui. For shame, Captain! You mean threaten me with the same treatment you have given Mr. Goodwin? I merely tell the judge I blathered. If he proves to be also an imbecile and holds me, I procure bail and then what do you do? You are helpless. I assure you—”

Waddell exploded, “It’s a goddam cheap bluff!”

Wolfe grimaced. “Please, sir. My reputation … but no, I have too much respect for my reputation—”

“You say you
know
who murdered Clyde Osgood? And Bronson?”

“I do.”

“Then by God you’re right. I’ll say I’ll listen to you.” Waddell sat down and pulled his phone over, and after a moment barked into it, “Send Phillips in.”

Wolfe raised his brows. “Phillips?”

“Stenographer.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Oh, no. You misunderstand. I only came for Mr. Goodwin. I need him.”

“You do? So do we. We’re keeping him. I repeat to you what I’ve told him, if there’s an application for bail I’ll oppose it.”

The door opened and a young man with pimples appeared. Waddell nodded at him and he took a chair, opened his notebook, poised his pen, and inquired, “Names?” Waddell muttered at him, “Later. Take it.”

Wolfe, disregarding the performance, said in a satisfied tone, “Now we’ve arrived at the point. It’s Mr. Goodwin I want. If you hadn’t eluded me last night I’d have got him then. Here are the alternatives for you to choose from. It is simplified for me by the fact that the sheriff, Mr. Lake, happens to be a protégé of Mr. Osgood’s, while you are not. I understand you and Mr. Lake are inclined to pull in opposite directions.

“First. Release Mr. Goodwin at once. With his help I shall shortly have my proof perfected, and I’ll deliver it to you, with the murderer, alive or dead.

“Second. Refuse to release Mr. Goodwin. Keep him. Without his help and therefore with more difficulty, I’ll get the proof anyway, and it and the murderer will go to Mr. Lake. I am told that the
Crowfield Daily Journal
will be glad to cooperate with him and see that a full and correct account of his achievement is published, which is fortunate, for the public deserves to know what it gets for the money it pays its servants. It’s a stroke of luck for you that you have Mr. Goodwin. But for that, I wouldn’t be bothering with you at all.”

Wolfe regarded the district attorney inquiringly. “Your choice, sir?”

I grinned. “He means take your pick.”

Barrow growled at me, “Close your trap.”

Waddell declared, “I still think it’s a bluff.”

Wolfe lifted his shoulders a quarter of an inch and dropped them. “Then it’s Mr. Lake.”

“You said you know who murdered Clyde Osgood
and Howard Bronson. Do you mean one man committed both crimes?”

“That won’t do. You get information after my assistant is released, not before,—and when I’m ready to give it.”

“In a year or two, huh?”

“Hardly that long. Say within 24 hours. Less than that, I hope.”

“And you actually know who the murderer is and you’ve got evidence?”

“Yes, to the first. I’ll have satisfactory evidence.”

“What kind of evidence?”

Wolfe shook his head. “I tell you it won’t do. I’m not playing a guessing game, and I won’t be pumped.”

“Convincing evidence?”

“Conclusive.”

Waddell sat back, pulled at his ear, and said nothing. Finally he turned to the stenographer and told him, “Give me that notebook and beat it.” That command having been obeyed, he sat again a minute and then looked at Barrow and demanded sourly, “What about it, Captain? What the hell are we going to do?”