The Rubber Band (6 page)

“Good. Satisfactory again. May we open it. Miss Fox?”

“Certainly.”

I got up to help. Saul and I pulled off the fancy gray tape and took the lid off. Standing, we were the only ones who could see in. I said, “It’s a thousand roses.”

Clara Fox jumped up to look. I reached in the box and picked up an envelope and took a card from the envelope. I squinted at it—it was scrawly writing—and read it out, “Francis Horrocks?”

She nodded. “That’s my acquaintance. The man that ejected me for the Marquis of Clivers. He’s a young diplomat with a special knowledge of the Far East. Aren’t they beautiful? Look, Hilda. Smell. They are very nice.”

She carried them to Wolfe. “Aren’t they a beautiful color, Mr. Wolfe? Smell.” She looked at Mike Walsh, but he was asleep again, so she put the box back on the desk and sat down.

Wolfe was rubbing his nose which she had tickled with the roses. “Saul. Take those to the kitchen and have Fritz put them in water. Remain there. You must see my orchids. Miss Fox, but that can wait. Mr. Walsh! Archie, wake him, please.”

I reached out and gave Walsh a dig, and he jerked up and glared at me. He protested, “Hey! It’s too warm in here. I’m never as warm as this after supper.”

Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “If you please, Mr. Walsh. Miss Fox has been giving us some details, such as your recognition of the Marquis of Clivers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Sure.” Walsh pulled the rips of his fingers across his eyes, and stretched his eyes open. “What about it?”

“Did you recognize the Marquis of Clivers as George Rowley?”

“Sure I did. Who says I didn’t?”

“As yet, no one. Are you positive it was the same man?”

“Yes. I told you at the table, I’m always positive.”

“So you did. Among other things. You told me that through ancient habit, and on your post as a night watchman, you carry a gun. You also told me that you suspected Harlan Scovil of being an Englishman, and that all English blood was bad blood. Do you happen to have your gun with you? Could I see it?”

“I’ve got a license.”

“Of course. Could I see it? Just as a favor?”

Walsh growled something to himself, but after a moment’s hesitation he leaned forward and reached to his hip and pulled out a gat. He looked at it, and rubbed his left palm caressingly over the barrel, and then got up and poked the butt at Wolfe. Wolfe took it, glanced at it, and held it out to me. I gave it a mild inspection. It was an old Folwell.44. It was loaded, the cylinder full, and there was no smell of any recent activity around the muzzle. I glanced at Wolfe and caught his little nod, and returned the cannon to Mike Walsh, who caressed it again before he put it back in his pocket.

Clara Fox said, “Who’s wasting time now, Mr. Wolfe? You haven’t told us yet—”

Wolfe stopped her. “Don’t begin again. Miss Fox. Please. Give me a chance to earn my share of that million. Though I must confess that my opinion is that you might all of you sell out for a ten-dollar bill and call it a good bargain. What have you to go on? Really nothing. The paper which George Rowley signed was entrusted to Rubber Coleman, whom you have been unable to find. The only other basis for a legal claim would be a suit by the man called Turtle-back to recover the value of his horse, and since Mr. Walsh has told us that Turtle-back was over fifty years old in 189?, he is in all likelihood dead. There are only two methods by which you can get anything out of the Marquis of Clivers; one is to attempt to establish a legal claim by virtue of contract, for which you would need a lawyer, not a detective. You have yourself already done the detective work, quite thoroughly. The other method is to attempt to scare the marquis into paying you, through threat of public exposure of his past. That is an ancient and often effective method, technically known as blackmail. It is not—”

She interrupted him, cool but positive. “It isn’t blackmail to try to collect something from a man that he promised to pay.”

Wolfe nodded. ‘It’s a nice point. Morally he owes it. But where’s the paper he signed? Anyway, let me finish. I myself am in a quandary. When you first told me the nature of the commission you were offering me, I was prepared to decline it without much discussion. Then another element entered in, of which you are stall ignorant, which lent the affair fresh interest. Of course, interest is not enough; before that comes the question, who is going to pay me? I shall expect—”

Mike Walsh squawked, “Ten per cent!”

Clara Fox said, “I told you, Mr. Wolfe—”

“Permit me. I shall expect nothing exorbitant. It happens that my bank account is at present in excellent condition, and therefore my cupidity is comparatively dormant. Still, I have a deep aversion to working without getting paid for it. I have accepted you. Miss Fox, as my client. I may depend on you?”

She nodded impatiently. “Of course you may. What is the other element that entered in of which I am still ignorant?”

“Oh. That.” Wolfe’s half-closed eyes took in all three faces. “At twentyfive minutes to six this evening, less than five hours ago, on Thirty-first Street near Tenth Avenue, Harlan Scovil was shot and killed.”

Mike Walsh jerked up straight in his chair. They all gaped at Wolfe.

Wolfe said, “He was walking along the sidewalk, and someone going by in an automobile shot him five times. He was dead when a passerby reached him. The automobile has been found, empty of course, on Ninth Avenue.”

Clara Fox gasped incredulously, “Harlan Scovil!” Hilda Lindquist sat with her fists suddenly clenched and her lower lip pushing her upper lip toward her nose. Mike Walsh was glaring at Wolfe. He exploded suddenly, “Ye’re a howling idiot!”

Wolfe’s being called an idiot twice in one evening was certainly a record. I made a note to grin when I got time. Clara Fox was saying, “But Mr.Wolfe … it can’t … how can …”

Walsh went on exploding, “So you hear of some shooting, and you want to smell my gun? Ye’re an idiot! Of all the dirty—” He stopped himself suddenly and leaned on his hands on his knees, and his eyes narrowed. He looked pretty alert and competent for a guy seventy years old. “To hell with that. Where’s Harlan? I want to see him.”

Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Compose yourself, Mr. Walsh. All in time. As you see, Miss Fox, this is quite a complication.”

“It’s terrible. Why … it’s awful. He’s really killed?”

Hilda Lindquist spoke suddenly. “I didn’t want to come here. I told you that. I thought it was a wild goose chase. My father made me. I mean, he’s old and sick and he wanted me to come because he thought maybe we could get enough to save the farm.”

Wolfe nodded. “And now, of course …”

Her square chin stuck out. “Now I’m glad I came, I’ve often heard my father talk about Harlan Scovil. He would have been killed anyway, whether I came or not, and now I’m glad I’m here to help. You folks will have to tell me what to do, because I don’t know. But if that marquis thinks he can refuse to talk to us and then shoot us down on the street … we’ll see.”

“I haven’t said the marquis shot him. Miss Lindquist.”

“Who else did?”

I thought from her tone she was going to tell him not to be an idiot, but she let it go at that and looked at him.

Wolfe said, “I can’t tell you. But I have other details for you. This afternoon Harlan Scovil came to this office. He told Mr. Goodwin that he came in advance of the time for the interview to see what kind of a man I was. At twenty-six minutes after five, while he was waiting to see me, he received a telephone call from a man. He left at once. You remember that shortly after you arrived this evening a caller came and you were asked to go to the front room. The caller was a city detective. He informed us of the murder, described the corpse, and said that in his pocket had been found a paper bearing my name and address, and also the names of Clara Fox, Hilda Lindquist, Michael Walsh, and the Marquis of Clivers. Scovil had been shot just nine minutes after he received that phone call here and left the house.”

Clara Fox said, “I saw him write those names on the paper. He did it while he was eating lunch with me.”

“Just so. Mr. Walsh. Did you telephone Scovil here at five-twenty-six?”

“Of course not. How could I? That’s a damn fool question. I didn’t know he was here.”

“I suppose not. But I thought possibly Scovil had arranged to meet you here. When Scovil arrived it happened that there was another man in the office, one of my clients, and Scovil approached him and told him he wasn’t Mike Walsh.”

‘“Well, was he? I’m Mike Walsh, look at me. The only arrangement I had to meet him was at six o’clock, through Miss Fox. Shut up about it. I asked you where Harlan is. I want to see him.”

“In time, sir. Miss Fox. Did you telephone Scovil here?”

She shook her head. “No. Oh, no. I thought you said it was a man.”

“So it seemed. Fritz might possibly have been mistaken. Was it you who phoned. Miss Lindquist?”

“No. I haven’t telephoned anyone in New York except Clara.”

“Well.” Wolfe sighed. “You see the little difficulty, of course. Whoever telephoned knew that Scovil was in New York and knew he was at this office. Who knew that except you three?”

Hilda Lindquist said, “The Marquis of Clivers knew it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know it. I see it. Clara had been to see him and he had threatened to have her arrested for annoying him. He had detectives follow her, and they saw her this noon with Harlan Scovil, and they followed Harlan Scovil here and then notified the Marquis of Clivers. Then he telephoned—”

“Possible, Miss Lindquist. I admit it’s possible. If you substitute for the detective a member of the marquis’s entourage, even more possible. But granted that we rather like that idea, do you think the police will? A British peer, in this country on a government mission of the highest importance, murdering Harlan Scovil on Thirty-first Street? I have known quite a few policemen, and I am almost certain that idea wouldn’t appeal to them.”

Mike Walsh said, “To hell with the dumb Irish cops.”

Clara Fox asked, “The detective that was here … the one that told you about… about the shooting. Our names were on that paper. Why didn’t he want to see us?”

“He did. Badly. But I observed that there were no addresses on the paper except my own, so he is probably having difficulty. I decided not to mention that all of you happened to be here at the moment, because I wanted a talk with you and I knew he would monopolize your evening.”

“The detective at my apartment… he may have been there … about this …”

“No. There had hardly been time enough. Besides, there was one at the garage too.”

Clara Fox looked at him, and took a deep breath. “I seem to be in a fix.”

“Two fixes. Miss Fox.” Wolfe rang for beer. “But it is possible that before we are through we may be able to effect a merger.”

I only half heard that funny remark of Wolfe’s. Parts of my brain were skipping around from this to that and finding no place to settle down. As a matter of fact I had been getting more uncomfortable all evening, ever since Slim Foltz had told us the names on that paper and Wolfe had let him go without telling him that the three people he was looking for were sitting in our front room– He was working on a murder, and the fact that the name of a bird like that marquis was on that paper meant that they weren’t going to let anything slide. They would find those three people sooner or later, and when they learned where they had been at the time Slim Foltz called on us, they would be vexed.

There were already two or three devoted public servants who thought Wolfe was a little tricky, and it looked as if this was apt to give them entirely too much encouragement. I knew pretty well how Wolfe worked, and when he let Foltz go I had supposed he was going to have a little talk with our trio of visitors and then phone someone like Cramer at Headquarters or Dick Morley of the District Attorney’s office, and arrange for some interviews. But here it was past ten o’clock, and he was just going on with an interesting conversation. I didn’t like it.

I heard his funny remark though, about two fixes and effecting a merger. I got his idea, and that was one of the points my brain skipped to. I saw how there might possibly be a connection between the Rubber Band business and Clara Fox being framed for lifting the thirty grand. She had gone to this British gent and spilled her hand to him, and he had given her the chilly how now and had her put out. But he had been badly annoyed what. You might even say scared if he hadn’t been a nobleman. And a few days later the frame-up reared its ugly head. It would be interesting to find out if the Marquis of Clivers was acquainted with Mr. Muir, and if so to what extent.

Clara Fox had said Muir was a Scotchman, so you couldn’t depend on him any more than you could an Englishman, maybe not as much. As usual, Wolfe was ahead of me, but he hadn’t lost me, I was panting along behind.

Meanwhile I had to listen too, for the conversation hadn’t stopped. At the end of Wolfe’s remark about the merger, Mike Walsh suddenly stood up and announced, “I’ll be going.”

Wolfe looked at him. “Not just yet, Mr. Walsh. Be seated.”

But he stayed on his feet. “I’ve got to go. I want to see Harlan.”

“Mr. Scovil is dead. I beg you, sir. There are one or two points I must still explain.”

Walsh muttered, “I don’t like this. You see I don’t like it?” He glared at Wolfe, handed me the last half of it, and sat down on the edge of his chair.

Wolfe said, “It’s getting late. We are confronted by three distinct problems, and each one presents difficulties. First, the matter of the money missing from the office of the Seaboard Products Corporation. So far that appears to be the personal problem of Miss Fox, and I shall discuss it with her later.

Second, there is your joint project of collecting a sum of money from the Marquis of Clivers. Third, there is your joint peril resulting from the murder of Harlan Scovil.”

“Joint hell.” Walsh’s eyes were narrowed again. “Say we divide the peril up, mister. Along with the money.”

“If you prefer. But let us take the second problem first. I see no reason for abandoning the attack on the Marquis of Clivers because Mr. Scovil has met a violent death. In fact, that should persuade us to prosecute it. My advice would be this—Archie, your notebook. Take a letter to the Marquis of Clivers, to be signed by me. Salute him democratically,
‘Dear sir:

“‘I have been engaged by Mr. Victor Lindquist and his daughter. Miss Hilda Lindquist, as
the
ir agent to collect an amount which you have owed
the
m since 1895. In that year, in
Silver City
,
Nevada
, with your knowledge and consent, Mr. Lindquist purchased a horse from a man known as Turtleback, and furnished
the
horse to you for your use in an urgent private emergency. You signed a paper before your departure acknowledging
the
obligation, but of course your debt would remain a legal obligation without that.

M ‘At that time and place good horses were scarce and valuable; fur
the
rmore, for reasons peculiar to your situation, that horse was of extraordinary value to you at that moment. Miss Lindquist, representing her fa
the
r, states that that extraordinary value can be specified as $100,000. That amount is
the
refore due from you, with accrued interest at six per cent to date.

” ‘I trust that you will pay
the
amount due without delay and without forcing us to
the
necessity of legal action. I am not an attorney. If you prefer to make
the
payment through attorneys representing both sides, we shall be glad to make that arrangement.’”

Wolfe leaned back. “All right. Miss Lindquist?”

She was frowning at him. “He can’t pay with money for murdering Harlan Scovil.”

“Certainly not. But one thing at a time. I should explain that this claim has no legal standing, since it has expired by time, but the marquis might not care to proceed to that defense in open legal proceedings. We are on the fringe of blackmail, but our hearts are pure. I should also explain that at sixper-cent compound interest money doubles itself in something like twelve years, and that the present value of that claim as I have stated it in the letter is something over a million dollars. A high price for a horse, but we are only using it to carry us to a point of vantage. This has your approval. Miss Fox?”

Clara Fox was looking bad. Sitting there with the fingers of one hand curled tight around the fingers of the other, she wasn’t nearly as cool and sweet as she had been that afternoon when Muir had declared right in front of her that she was a sneak thief.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think we want … no, Mr. Wolfe. I’m just realizing … it’s my fault Mr. Scovil was killed. I started all this. Just for that money … no! Don’t send that letter. Don’t do anything.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe drank some beer, and put the glass down with his usual deliberation. “It would seem that murder is sometimes profitable, after all.”

Her fingers tightened. “Profitable?”

“Obviously. If, as seems likely, Harlan Scovil was killed by someone involved in this Rubber Band business, the murderer probably had two ends in view; to remove Scovil and to frighten the rest of you. To scare you off.

He appears to have accomplished both purposes. Good for him.”

“We’re not scared off.”

“You’re ready to quit.”

Hilda Lindquist put in, with her chin up, “Not me. Send that letter.”

“Miss Fox?”

She pulled her shoulders in, and out again. “All right. Send it.”

“Mr. Walsh?”

“Deal me out. You said you wanted to explain something.”

“So I did.” Wolfe emptied his glass. “We’ll send the letter, then. The third problem remains. I must call your attention to these facts: First, the police are at this moment searching for all three of you—in your case, Miss Fox, two separate assignments of police. Second, the police are capable of concluding that the murderer of Harlan Scovil is someone who knew him or knew of him, and was in this neighborhood this evening. Third, it is probable that there is no one in New York who ever heard of Harlan Scovil except you three and Clivers; or, if there is such a one, it is not likely that the police will discover him—in fact, the idea will not occur to them until they have exhausted all possibilities in connection with you three. Fourth, when they find you and question you, they will suspect you not only of knowledge of Scovil’s murder, but also of some preposterous plot against Lord Clivers, since his name was on that paper.

“Fifth. When they question you, there will be three courses open to you. You may tell the truth, in which case your wild and extravagant tale will reinforce their suspicions and will be enough to convict you of almost anything, even murder. Or you may try to tone your tale down, tell only a little and improvise to fill in the gaps, whereupon they will catch you in lies and go after you harder than ever. Or you may assert your constitutional rights and refuse to talk at all; if you do that they will incarcerate you as material witnesses and hold you without bail. As you see, it is a dilemma with three horns and none of them attractive. As Miss Fox put it, you’re in a fix. And any of the three courses will render you hors de combat for any further molestation of the Marquis of Clivers.”

Hilda Lindquist’s chin was way up in the air. Mike Walsh was leaning forward with his eyes on Wolfe narrower than ever. Clara Fox had stopped squeezing her hand and had her lips pressed tight She opened them to say, “All right. We’re game. Which do we do?”

“None.” Wolfe sighed. “None of those. Confound it, I was bom romantic and 1 shall never recover from it. But, as I have said, I expect to be paid. I hope I have made it clear that it will not do for the police to find you until we are ready for them to. Have I demonstrated that?”

The two women asked simultaneously, “Well?”

“Well … Archie, bring Saul.”

I jumped from habit and not from enthusiasm. I was half sore. I didn’t like it. I found Saul in the kitchen drinking port wine and telling Fred and Fritz stories, and led him to the office. He stood in front of Wolfe’s desk.

“Yes, sir.”

Wolfe spoke, not to him. “Miss Lindquist, this is Mr. Saul Panzer. I would trust him further than might be thought credible. He is himself a bachelor, but has acquaintances who are married and possibly even friends, with the usual living quarters—an apartment or a house. Have you anything to say to him?”

But the Lindquist mind was slow. She didn’t get it. Clara Fox asked Wolfe, “May I?”

“Please do.”

She turned to Saul. “Miss Lindquist would like to be in seclusion for a while—a few days—she doesn’t know how long. She thought you might know of a place … one of your friends …”

Saul nodded. “Certainly, Miss Lindquist.” He turned to Wolfe. “Is there a warrant out?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Shall I give the address to Archie?”

“By no means. If I need to communicate with Miss Lindquist I can do so through General Delivery. She can notify me on the telephone what branch.”

“Shall we go out the back way onto Thirty-fourth Street?”

“I was about to suggest it. When you are free again, return here. Tonight.”

Wolfe moved his eyes. “Is there anything of value in your luggage at the hotel. Miss Lindquist?”

She was standing up. She shook her head. “Not much. No.”

“Have you any money?”

“I have thirty-eight dollars and my ticket home.”

“Good. Opulence. Good night. Miss Lindquist. Sleep well.”

Clara Fox was up too. She went to the other woman and put her hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. “Good night, Hilda. It’s rotten, but … keep your chin up.”

Hilda Lindquist said in a loud voice, “Good night, everybody,” and turned and followed Saul Panzer out of the room. In a few seconds I could hear their footsteps on the stairs leading down to the basement, where a door opened onto the court in the rear. We were all looking at Wolfe, who was opening a bottle of beer. I was thinking, the old lummox certainly fancies he’s putting on a hot number, I suppose he’ll send Miss Fox to board with his mother in Buda Pesth. It looked to me like he was stepping off over his head.

He looked at Mike Walsh. “Now, sir, your turn. I note your symptoms of disapproval, but we are doing the best we can. In the kitchen is a man named Fred Durkin, whom you have seen. Within his capacity, he is worthy of your trust and mine. I would suggest—”

“I don’t want any Durkin.” Walsh was on his feet again. “I don’t want anything from you at all. I’ll just be going.”

“But Mr. Walsh.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Believe me, it will not pay to be headstrong. I am not by nature an alarmist, but there are certain features of this affair—”

“So I notice.” Walsh stepped up to the desk. “The features is what I don’t like about it.” He looked at Clara Fox, then at me, then at Wolfe, letting us know what the features were. “I may be past me prime, but I’m not in a box yet. What kind of a shenanigan would ye like to try on an old man, huh? I’m to go out and hide, am I? Do I get to ask a question or two?”

“That’s three.” Wolfe sighed. “Go ahead.”

Walsh whirled on me. “You, Goodwin’s your name? Was it you that answered the phone yesterday, the call that came for Harlan Scovil?”

“No.” I grinned at him. “I wasn’t here.”

“Where was you?”

“At the office of the Seaboard Products Corporation, where Miss Fox works.”

“Ha! Was you indeed. You wasn’t here. I suppose it couldn’t have been you that phoned here to Harlan.”

“Sure it could have, but it wasn’t. Listen, Mr. Walsh—”

“I’ve listened enough. I’ve been listening to this Clara Fox for a year and looking at her pretty face, and I had no reason to doubt her maybe, and this is what’s come out of it, I’ve helped lead my old friend Harlan Scovil into an ambush to his death. My old friend Harlan.” He stopped abrupdy, and shut his lips tight, and looked around at us while a big fat tear suddenly popped out of each of his eyes and rolled on down, leaving a mark across his wrinkles. He went on, “I ate a meal with you. A meal and three drinks. Maybe I’d like to puke it up someday. Or maybe you’re all square shooters, I don’t know, but I know somebody ain’t, and I’m going to find out who it is. What’s this about them being after Miss Fox for stealing money? I can find out about that too. And if I want anything collected from this English Marquis nobleman, I can collect it myself. Good night to ye all.” He turned and headed for the door.

Wolfe snapped, “Get him, Archie.”

Remembering the gun on his hip, I went and folded myself around him and locked him. He let out a snarl and tried some twisting and unloosed a couple of kicks at my shins, but in four seconds he had sense enough to see it was no go. He quivered a little and then stood quiet, but I kept him tight.