THE
SECOND
CONFESSION
Chapter One
“I didn't mind it at all.” our visitor said gruffly but affably. “It's a
pleasure.” He glanced around. “I like rooms that men work in.
This is a good one.”
I was still swallowing my surprise that he actually looked like
a miner, at least my idea of one, with his big bones and rough
weathered skin and hands that would have been right at home
around a pick handle. Certainly swinging a pick was not what he
got paid for as chairman of the board of the Continental Mines
Corporation, which had its own building down on Nassau Street
not far from Wall.
I was also surprised at the tone he was using. When, the
day before, a masculine voice had given a name on the phone and
asked when Nero Wolfe could call at his office, and I had explained
why I had to say never, and it had ended by arranging
an appointment at Wolfe's office for eleven the next morning. I
had followed up with a routine check on a prospective client by
calling Lon Cohen at the Gazette. Lon had told me that the only
reason James U. Sperling didn't bite ears off was because he took
whole heads and ate them bones and all. But there he was, slouching
in the red leather chair near the end of Wolfe's desk like a big
friendly roughneck, and I've just told you what he said when
Wolfe started the conversation by explaining that he never left
the office on business and expressing a regret that Sperling had
had to come all the way to our place on West Thirty-fifth
Street nearly to Eleventh Avenue. He said it was a pleasure!
“It will do,” Wolfe murmured in a gratified tone. He was behind
his desk, leaning back in his custom-made chair, which was
warranted safe for a quarter of a ton and which might some day
really be put to the test if its owner didn't level off. He added,
“If you'll tell me what your problem is perhaps I can make your
trip a good investment.”
Seated at my own desk, at a right angle to Wolfe's and not far
away, I allowed myself a mild private grin. Since the condition
of his bank balance did not require the use of sales pressure to
snare a client, I knew why he was spreading the sugar. He was
merely being sociable because Sperling had said he liked the office.
Wolfe didn't like the office, which was on the first floor of the old
brownstone house he owned. He didn't like it, he loved it, and it
was a good thing he did, since he was spending his life in it—except
when he was in the kitchen with Fritz, or in the diningroom
across the hall at mealtime, or upstairs asleep, or in the
plant rooms up on the roof, enjoying the orchids and pretending
he was helping Theodore with the work.
My private grin was interrupted by Sperling firing a question
at me: “Your name's Goodwin, isn't it? Archie Goodwin?”
I admitted it. He went to Wolfe.
“It's a confidential matter.”
Wolfe nodded. “Most matters discussed in this office are. That's
commonplace in the detective business. Mr Goodwin and I are
used to it.”
“It's a family matter.”
Wolfe frowned, and I joined him. With that opening it was a
good twenty-to-one shot that we were going to be asked to tail
a wife, and that was out of bounds for us. But James U. Sperling
went on.
“I tell you that because you'd learn it anyhow.” He put a hand
to the inside breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a bulky
envelope. “These reports will tell you that much. They're from
the Bascom Detective Agency. You know them?”
“I know Mr Bascom.” Wolfe was still frowning. “I don't like
ground that's been tramped over.”
Sperling went right on by. “I had used them on business
matters and found them competent, so I went to Bascom with
this. I wanted information about a man named Rony, Louis
Rony, and they've been at it a full month and they haven't got it,
and I need it urgently. Yesterday I decided to call them off and
try you. I've looked you up, and if you've earned your reputation
“I should have come to you first.” He smiled like an angel,
surprising me again, and convincing me that he would stand
watching. “Apparently you have no equal.”
Wolfe grunted, trying not to look pleased. “There was a man
in Marseilles—but he's not available and he doesn't speak
English, What information do you want about Mr Rony?”
“I want proof that he's a Communist. If you get it and get it
soon, your bill can be whatever you want to make it.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I don't take jobs on those terms. You
don't know he's a Communist, or you wouldn't be bidding so
high for proof. If he isn't, I can't very well get evidence that he
is. As for my bill being whatever I want to make it, my bills
always are. But I charge for what I do, and I can do nothing that
is excluded by circumstance. What I dig up is of necessity
contingent on what has been buried, but the extent of my digging
isn't, nor my fee.”
“You talk too much,” Sperling said impatiently but not
impolitely.
“Do I?” Wolfe cocked an eye at him. “Then you talk,” He
nodded sidewise at me. “Your notebook, Archie.”
The miner waited until I had it ready, open at a fresh page,
and then spoke crisply, starting with a spelling lesson. “L-o-u-i-s.
R-o-n-y. He's in the Manhattan phone book, both his law office
and his home, his apartment—and anyway, it's all in that.” He
indicated the bulky envelope, which he had tossed on to Wolfe's
desk. “I have two daughters. Madeline is twenty-six and Gwenn is
twenty-two. Gwenn was smart enough to graduate with honours
at Smith a year ago, and I'm almost sure she's sane, but she's
too damn curious and she turns her nose up at rules. She hasn't
worked her way out of the notion that you can have independence
without earning it. Of course it's all right to be romantic at her
age, but she overdoes it, and I think what first attracted her to
this man Rony was his reputation as a champion of the weak and
downtrodden, which he has got by saving criminals from the
punishment they deserve.”
“I think I've seen his name,” Wolfe murmured. “Haven't I,
Archie?”
I nodded. “So have I. It was him that got What's-her-name,
that baby peddler, out from under a couple of months ago. He
seems to be on his way to the front page.”
“Or to jail,” Sperling snapped, and there was nothing angelic
about his tone. “I think I handled this wrong, and I'm damned
sure my wife did. It was the same old mistake, and God only
knows why parents go on making it. We even told her, and him
too, that he would no longer be admitted into our home, and of
course you know what the reaction was to that. The only concession
she made, and I doubt if that was to us, was never to
come home after day-light.”
“Is she pregnant?” Wolfe inquired.
Sperling stiffened. “What did you say?” His voice was suddenly
as hard as the hardest ore ever found in any mine. Unquestionably
he expected it to crush Wolfe into pretending he hadn't
opened his mouth, but it didn't.
“I asked if your daughter is pregnant. If the question is immaterial
I withdraw it, but surely it isn't preposterous unless she
also turns her nose up at natural laws.”
“She is my daughter,” Sperling said in the same hard tone. Then
suddenly his rigidity gave way. All the stiff muscles loosened,
and he was laughing. When he laughed he roared, and he really
meant it. In a moment he controlled it enough to speak. “Did you
hear what I said?” he demanded.
Wolfe nodded. “If I can believe my ears.”
“You can.” Sperling smiled like an angel. “I suppose with any
man that's one of his tenderest spots, but I might be expected to
remember that I am not just any man. To the best of my knowledge
my daughter is not pregnant, and she would have a right
to be astonished if she were. That's not it. A little over a month
ago my wife and I decided to correct the mistake we had made,
and she told Gwenn that Rony would be welcome at our home
as often as she wanted him there. That same day I put Bascom
on to him. You're quite right that I can't prove he's a Communist
or I wouldn't have had to come to you, but I'm convinced that he
is.”
“What convinced you?”
“The way he talks, the way I've sized him up, the way he
practises his profession—and there are things in Bascom's reports,
you'll see that when you read them—”
“But Mr Bascom got no proof.”
“No. Damn it.”
“Whom do you call a Communist? A liberal? A pink intellectual?
A member of the party? How far left do you start?”
Sperling smiled. “It depends on where I am and who I'm talking
to. There are occasions when it may be expedient to apply the
term to anyone left of centre. But to you I'm using it realistically.
I think Rony is a member of the Communist Party.”
“If and when you get proof, what are you going to do with it?”
“Show it to my daughter. But it has to be proof. She already
knows what I think; I told her long ago. Of course she told
Rony, and he looked me in the eye and denied it.”
Wolfe grunted. “You may be wasting your time and money.
Even if you get proof, what if it turns out that your daughter
regards a Communist card as a credential for romance?”
“She doesn't. Her second year in college she got interested in
communism and went into it, but it didn't take her long to pull
out. She says it's intellectually contemptible and morally unsound.
I told you she's smart enough.” Sperling's eyes darted to
me and went back to Wolfe. “By the way, what about you and
Goodwin? As I said, I looked you up, but is there any chance
I'm putting my foot in it?”
“No,” Wolfe assured him. “Though of course only the event
can certify us. We agree with your daughter.” He looked at me.
“Don't we?”
I nodded. “Completely. I like the way she put it The best I can
do is ‘a Commie is a louse’ or something like that.”
Sperling looked at me suspiciously, apparently decided that I
merely had IQ trouble, and returned to Wolfe, who was talking.
“Exactly what,” he was asking, “is the situation? Is there a
possibility that your daughter is already married to Mr Rony?”
“Good God no!”
“How sure are you?”
“I'm sure. That's absurd—but of course you don't know her.
There's no sneak in her—and anyhow, if she decides to marry
him she'll tell me—or her mother—before she tells him. That's
how she'd do it—” Sperling stopped abruptly and set his jaw. In
a moment he let it loose and went on, “And that's what I'm afraid
of, every day now. If she once commits herself it's all over. I tell
you it's urgent. It's damned urgent!”
Wolfe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Sperling
regarded him a while, opened his mouth and closed it again, and
looked at me inquiringly. I shook my head at him. When, after
another couple of minutes, he began making and unmaking fists
with his big bony hands, I reassured him.
“It's okay. He never sleeps in the daytime. His mind works
better when he can't see me.”
Finally Wolfe's lids went up and he spoke. “If you hire me,” he
told Sperling, “it must be clear what for. I can't engage to get
proof that Mr Rony is a Communist, but only to find out if proof
exists,” and, if it does, get it if possible. I'm willing to undertake
that, but it seems an unnecessary restriction. Can't we define it a
little better? As I understand it, you want your daughter to
abandon all thought of marrying Mr Rony and stop inviting him
to your home. That's your objective. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why restrict my strategy? Certainly I can try for proof
that he's a Communist, but what if he isn't? Or what if he is but
we can't prove it to your daughter's satisfaction? Why limit the
operation to that one hope, which must be rather forlorn if Mr
Bascom has spent a month at it and failed? Why not hire me to
reach your objective, no matter how—of course within the
bounds permitted to civilized man? I would have a much clearer
conscience in accepting your retainer, which will be a cheque
for five thousand dollars.”
Sperling was considering. “Damn it, he's a Communist'
“I know. That's your fixed idea and it must be humoured. I'll
try that first. But do you want to exclude all else?”
“No. No, I don't.”
“Good. And I have—yes, Fritz?”
The door to the hall had opened and Fritz was there.
“Mr Hewitt, sir. He says he has an appointment. I seated him in
the front room.”
“Yes.” Wolfe glanced at the clock on the wall. “Tell him I'll see
him in a few minutes.” Fritz went, and Wolfe returned to
Sperling.
“And I have correctly stated your objective?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then after I've read Mr Bascom's reports I'll communicate
with you. Good day, sir. I'm glad you like my office—”
“But this is urgent! You shouldn't waste an hour!”
“I know.” Wolfe was trying to stay polite. “That's another
characteristic of matters discussed in this office—urgency. I now
have an appointment, and shall then eat lunch, and from two to
four I shall be working with my plants. But your affair need not
wait on that. Mr Goodwin will read the reports immediately, and
after lunch he will go to your office to get all required details—say
two o'clock?”
James U. Sperling didn't like it at all. Apparently he was set to
devote the day to arranging to save his daughter from a fate
worse than death, not even stopping for meals. He was so displeased
that he merely grunted an affirmative when, as I let him
out the front door, I courteously reminded him that he was to
expect me at his office at 2.15 and that he could save himself
the trouble of mailing the cheque by handing it to me then. I took
time out for a brief survey of the long black Wethersill limousine
waiting for him at the curb before I returned to the office.
The door to the front room was open and Wolfe's and Hewitt's
voices came through. Since their mutual interest was up in the
plant rooms and they wouldn't be using the office, I got the bulky
envelope Sperling had left on Wolfe's desk and made myself
comfortable to read Bascom's reports.
Chapter Two
A couple of hours later, at five to two, Wolfe returned his empty
coffee cup to the saucer, pushed his chair back, got all of him
upright, walked out of the dining-room, and headed down the
hall toward his elevator. I, having followed, called to his half an
acre of back, “How about three minutes in the office first?”
He turned. “I thought you were going to see that man with a
daughter.”
“I am, but you won't talk business during meals, and I read
Bascom's reports, and I've got questions.”
He was stuck, because it was only one fifty-seven and his sacred
schedule didn't justify his departure for the plant rooms for three
minutes yet. But he shot a glance at the door to the office, saw
how far away it was, growled, “All right, come on up,” and turned
and made for the elevator.
If he has his rules, so do I, and one of mine is that a three-by-four
private elevator with Wolfe in it does not need me too, so
I took the stairs. One flight up was Wolfe's bedroom and a spare.
Two flights up was my bedroom and another spare. The third
flight put me on the roof. There was no dazzling blaze of light, as
in winter, since this was June and the shade slats were all rolled
down, but there was a blaze of colour from the summer bloomers,
especially in the middle room. Of course I saw it every day, and I
had business on my mind, but even so I slowed up as I passed
a bench of white and yellow Dendrobium bensoniae that were
just at their peak.
Wolfe was in the potting room, taking his coat off, with a
scowl all ready for me.
“Two things,” I told him curtly. “First, Bascom not only—”
He was outer. “Did Mr Bascom get any lead at all to the
Communist Party?”
“No. But he—”
“Then he got nothing for us.” Wolfe was rolling up his shirt
sleeves. “We'll discuss his reports after I've read them. Did he
have good men on it?”
“He sure did. His best.”
“They why should I hire an army to stalk the same phantom,
even with Mr Sperling's money? You know what that amounts
to, trying to track a Communist down, granting that he is one—especially
when what is wanted is not presumption, but proof.
Bah. A will-o'-the-wisp. I defined the objective and Mr Sperling
agreed. See him and get details, yes. Get invited to his home,
socially. Meet Mr Rony, and form an opinion of him. More
important, form one of the daughter, as intimately and comprehensively
as possible. Make appointments with her. Seize and
hold her attention. You should be able to displace Mr Rony in
a week, a fortnight at the most—and that's the objective.”
“I'll be damned.” I shook my head reproachfully. “You mean
make a pass at her.”
“Your terms are yours, and I prefer mine. Mr Sperling said his
daughter is excessively curious. Transfer her curiosity from Mr
Rony to you.”
“You mean break her heart.”
“You can stop this side of tragedy.”
“Yeah, and I can stop this side of starting.” I looked righteous
and outraged. “You've gone a little too far. I like being a detective,
and I like being a man, with all that implies, but I refuse to
degrade whatever glamour I may—”
“Archie!” He snapped it.
“Yes, sir.”
“With how many young women whom you met originally
through your association with my business have you established
personal relationships?”
“Between five and six thousand. But that's not—
“I'm merely suggesting that you reverse the process and establish
the personal relationship first. What's wrong with that?”
“Everything.” I shrugged. “Okay. Maybe nothing. It depends.
I'll take a look at her.”
“Good. You're going to be late.” He started for the supply
shelves.
I raised my voice a little. “However, I've still got a question, or
two, rather. Bascom's boys had a picnic trying to tail Rony. The
first time out, before anything could have happened to make him
suspicious, he had his nose up and pulled a fade. From then on
not only did they have to use only the best, but often even that
wasn't good enough. He knew the whole book and some extra
chapters. He may or may not be a Communist, but he didn't
learn all that in Sunday school.”
“Pfui. He's a lawyer, isn't he?” Wolfe said contemptuously. He
took a can of Elgetrol from the shelf and began shaking it.
“Confound it, let me alone.”
“I will in a minute. The other thing, three different times,
times when they didn't lose him, he went into Bischoff's Pet Shop
on Third Avenue and stayed over an hour, and he doesn't keep
any pets.”
Wolfe stopped shaking the can of Elgetrol. He looked at it as
if he didn't know what it was, hesitated, put the can back on the
shelf, and looked at me.
“Oh,” he said, not curtly. “He did?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wolfe looked around, saw the oversized chair in its place, and
went to it and sat down.
I wasn't gratified at having impressed him. In fact, I would
have preferred to pass the chance up, but I hadn't dared. I
remembered too well a voice—a hard, slow, precise voice, cold
as last week's corpse—which I had heard only three times
altogether, on the telephone. The first time had been in January
1946, and the second and third had been more than two years
later, while we were looking for the poisoner of Cyril Orchard.
Furthermore, I remembered the tone of Wolfe's voice when he
said to me, when we had both hung up after the second phone
call, “I should have signalled you off, Archie, as soon as I
recognized his voice. I tell you nothing because it is better for you to
know nothing. You are to forget that you know his name. If
ever, in the course of my business, I find that I am committed
against him and must destroy him, I shall leave this house, find a
place where I can work—and sleep and eat if there is time for
it—and stay there until I have finished.”
I have seen Wolfe tangle with some tough bozos in the years
I've been with him, but none of them has ever had him talking
like that.
Now he was sitting glaring at me as if I had put vinegar on his
caviar.
“What do you know about Bischoff's Pet Shop?” he demanded.
“Nothing to speak of. I only know that last November, when
Bischoff came to ask you to take on a job, you told him you were
too busy and you weren't, and when he left and I started beefing
you told me that you were no more eager to be committed for
Arnold Zeck than against him. You didn't explain how you knew
that that pet shop is a branch of Zeck's far-flung shenanigans,
and I didn't ask.”
“I told you once to forget that you know his name.”
Then you shouldn't have reminded me of it. Okay, I'll forget
again. So I'll go down and phone Sperling that you're too busy
and call it off. He hasn't—”
“No. Go and see him. You're late.”
I was surprised. “But what the hell? What's wrong with my
deducting? If Rony went three times in a month to that pet shop,
and probably more, and stayed over an hour, and doesn't keep
pets, and I deduce that he is presumably an employee or something
of the man whose name I forget, what—”
“Your reasoning is quite sound. But this is different. I was
aware of Mr Bischoff's blemish, no matter how, when he came
to me and refused him. I fiave engaged myself to Mr Sperling,
and how can I scuttle?” He looked up at the clock. “You'd better
go' He sighed. “If it could be managed to keep one's self-esteem
without paying for it...”
He went and got the can of Elgetrol and started shaking it, and
I headed out.
Chapter Three
That was two o'clock Thursday. At two o'clock Saturday, forty-eight
hours later, I was standing in the warm sunshine on a slab
of white marble as big as my bedroom, flicking a bright blue
towel as big as my bathroom, to chase a fly off one of Gwenn
Sperling's bare legs. Not bad for a rake's progress, even though I
was under an assumed name. I was now Andrew instead of
Archie. When I had told Sperling of Wolfe's suggestion that I
should meet the family, not of course displaying Wolfe s blueprint,
and he had objected to disclosing me to Rony, I had
explained that we would use hired help for tailing and similar
routine, and that I would have a try at getting Rony to like me.
He bought it without haggling and invited me to spend the weekend
at Stony Acres, his country place up near Chappaqua, but
said I'd have to use another name because he was pretty sure his
wife and son and elder daughter, Madeline, knew about Archie
Goodwin. I said modestly that I doubted it, and insisted on keeping
the Goodwin because it was too much of a strain tc keep
remembering to answer to something else, and we settled for
changing Archie to Andrew. That would fit the A. G. on the bag
Wolfe had given me for my birthday, which I naturally wanted
to have along because it was caribou hide and people should
see it.
The items in Bascom's reports about Louis Rony's visits to
Bischoff's pet shop had cost Sperling some dough. If it hadn't
been for that Wolfe would certainly have let Rony slide until I
reported on my week-end, since it was a piddling little job and
had no interest for him except the fee, and since he had a sneaking
idea that women came on a lope from every direction when
I snapped my fingers, which was foolish because it often takes
more than snapping your fingers. But when I got back from my
call on Sperling on Thursday afternoon Wolfe had already been
busy on the phone, getting Saul Panzer and Fred Durkin and
Orrie Gather, and when they came to the office Friday morning
for briefing Saul was assigned to a survey of Rony's past, after
reading Bascom, and Fred and Orrie were given special instructions
for fancy tailing. Obviously what Wolfe was doing was
paying for his self-esteem—or letting Sperling pay for it. He had
once told Arnold Zeck, during their third and last phone talk,
that when he undertook an investigation he permitted prescription
of limits only by requirements of the job, and now he was
leaning backward. If Rony's pet shop visits really meant that he
was on one of Zeck's payrolls, and if Zeck was still tacking up his
KEEP OFF signs, Nero Wolfe had to make it plain that no
one was roping him off. We've got our pride. So Saul and Fred and
Orrie were at it.
So was I, the next morning, Saturday, driving north along the
winding Westchester parkways, noticing that the trees seemed to
have more leaves than they knew what to do with, keeping my
temper when some dope of a snail stuck to the left lane as if he
had built it, doing a little snappy passing now and then just, to
keep my hand in, dipping down off the parkway on to a secondary
road, following it a couple of miles as directed, leaving it to turn
into a gravelled drive between ivy-covered stone pillars, winding
through a park and assorted horticultural exhibits until I broke
cover and saw the big stone mansion, stopping at what looked as
if it might be the right spot, and telling a middle-aged sad looking
guy in a mohair uniform that I was the photographer they
were expecting.
Sperling and I had decided that I was the son of a business
associate who was concentrating on photography, and who
wanted pictures of Stony Acres for a corporation portfolio, for
two reasons: first, because I had to be something, and second,
because I wanted some good shots of Louis Rony.
Four hours later, having met everybody and had lunch and
used both cameras all over the place in as professional a manner
as I could manage, I was standing at the edge of the swimming
pool, chasing a fly off Gwenn's leg. We were both dripping,
having just climbed out.
“Hey,” she said, “the snap of that towel is worse than a fly
bite—if there was a fly.”
I assured her there had been.
“Well, next time show it to me first and maybe I can handle it
myself. Do that dive from the high board again, will you?
Where's the Leica?”
She had been a pleasant surprise. From what her father had
said I had expected an intellectual treat in a plain wrapper, but
the package was attractive enough to take your attention off the
contents. She was not an eye-stopper, and there was no question
about her freckles, and while there was certainly nothing wrong
with her face it was a little rounder than I would specify if I
were ordering a la carte; but she was not in any way hard to
look at, and those details which had been first disclosed when she
appeared in her swimming rig were completely satisfactory. I
would never have seen the fly if I had not been looking where it
lit.
I did the dive again and damn near pancaked. When I was
back on the marble, wiping my hair back, Madeline was there,
saying, “What are you trying to do, Andy, break your back? You
darned fool!”
“I'm making an impression,” I told her. “Have you got a trapeze
anywhere? I can hang by my toes.
“Of course you can. I know your repertory better than you
think I do. Come and sit down and I'll mix you a drink.”
Madeline was going to be in my way a little, in case I decided
to humour Wolfe by trying to work on Gwenn. She was more
spectacular than Gwenn, with her slim height and just enough
curves not to call anywhere flat, her smooth dark oval face, and
her big dark eyes which she liked tc keep half shut so she could
suddenly open them on you and let you have it. I already knew
that her husband was dead, having been shot down in a B-17
over Berlin in 1943, that she thought she had seen all there was
but might be persuaded to try another look, that she liked the
name Andy, and that she thought there was just a chance that I
nught know a funny story she hadn't heard. That was why she
was going to be in my way a little.
I went and sat with her on a bench in the sun, but she didn't
mix me a drink because three men were gathered around the refreshment
cart and one of them attended to it—James U.
Sperling, Junior. He was probably a year or two older than
Madeline and resembled his father hardly at all. There was
nothing about his slender straightness or his nice smooth tanned
skin or his wide spoiled mouth that would have led anyone to
say he looked like a miner. I had never seen him before but had
heard a little of him. I couldn't give you a quote, but my vague
memory was that he was earnest and serious about learning to
make himself useful in the corporation his father headed, and he
frequently beat it to Brazil or Nevada or Arizona to see how
mining was done, but he got tired easy and had to return to New
York to rest, and he knew lots of people in New York willing to
help him rest.
The two men with him at the refreshment cart were guests.
Since our objective was confined to Rony and Gwenn I hadn't
bothered with the others except to be polite, and I wouldn't be
dragging them in if it wasn't that later on they called for some
attention. Also it was beginning to look as if they could stand a
little attention right then, on account of a situation that appeared
to be developing, so the field of my interest was spreading out a
little. If I ever saw a woman make a pass, Mrs Paul Emerson,
Connie to her friends and enemies, was making one at Louis
Rony.
First the two men. One of them was just a super, a guy some
older than me named Webster Kane. I had gathered that he was
some kind of an economist who had done some kind of a job for
Continental Mines Corporation, and he acted like an old friend
of the family. He had a big well-shaped head and apparently
didn't own a hairbrush, didn't care what his clothes looked like,
and was not swimming but was drinking. In another ten years
he could pass for a senator.
I had welcomed the opportunity for a close-up of the other
man because I had often heard Wolfe slice him up and feed him
to the cat. At six-thirty p.m. on WPIT, five days a week, Paul
Emerson, sponsored by Continental Mines Corporation, interpreted
the news. About once a week Wolfe listened to him, but
seldom to the end; and when, after jabbing the button on his desk
that cut the circuit, Wolfe tried some new expressions and phrases
for conveying his opinion of the performance and the performer,
no interpreter was needed to clarify it. The basic idea was that
Paul Emerson would have been more at home in Hitler's Germany
or Franco's Spain. So I was glad of a chance to take a slant
at him but it didn't get me much because he confused me by
looking exactly like my chemistry teacher in high school out in
Ohio, who had always given me better marks than I had earned.
Also it was a safe bet that he had ulcers—I mean Paul Emerson—and
he was drinking plain soda with only one piece of ice. In
swimming trunks he was really pitiful, and I had taken some
pictures of him from the most effective angles to please Wolfe
with.
It was Emerson's wife, Connie, who seemed to be heading for
a situation that might possibly have a bearing on our objective
as defined by Wolfe. She couldn't have had more than four or
five years to dawdle away until her life began at forty, and was
therefore past my deadline, but it was by no means silly of her to
assume that it was still okay for her to go swimming in mixed
company in broad daylight. She was one of those rare blondes
that take a good tan, and had better legs and arms, judged
objectively, than either Gwenn or Madeline, and even from the
other side of the wide pool the blue of her eyes carried clear and
strong.
That's where she was at the moment, across the pool, sitting
with Louis Rony, getting her breath after showing him a double
knee lock that had finally put him flat, and he was no matchstick.
It was a new technique for making a pass at a man, but it
had obvious advantages, and anyway she had plenty of other
ideas and wasn't being stingy with them. At lunch she had
buttered rolls for him. Now I ask you.
I didn't get it. If Gwenn was stewing about it she was keeping
it well hid, though I had noticed her casting a few quick glances.
There was a chance that she was counter-attacking by pretending
she would rather help me take pictures than eat, and that she
loved to watch me dive, but who was I to suspect a fine freckled
girl of pretending? Madeline had made a couple of cracks about
Connie's routine, without any sign that she really cared a damn.
As for Paul Emerson, the husband, the sour look on his
undistinguished map when his glance took in his wife and her
playmate didn't seem to mean much, since it stayed sour no
matter where he was glancing.
Louis Rony was the puzzle, though. The assumption was that
he was making an all-out play for Gwenn, either because he was
in love with her or because he wanted something that went with
her; and if so, why the monkeyshines with the mature and beautifully
tanned blonde? Was he merely trying to give Gwenn a
nudge? I had of course done a survey on him, including the
contrast between his square-jawed rugged phiz and the indications
that the race of fat and muscle would be a tie in another
couple of years, but I wasn't ready for a final vote. From my
research on him, which hadn't stopped with Bascom's reports, I
knew all about his record as a sensational defender of pickpockets,
racketeers, pluggers, fences, and on down the line, but I was
holding back on whether he was a candidate for the throne Abe
Hummel had once sat on, or a Commie trying out a new formula
for raising a stink, or a lieutenant, maybe even better in one of
Arnold Zeck's field divisions, or merely a misguided sucker for
guys oh hot spots.
However, the immediate puzzle about him was more specific.
The question for the moment wasn't what did he expect to
accomplish with Connie Emerson, or what kind of fuel did he have in his
gas tank, but what was all the fuss about the waterproof wallet, or bag,
on the inside of his swimming trunks? I had
seen him give it his attention, not ostentatiously, four times
altogether; and by now my curiosity had really got acute, for the
fourth time, right after the knee lock episode with Connie, he
had gone so far as to pull it out for a look and stuff it back in
again. My eyes were still as good as ever, and there was no doubt
about what it was.
Naturally I did not approve of it. At a public beach, or even
at a private beach or pool where there is a crowd of strangers
and he changes with other males in a common room, a man has
a right to guard something valuable by putting it into a waterproof
container and keeping it next to his hide, and he may even
be a sap if he doesn't. But Rony, being a house guest like the rest
of us, had changed in his own room, which wasn't far from mine
on the second floor. It is not nice to be suspicious of your hosts
or fellow guests, and even if you think you ought to be there
must have been at least a dozen first-class hiding places in Rony's
room for an object small enough to go in that thing he kept
worrying about. It was an insult to everybody, including me. It
was true that he kept his worry so inconspicuous that apparently
no one else noticed it, but he had no right to take such a risk of
hurting our feelings, and I resented it and intended to do something
about it.
Madeline's fingers touched my arm. I finished a sip of my
Tom Collins and turned my head.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah what?” she smiled, opening her eyes.
“You touched me.”
“No, did I? Nothing.”
It was evidently meant as a teaser, but I was watching Gwenn
poise for a back flip, and anyway there was an interruption. Paul
Emerson had wandered over and now growled down at me.
“I forgot to mention it, Goodwin, I don't want any pictures
unless they have my okay—I mean for publication.”
I tilted my head back. “You mean any at all, or just of you?”
“I mean of me. Please don't forget that.”
“Sure. I don't blame you.”
When he had made it to the edge of the pool and fallen in,
presumably on purpose, Madeline spoke.
“Do you think a comparative stranger like you ought to take
swipes at a famous character like him?”
“I certainly do. You shouldn't be surprised, if you know my
repertory so well. What was that crack, anyhow?”
“Oh—when we go in I guess I'll have to show you something.
I should control my tongue better.”
On the other side Rony and Connie Emerson had got their
breath back and were making a dash for the pool. Jimmy
Sperling, whom I preferred to think of as Junior, called to ask if
I could use a refill, and Webster Kane said he would attend to it.
Gwenn stopped before me, dripping again, to say that the light
would soon be right for the west terrace and we ought to put on
some clothes, and didn't I agree with her?
It was one of the most congenial jobs of detecting I had had
m a long while, and there wouldn't have been a cloud in sight
if it hadn't been for that damn waterproof wallet or bag that
Rony was so anxious about. That called for a little work, but it
would have to wait.
Chapter Four
Hours later, in my room on the second floor, which had three
big windows, two three-quarter beds, and the kind of furniture
and rugs I will never own but am perfectly willing to use as a
transient without complaining, I got clean and neat for dinner.
Then I retrieved my keys from where I had hidden them behind
a book on a shelf, took my medicine case from the caribou bag,
and unlocked it. This was a totally different thing from Rony's
exhibition of bad manners, since I was there on business, and the
nature of my business required me to carry various unusual items
in what I called my medicine case. All I took from it was a tiny,
round, soft light brown object, which I placed tenderly in the
little inner coin pocket inside the side pocket of my jacket. I
handled it with tweezers because it was so quick to dissolve that
even the moisture of my fingers might weaken it. I relocked the
medicine case and returned it to the bag.
There was a knock on my door and I said come in. It opened
and Madeline entered and advanced, enveloped in a thin white
film of folds that started at her breast and stopped only at her
ankles. It made her face smaller and her eyes biggert
“How do you like my dress, Archie?” she asked.
“Yep. You may not call that formal, but it certainly—” I
stopped. I looked at her. “I thought you said you liked the name
Andy. No?”
“I like Archie even better.”
Then I'd better change over. When did Father confide in
you?”
“He didn't.” She opened the eyes. “You think I think I'm
sophisticated and just simply impenetrable, don't you? Maybe I
am, but I wasn't always. Come along, I want to show you
something.” She turned and started off.
I followed her out and walked beside her along the wide hall,
across a landing, and down another hall into another wing. The
room she took me into, through a door that was standing open,
was twice as big as mine, which I had thought was plenty big
enough, and in addition to the outdoor summer smell that came
in the open windows it had the fragrance of enormous vases of
roses that were placed around. I would just as soon have taken
a moment to glance around at details, but she took me across to a
table, opened a bulky leather-bound portfolio as big as an atlas
to a page where there was a marker, and pointed.
“See? When I was young and gay!”
I recognized it instantly because I had one like it at home. It
was a clipping from the Gazette of September ninth, 1940. I have
not had my picture in the paper as often as Churchill or Rocky
Graziano, or even Nero Wolfe, but that time it happened that I
had been lucky and shot an automatic out of a man's hand just
before he pressed the trigger.
I nodded. “A born hero if I ever saw one.”
She nodded back. “I was seventeen. I had a crush on you for
nearly a month.”
“No wonder. Have you been showing this around?”
“I have not! Damn it, you ought to be touched!”
“Hell, I am touched, but not as much as I was an hour ago. I
thought you liked my nose or the hair oft my chest or something,
and here it was only a childhood memory.”
“What if I feel it coming back?”
“Don't try to sweeten it. Anyway, now I have a problem. Who
else might possibly remember this picture—and there have been
a couple of others—besides you?”
She considered. “Gwenn might, but I doubt it, and I don't
think anyone else would. If you have a problem, I have a
question. What are you here for? Louis Rony?”
It was my turn to consider, and I let her have a poker smile
while I was at it.
“That's it,” she said!
“Or it isn't. What if it is?”
She came close enough to take hold of my lapels with both
hands, and her eyes were certainly big. “Listen, you born hero,”
she said earnestly. “No matter what I might feel coming back or
what I don't, you be careful where you head it on anything about
my sister. She's twenty-two. When I was her age I was already
pretty well messed up, and she's still as clean as a rose—my God, I
don't mean a rose, you know what I mean. I agree with my dad
about Louis Rony, but it all depends on how it's done. Maybe the
only way not to hurt her too much is to shoot him. I don't really
know what he is to her. I'm just telling you that what matters isn't
Dad or Mother or me or Rony, but it's my sister, and you'd
better believe me.”
It was the combination of circumstances. She was so close,
and the smell of roses was so strong, and she was so damned
earnest after dallying around with me all afternoon, that it was
really automatic. When, after a minute or two, she pushed at me,
I let her go, reached for the portfolio and closed it, and took it to
a tier of shelves and put it on the lowest one. When I got back to
her she looked a little flushed but not too overcome to speak.
“You darned fool,” she said, and had to clear her throat. “Look
at my dress now!” She ran her fingers down through the folds.
“We'd better go down.”
As I went with her down the wide stairs to the reception hall
it occurred to me that I was getting my wires crossed. I seemed
to have a fair start on establishing a personal relationship, but
not with the right person.
We ate on the west terrace, where the setting sun, coming over
the tops of the trees beyond the lawn, was hitting the side of the
house just above our heads as we sat down. By that time Mrs
Sperling was the only one who was calling me Mr Goodwm. She
had me at her right, probably to emphasize my importance as the
son of a business associate of the Chairman of the Board, and I
still didn't know whether she knew I was in disguise. It was her
that Junior resembled, especially the wide mouth, though she had
filled in a little. She seemed to have her department fairly under
control, and the looks and manners of the helps indicated that
they had been around quite a while and intended to stay.
After dinner we loafed around the terrace until it was about
dark and then went inside, all but Gwenn and Rony, who
wandered off across the lawn. Webster Kane and Mrs Sperling
said they wanted to listen to a broadcast, or maybe it was video.
I was invited to partake of bridge, but said I had a date with
Sperling to discuss photography plans for tomorrow, which was
true He led me to a part of the house I hadn't seen yet, into a
big high-ceilinged room with four thousand books around the
walls, a stock ticker, and a desk with five phones on it among
other things, gave me a fourth or fifth chance to refuse a cigar,
invited me to sit, and asked what I wanted. His tone was not that
of a host to a guest, but of a senior executive to one not yet a
junior executive by a long shot. I arranged my tone to fit.
“Your daughter Madeline knows who I am. She saw a picture
of me once and seems to have a good memory.”
He nodded. “She has. Does it matter?”
“Not if she keeps it to herself, and I think she will, but I
thought you ought to know. You can decide whether you had
better mention it to her.”
“I don't think so. I'll see.” He was frowning, but not at me.
“How is it with Rony?”
“Oh, we're on speaking terms. He's been pretty busy. The
reason I asked to see you is something else. I notice there are keys
for the guest-room doors, and I approve of it, but I got careless
and dropped mine in the swimming pool, and I haven't got an
assortment with me. When I go to bed I'll want to lock my door
because I'm nervous, so if you have a master key will you kindly
lend it to me?”
There was nothing slow about him. He was already smiling
before I finished. Then he shook his head. “I don't think so. There
are certain standards—oh, to hell with standards. But he is here
as my daughter's guest, with my permission, and I think I would
prefer not to open his door for you. What reason have
you—”
“I was speaking of my door, not someone else's. I resent your
insinuation, and I'm going to tell my father, who owns stock in
the corporation, and he'll resent it too. Can I help it if I'm
nervous?”
He started to smile, then thought it deserved better than that,
and his head went back for a roar of laughter. I waited patiently.
When he had done me justice he got up and went to the door of a
big wall safe, twirled the knob back and forth, and swung the
door open, pulled a drawer out and figured its contents, and
crossed to me with a tagged key in his hand.
“You can also shove your bed against the door,” he suggested.
I took the key. “Yes, sir, thank you, I will,” I told him and
departed.
When I returned to the living-room, which was about the size
of a tennis court, I found that the bridge game had not got
started. Gwenn and Rony had rejoined the party. With a radio
going, they were dancing in a space by the doors leading to the
terrace, and Jimmy Sperling was dancing with Connie Emerson.
Madeline was at the piano, concentrating on trying to accom-
pany the radio, and Paul Emerson was standing by, looking down
at her flying fingers with his face sourer than ever. At the end of
dinner he had taken three kinds of pills, and perhaps had picked
the wrong ones. I went and asked Madeline to dance, and it took
only a dozen steps to know how good she was. Still more relationship.
A little later Mrs Sperling came in, and she was soon followed
by Sperling and Webster Kane. Before long the dancing stopped,
and someone mentioned bed, and it began to look as if there
would be no chance to dispose of the little brown capsule I had
got from my medicine case. Some of them had patronized the
well-furnished bar on wheels which had been placed near a long
table back of a couch, but not Rony, and I had about decided
that I was out of luck when Webster Kane got enthusiastic about
nightcaps and started a selling campaign. I made mine bourbon
and water because that was what Rony had shown a preference
for during the afternoon, and the prospect brightened when I saw
Rony let Jimmy Sperling hand him one. It went as smooth as if
I had written the script. Rony took a swallow and then put his
glass on the table when Connie Emerson wanted both his hands
to show him a rumba step. I took a swallow from mine to make
it the same level as his, got the capsule from my pocket and
dropped it in, made my way casually to the table, put my glass
down by Rony's in order to have my hands for getting out a
cigarette and lighting it, and picked the glass up again, but the
wrong one—or I should say the right one. There wasn't a chance
the manoeuvre had been observed, and it couldn't have been
neater.
But there my luck ended. When Connie let him go Rony went
to the table and retrieved his glass, but the damn fool didn't
drink. He just held on to it. After a while I tried to prime him
by sauntering over to where he was talking with Gwenn and
Connie, joining in, taking healthy swallows from my glass, and
even making a comment on the bourbon, but he didn't lift, it for
a sip. The damn camel. I wanted to ask Connie to get a knee lock
on him so I could pour it down his throat. Two or three of them
were saying good night and leaving, and I turned around to be
polite. When I turned back again Rony had stepped to the bar to
put his glass down, and when he moved away there were no
glasses there but empty ones. Had he suddenly gulped it down?
He hadn't. I went to put my glass down, reached across for a
pretzel, and lowered my head enough to get a good whiff of the
contents of the ice bucket. He had dumped it in there.
I guess I told people good night; anyway I got up to my room.
Naturally I was sore at myself for having bungled it, and while
I undressed I went back over it carefully. It was a cinch he hadn't
seen me switch the glasses, with his back turned and no mirror he
could have caught it in. Neither had Connie, for her view had
been blocked by him and she only came up to his chin. I went
over it again and decided no one could have seen me, but I was
glad Nero Wolfe wasn't there to explain it to. In any case, I
concluded in the middle of a deep yawn, I wouldn't be using
Spelling's master key. Whatever reason Rony might have had for
ditching the drink, he sure had ditched it, which meant he was
not only undoped but also alerted...and therefore...therefore
something, but what...therefore...the thought was important
and it was petering out on me...
I reached for my pyjama top but had to stop to yawn, and that
made me furious because I had no right to yawn when I had just
fumbled on a simple little thing like doping a guy...only I
didn't feel furious at all...I just felt awful damn sleepy...
I remember saying to myself aloud through gritted teeth,
“You're doped you goddam dope and you get that door locked,”
but I don't remember locking it. I know I did, because it was
locked in the morning.
Chapter Five
All day Sunday was a nightmare. It rained off and on all day. I
dragged myself out of bed at ten o'clock with a head as big as a
barrel stuffed with wet feathers, and five hours later it was still
the size of a keg and the inside was still swampy. Gwenn was
keeping after me to take interiors with flashbulbs, and I had to
deliver. Strong black coffee didn't seem to help, and food was my
worst enemy. Sperling thought I had a hangover, and he certainly
didn't smile when I returned the master key and refused
to report events if any. Madeline thought there was something
funny about it, but the word funny has different meanings at
different times. There was one thing, when I got roped in for
bridge I seemed to be clairvoyant and there was no stopping me.
Jimmy suspected I was a shark but tried to conceal it. About the
worst was when Webster Kane decided I was in exactly the right
condition to start a course in economics and devoted an hour to
the first lesson.
I was certainly in no shape to make any headway in simple
fractions, let alone economics or establishing a relationship with
a girl like Gwenn. Or Madeline either. Sometime during the
afternoon Madeline got me alone and started to open me up for
a look at my intentions and plans—or rather, Wolfe's—regarding
her sister, and I did my best to keep from snarling under the
strain. She was willing to reciprocate, and I collected a few items
about the family and guests without really caring a damn. The
only one who was dead set against Rony was Sperling himself.
Mrs Sperling and Jimmy, the brother, had liked him at first, then
had switched more or less to Sperling's viewpoint, and later,
about a month ago, had switched again and taken the attitude
that it was up to Gwenn. That was when Rony had been
allowed to darken the door again. As for the guests, Connie
Emerson had apparently decided to solve the problem by getting
Rony's mind off Gwenn and on to someone else, namely her;
Emerson seemed to be neither more nor less sour on Rony than
on most of his other fellow creatures; and Webster Kane was
judicious. Kane's attitude, of some importance because of his
position as a friend of the family, was that he didn't care for
Rony personally but that a mere suspicion didn't condemn him.
He had had a hot argument with Sperling about it.
Some of the stuff Madeline told me might have been useful
in trying to figure who had doped Rony's drink if I had been in
any condition to use it, but I wasn't. I would have made myself
scarce long before the day was done but for one thing. I intended
to get even, or at least make a stab at it.
As for the doping, I had entered a plea of not guilty, held the
trial, and acquitted myself. The possibility that I had taken my
own dope was ruled out; I had made that switch clean. And
Rony had not seen the switch or been told of it; I was standing
pat on that. Therefore Rony's drink had been doped by someone
else, and he had either known it or suspected it. It would have
been interesting to know who had done it, but there were too
many nominations. Webster Kane had been mixing, helped by
Connie and Madeline, and Jimmy had delivered Rony's drink to
him. Not only that, after Rony had put it down on the table I had
by no means had my eyes fixed on it while I was making my way
across. So while Rony might have a name for the supplier of the
dose I had guzzled, to me he was just X.
That, however, was not what had me hanging on. To hell
with X, at least for the present. What had me setting my jaw
and bidding four spades, or trotting around after Gwenn with
two cameras and my pockets bulging with flashbulbs, when I
should have been home in bed, was a picture I would never
forget: Louis Rony pouring into a bucket the drink I had doped
for him, while I stood and gulped the last drop of the drink
someone else had doped for him. He would pay for that or I
would never look Nero Wolfe in the face again.
Circumstances seemed favourable. I collected the information
cautiously and without jostling. Rony had come by train on
Friday evening and been met at the station by Gwenn, and had
to return to town this evening, Sunday; and no one was driving
in. Paul and Connie Emerson were house guests at Stony Acres
for a week; Webster Kane was there for an indefinite period,
Preparing some economic something for the corporation; Mom
and the girls were there for the summer; and Sperling Senior and
Junior would certainly not go to town on Sunday evening. But
I would, waiting until late to miss the worst of the traffic, and
surely Rony would prefer a comfortable roomy car to a crowded
train.
I didn't ask him. Instead, I made the suggestion, casually, to
Gwenn. Later I made it pointedly to Madeline, and she agreed
to drop a word in if the occasion offered. Then I got into the
library alone with Sperling, suggested it to him even more
pointedly, and asked him which phone I could use for a New
York call, and told him the call was not for him to hear. He was
a little difficult about it, which I admit he had a right to be, but
by that time I could make whole sentences again and I managed
to sell him. He left and closed the door behind him, and I got
Saul Panzer at his home in Brooklyn and talked to him all of
twenty minutes. With my head still soggy, I had to go over it
twice to be sure not to leave any gaps.
That was around six o'clock, which meant I had four more
hours to suffer, since I had picked ten for the time of departure
and was now committed to it, but it wasn't so bad. A little later
the clouds began to sail around and you could tell them apart,
and the sun even took a look as us just before it dropped over
the edge; and what was more important, I risked a couple of
nibbles at a chicken sandwich and before I was through the
sandwich was too, and also a piece of cherry pie and a glass of
milk. Mrs Sperling patted me on the back and Madeline said that
now she would be able to get some sleep.
It was six minutes past ten when I slid behind the wheel of
the convertible, asked Rony if he had remembered his toothbrush,
and rolled along the plaza into the curve of the drive.
“What's this,” he asked, “a forty-eight?”
“No,” I said, “forty-nine.”
He let his head go back to the cushion and shut his eyes.
There were enough openings among the clouds to show some
stars but no moon. We wound along the drive, reached the stone
pillars, and eased out on to the public road. It was narrow, with
an asphalt surface that wouldn't have been hurt by a little dressing,
and for the first mile we had it to ourselves, which suited
me fine. Just beyond a sharp turn the shoulder widened at a spot
where there was an old shed at the edge of thick woods, and there
at the roadside, headed the way we were going, a car was parked.
I was going slow on account of the turn, and a woman darted
nut and blinked a flashlight, and I braked to a stop. As I did so
the woman called, “Got a jack mister?” and a man's voice came,
“My Jack broke, you got one?”
I twisted in the seat to back off the road on to the grass. Rony
muttered at me, “What the hell,” and I muttered back, “Brotherhood
of man.” As the man and woman came toward us I got
out and told Rony, “Sorry, but I guess you'll have to move; the
jack's under the seat.” The woman, saying something about what
nice people we were, was on his side and opened the door for
him, and he climbed out. He went out backwards, facing me,
and just as he was clear something slammed against the side of
my head and I sank to the ground, but the grass was thick and
soft. I stayed down and listened. It was only a few seconds before
I heard my name.
“Okay, Archie.”
I got to my feet, reached in the car to turn off the engine and
lights, and circled around the hood to the other side, away from
the road. Louis Rony was stretched out flat on his back. I didn't
waste time checking on him, knowing that Ruth Bradv could
give lectures on the scientific use of a persuader, and anyhow she
was kneeling at his head with her flashlight.
“Sorry to break into your Sunday evening, Ruth darling.”
“Nuts to you, Archie my pet. Don't stand talking. I don't like
this, out here in the wilderness.”
“Neither do I. Don't let him possum.”
“Don't worry. I've got a blade of grass up his nose.”
“Good. If he wiggles tap him again.” I turned to Saul Panzer,
who had his shirt sleeves rolled up. “How are the wife and
children?”
“Wonderful.”
“Give 'em my love. You'd better be busy the other side of the
car, in case of traffic.”
He moved as instructed and I went to my knees beside Ruth.
I expected to find it on him, since it wouldn't have been sensible
for him to take such pains with it when he went swimming and
then carelessly pack it in his bag, which had been brought down
by one of the helps. And I did find it on him. It was not in a
waterproof container but in a cellophane envelope, in the innermost
compartment of his alligator-skin wallet. I knew that must
be it, because nothing else on him was out of the ordinary, and
because its nature was such that I knelt there and goggled, with
Ruth's flashlight focused on it.
“The surprise is wasted on me,” she said scornfully. “I'm oru
It's yours and you had to get it back. Comrade!”
“Shut up.” I was a little annoyed. I removed it from the cellophane
cover and inspected it some more, but there was nothing
tricky about it. It was merely what it was, a membership card
in the American Communist Party, Number 128-394, and the
name on it was William Reynolds. What annoyed me was that it
was so darned pat. Our client had insisted that Rony was a
Commie, and the minute I do a little personal research on him,
here's his membership card! Of course the name meant nothing.
I didn't like it. It's an anti-climax to have to tell a client he was
dead right in the first place.
“What do they call you, Bill or Willie?” Ruth asked,
“Hold this,” I told her, and gave her the card. I got the key
and opened up the car trunk, hauled out the big suitcase, and got
the big camera and some bulbs. Saul came to help. Ruth was
making comments which we ignored. I took three pictures of
that card, once held in Saul's hand, once propped up on the
suitcase, and once leaning against Rony's ear. Then I slipped it back
in the cellophane cover and replaced it in the wallet, and put the
wallet where I found it, in Rony's breast pocket.
One operation remained, but it took less time because I had
more experience at taking wax impressions of keys than at
photography. The wax was in the medicine case, and the keys,
eight of them, were in Rony's fold. There was no need to label
the impressions, since I didn't know which key was for what
anyway. I took all eight, not wanting to skimp.
“He can't last much longer,” Ruth announced.
“He don't need to.” I shoved a roll of bills at Saul, who had
put the suitcase back in the trunk. “This came out of his wallet.
I don't know how much it is and don't care, but I don't want it
on me. Buy Ruth a string of pearls or give it to the Red Cross.
You'd better get going, huh?”
They lost no time. Saul and I understand each other so well
that all he said was, “Phone in?” and I said, “Yeah,” The next
minute they were off. As soon as their car was around the next
bend I circled to the other side of the convertible, next the road,
stretched out on the grass, and started groaning. When nothing
happened I quit after a while. Just as my weight was bringing
the wet in the ground through the grass and on through my
clothes, and I was about to shift, a noise came from Rony's side
and I let out a groan. I got on to my knees, muttered an expressive
word or two, groaned again, reached for the handle of the
door and pulled myself to my feet, reached inside and turned
on the lights, and saw Rony sitting on the grass inspecting his
wallet.
“Hell, you're alive,” I muttered.
He said nothing.
“The bastards,” I muttered.
He said nothing. It took him two more minutes to decide to
try to stand up.
I admit that an hour and fifty minutes later, when I drove
away from the kerb in front of his apartment on Sixty-ninth
Street after letting him out, I was totally in the dark about his
opinion of me. He hadn't said more than fifty words all the way,
leaving it to me to decide whether we should stop at a State
Police barracks to report our misfortune, which I did, knowing
that Saul and Ruth were safely out of the county; but I couldn't
expect the guy to be very talkative when he was busy recovering
after an expert operation by Ruth Brady. I couldn't make up my
mind whether he had been sitting beside me in silent sympathy
with a fellow sufferer or had merely decided that the time for
dealing with me would have to come later, after his brain had
got back to something like normal.
The clock on the dash said 1.12 as I turned into the garage
on Eleventh Avenue. Taking the caribou bag, but leaving the
other stuff in the trunk, I didn't feel too bad as I rounded the
corner into Thirty-fifth Street and headed for our stoop. I was
a lot better prepared to face Wolfe than I had been all day, and
my head was now clear and comfortable. The week-end hadn't
been a washout after all, except that I was coming home hungry,
and as I mounted the stoop I was looking forward to a session
m the kitchen, knowing what to expect in the refrigerator kept
stocked by Wolfe and Fritz Brenner.
I inserted the key and turned the knob, but the door would
open only two inches. That surprised me, since when I am out
and expected home it is not customary for Fritz or Wolfe to put
on the chain bolt except on special occasions. I pushed the
button, and in a moment the stoop light went on and Fritz's
voice came through the crack.
“That you, Archie?”
That was odd too, since through the one-way glass panel he
had a good view of me. But I humoured him and told him it
really was me, and he let me in. After I crossed the threshold he
shut the door and replaced the bolt, and then I had a third
surprise. It was past Wolfe's bedtime, but there he was in the
door to the office, glowering at me.
I told him good evening. “Quite a reception I get,” I added.
“Why the barricade? Someone been trying to swipe an orchid?”
I turned to Fritz. “I'm so damn hungry I could even eat your
cooking.” I started for the kitchen, but Wolfe's voice stopped me.
“Come in here,” he commanded. “Fritz, will you bring in a
tray?”
Another oddity. I followed him into the office. As I was soon
to learn, he had news that he would have waited up all night to
tell me, but something I had said had pushed it aside for the
moment. No concern at all, not even life or death, could be
permitted to shove itself ahead of food. As he lowered himself
into the chair behind his desk he demanded, “Why are you so
hungry? Doesn't Mr Sperling feed his guests?”
“Sure.” I sat. “There's nothing wrong with the grub, but they
put something in the drinks that takes your appetite. It's a long
story. Want to hear it tonight?”
“No.” He looked at the clock. “But I must. Go ahead.”
I obliged. I was still getting the characters introduced when
Fritz came with the tray, and I bit into a sturgeon sandwich
and went on. I could tell from Wolfe's expression that for some
reason anything and everything would be welcome, and I let him
have it all. By the time I finished it was after two o'clock, the
tray had been cleaned up except for a little milk in the pitcher,
and Wolfe knew all that I knew, leaving out a few little personal
details.
I emptied the pitcher into the glass. “So I guess Sperling's
hunch was good and he really is a Commie. With a picture of
the card and the assortment I got of Rony, I should think you
could get that lined up by that character who has appeared as
Mr Jones on our expense list now and then. He may not actually
be Uncle Joe's nephew, but he seems to be at least a deputy in
the Union Square Politburo. Can't you get him to research it?”
Fritz had brought another tray, with beer, and Wolfe poured
the last of the second bottle.
“I could, yes.” He drank and put the glass down. “But it would
be a waste of Mr Sperling's money. Even if that is Mr Rony's
card and he is a party member, as he well may be, I suspect that
it is merely a masquerade.” He wiped his lips. “I have no complaint
of your performance, Archie, which was in character, and
I should know your character; and I can't say you transgressed
your instructions, since you had a free hand, but you might have
phoned before assuming the risks of banditry.”
“Really.” I was sarcastic. “Excuse me, but since when have you
invited constant contact on a little job like tripping up a would-be
bridegroom?”
“I haven't. But you were aware that another factor had entered,
or at least been admitted as conjecture. It is no longer conjecture.
You didn't phone me, but someone else did. A man—a voice
you are acquainted with. So am I.”
“You mean Arnold Zeck?”
“No name was pronounced. But it was that voice. As you
know, it is unmistakable.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Neither was Mr Rony's name pronounced, nor Mr Sperling's.
But he left no room for dubiety. In effect I was told to cease
forthwith any inquiry into the activities or interests of Mr Rony
or suffer penalties.”
“What did you have to say?”
“I—demurred.” Wolfe tried to pour beer, found the bottle was
empty, and set it down. “His tone was more peremptory than it
was the last time I heard it, and I didn't fully conceal my resentment.
I stated my position in fairly strong terms. He ended with
an ultimatum. He gave me twenty-four hours to recall you from
your week-end.”
“He knew I was up there?”
“Yes.”
“I'll be damned.” I let out a whistle. “This Rony boy is really
something. A party member