Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 46 (15 page)

“What did you find concealed in a book in the room of Lucile Ducos?”

That’s just a few samples. I haven’t included a sample of some asked by an assistant DA I had never seen before, a little squirt with gold-rimmed cheaters, because they were so damn ridiculous you wouldn’t believe it—implying that Nero Wolfe had opened up. Implying that Saul and Fred and Orrie had talked, sure, that was routine. But Wolfe—now, really. As for me, I don’t suppose I set a record for standing mute, but between three o’clock Saturday afternoon and eleven-thirty Monday morning I must have been asked at least two thousand questions by three assistant DAs and Joe Murphy, the head of the Homicide Bureau. Most of Murphy’s questions had nothing to do with murder. He wanted to know exactly why it had taken so long for Wolfe and me to get our coats on Saturday afternoon, and how the
Gazette
had got the news in time for the late edition that day. It was a pleasure to stand mute to him because I was glad to give Black and White a break, but with the others it wasn’t easy and my jaw got tired from clamping it. The trouble was I like to be quick with good answers, and they knew it and did their best to get me started, and two of them were good at it. But mute doesn’t mean pick and choose, it means mute, tongue-tied, aphonous, and don’t forget it.

Of the lock-ups I have slept in, including White Plains, only thirty miles away, New York is the worst. The worst for everything—food, dirt, smell, companionship, prices of everything from newspapers to another blanket—everything. I hadn’t seen Wolfe. I will not report on my feelings about him during that fifty-one hours, except to say that they were mixed. It was harder on him than on me, but he had asked for it. I hadn’t used my right to make one phone call to ring
Nathaniel Parker because I assumed Wolfe had, and anyway Parker had certainly seen the Sunday
Times
, no matter where he was. But where was he now? “Now” was ten minutes to six Monday afternoon, and I sat on my cot trying to pretend I wasn’t stewing. The point was, at least one point, that tomorrow would be Election Day and judges might not be available—another reason to stew: an experienced private detective should know how many judges are available on Election Day, and I didn’t. I was thinking that, in addition to everything else, Election Day had to come up and I might not be able to vote for Carey, when footsteps stopped at my door, a key scraped in the lock, the door opened, and a stranger said, “You’re wanted downstairs, Goodwin. I guess you’d better take things.”

There wasn’t much to take. I put what there was in my pockets and walked out. My next-door neighbor on the left said something, but he was always saying something, and I didn’t listen. The stranger herded me down the hall to the door at the end with steel bars about the size of my wrist, on which he had to use a key, on through, and across to the elevator. As we waited for it to come, he said, “You’re number two hundred and twenty-four.”

“Oh? I didn’t know I had a number.”

“You don’t.
My
number. Guys I’ve had that I seen their pitcher in the paper.”

“How many years?”

“Nineteen. Nineteen in January.”

“Thanks for telling me. Two hundred and twenty-four. An interesting job you’ve got.”

“
You
call it interesting. It’s a job.”

The elevator came.

In a big room on the ground floor with ceiling lights that glared, Nathaniel Parker sat on a wooden chair at
one end of a big desk. The man behind the desk was in uniform, and another one in uniform stood at the other end. As I crossed over, Parker got up and offered a hand and I took it. The one standing pointed to a little pile of articles on the desk, handed me a 5-by-8 card, and said, “If it’s all there, sign on the dotted line. There’s your coat on the chair.”

It was all there—knife, key ring, wallet with no money in it because I had it in my pocket. Since I had been standing mute, I made sure the card didn’t say anything it shouldn’t before I signed. My coat smelled of something, but I smelled even worse, so what the hell. Parker was on his feet, and we walked out. The one behind the desk hadn’t said a word. Neither did Parker until we were out on the sidewalk. Then he said, “Taxis are impossible, so I brought my car. It’s around the corner.”

I said firmly, “Also there’s a bar around the corner.” My voice sounded funny, probably rusty and needed oil. “I’d like to hear you talk a little, and not while you’re driving.”

The bar was pretty full, but a couple were just leaving a booth and we grabbed it. Parker ordered vodka on the rocks, and when I said a double bourbon and a large glass of milk he raised his brows.

“Milk for my stomach,” I told him, “and bourbon for my nerves. How much this time?”

“Thirty thousand. Thirty for Wolfe and the same for you. Coggin pushed hard for fifty thousand because you’re implicated, so he says, and you’re standing mute. He said the charge will be changed to conspiracy to obstruct justice, and of course that was a mistake, and Judge Karp called him. You don’t go to court with a
threat
.”

“Where’s Wolfe?”

“At home. I took him an hour ago. I want to know exactly what the situation is.”

“It’s simple. There have been three murders, and we’re standing mute.”

“Hell, I know that. That’s all I know. I have never known Wolfe like this. He’s practically standing mute to
me
. I’m counting on you to tell me exactly where it stands. In confidence. I’m your counsel.”

The drinks came, and I took a sip of milk and then one of bourbon, and then two larger sips. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” I said. “It will take an hour and a half. But I can’t tell you why we’ve dived into a foxhole because I don’t know. He’s standing mute to me too. We could give them practically everything we’ve got and still go right on with our knitting—we’ve done that a thousand times, as you know—but he won’t. He told Roman Vilar—you know who he is?”

“Yes. He told me that much.”

“He told him he’s buying satisfaction. Goody. He’ll pay for it with our licenses. Of course—”

“Your licenses have been suspended.”

“We won’t need them if we’re behind bars. Where are Saul and Fred and Orrie?”

“They’re behind bars now. I’ll get them out tomorrow morning. Judge Karp has said he’ll sit. You honestly don’t know why Wolfe has holed in?”

“Yes, I don’t. You’re my lawyer?”

“Of course.”

“Then I can give you a privileged communication. Have you got an hour?”

“No, but go ahead.”

I took a swallow of bourbon and one of milk. “First a question. If I tell you everything as your client, I’ll also be telling you things about your other client that he is
not
telling. What about conflict of interest? Should I get another lawyer?”

“Not unless you want a better one. He knows I’m acting for you. He knows you can tell me anything you want to. If he’s willing to risk a conflict of interest, it’s up to you. Of course, if you
want
another lawyer—”

“No, thank you. You’ll be famous. It’s a coincidence—Wolfe will like that. Five men being tried now in Washington for conspiracy to obstruct justice—Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mitchell, Mardian, and Parkinson. Five being charged here with conspiracy to obstruct justice—Wolfe, Goodwin, Panzer, Durkin, and Cather. That’s probably what Wolfe has in mind. I’m glad to be in on it. So here’s my privileged communication.”

I drank, milk and then bourbon for a change, and proceeded to confide in my lawyer.

An hour and a half later, at five minutes past eight, Parker dropped me off at Thirty-fifth Street and Eighth Avenue. I would stretch my legs for a block and a half. He now had plenty of facts but could offer no suggestion on what to do with them, since I still intended to hang on. It was ten to one that he would have liked to advise me to turn loose but couldn’t on account of Wolfe. That looked to me a lot like conflict of interest, but I had learned not to try splitting hairs with a lawyer. They think you’re not in their class. Anyway we shook hands before I climbed out.

At the brownstone the chain bolt was on and I had to ring for Fritz. I am not rubbing it in when I say that he pinched his nose when I took my coat off; a super cook has a super sense of smell.

“I don’t need to say,” he said. “Anyway, here you are,
grâce à Dieu
. You look terrible.”

I kept the coat on my arm. “I feel worse. This will
have to go to the cleaners, and so will I. In about two hours I’ll come down and clean out the refrigerator and shelves for you, and you can start over. He’s in the dining room?”

“No, I took up a tray, a plain omelet with five eggs and bread for toast, and coffee. Before that he had me rub lilac vegetal on his back. The paper said you were in jail, all of you. Are you going to tell me anything? He didn’t.”

“It’s like this, Fritz. I know ten thousand details that you don’t know, but the one important detail, what’s going to happen next—I’m no better off than you are. You tell
me
something. You know him as well as I do, maybe better. What’s the French word for crazy? Insane. Batty.”

“Fou. Insensé.”

“I like
fou
. Is
he fou
?”

“No. He looked me in my eye.”

“Okay, then wait and see. Do me a favor. Buzz him on the house phone and tell him I’m home.”

“But you’ll see him. He’ll see you.”

“No he won’t. I’m not
fou
either.
You’ll
see me in two hours.” I headed for the stairs.

Y
ou would expect—anyway, I would—that the main assault in the campaign of the media to get the story to the American people would come from the
Gazette
. The
Gazette
was the leader in emphasizing flavor and color in everything from markets to murders, and also there was the habit of my exchanging tits for tats with Lon Cohen. But the worst two were Bill Wengert of the
Times
and Art Hollis of CBS News. Now that the dinner party at Rusterman’s was in the picture—nobody knew exactly how—and the murder of Harvey H. Bassett of NATELEC was connected with the other two—nobody knew exactly why—probably the brass at the
Times
was on Wengert’s neck. And Hollis, the damn fool, had sold CBS the idea of sending a crew with equipment to Nero Wolfe’s office for a twenty-six-minute interview without first arranging to get them in. So for a couple of days a fair amount of my time and energy was devoted to public relations. Omitting the details, I will only remark that it is not a good idea to persuade the
Times
that any future item of news with your name in it will not be fit to print.

The most interesting incident Tuesday morning was my walking to a building on Thirty-fourth Street to
enter a booth and push levers on a voting machine. I have never understood why anybody passes up that bargain. It doesn’t cost a cent, and for that couple of minutes you’re the star of the show, with top billing. It’s the only way that really counts for you to say I’m it, I’m the one that decides what’s going to happen and who’s going to make it happen. It’s the only time I really feel important and know I have a right to. Wonderful. Sometimes the feeling lasts all the way home if somebody doesn’t bump me.

There was no sight or sound of Wolfe until he came down for lunch. No sound of the elevator, so he didn’t go up to the plant rooms. I knew he was alive and breathing, because Fritz told me he cleaned up a normal breakfast, and also, when I returned from voting and a walk around a few blocks, Fritz reported that Parker had phoned and Wolfe had taken it up in his room. And the program for lunch was normal—baked bluefish stuffed with ground shrimp, and endive salad with watercress. When Wolfe came down at a quarter past one he looked in at the office door to tell me good morning, though it wasn’t morning, and then crossed to the dining room. I had considered eating in the kitchen but had decided that we would have to be on speaking terms, since we had the same counsel. Also it would have given Fritz one more reason to worry, and he didn’t need it.

As I got seated at the table, Wolfe asked if there had been any word from Fred or Orrie, and I said yes, they had called and I had told them to stand by, I would call them as soon as I knew what to say. He didn’t mention Saul, so I assumed he had called while I was out, though Fritz hadn’t said so. And he didn’t mention the call from Parker. So evidently, although we were on speaking terms, the speaking wasn’t going to include the matter of our right to life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
When he had carved the bluefish and Fritz had brought me mine and taken his, he asked me where he should go to vote and I told him. Then he asked how many seats I thought the Democrats would gain in the House and the Senate, and we discussed it in detail. Then he asked if I had split the ticket, and I said yes, I had voted for Carey but not for Clark, and we discussed that.

It was quite a performance. Over the years he had had relapses and grouches, and once or twice he had come close to a tantrum, but this was a new one. Our licenses had been suspended, if we crossed the river to Jersey or drove up to Westport or Danbury we would be locked up without bail, and we had three men out on the same limb with us, but pfui. Skip it. It will all come out in the wash. And Fritz was right, he wasn’t
fou
, he had merely decided that, since the situation was absolutely hopeless, he would ignore it. When we left the table at ten minutes past two, I decided to give him twenty-four hours and then issue an ultimatum, if necessary.

Four hours later I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t sure of anything. When we left the dining room he had neither crossed the hall to the office nor taken the elevator back to his room; he had announced that he was going to go and vote and reached to the rack for the coat he had brought down. Certainly; voting was one of the few personal errands that got him out in any weather. But at a quarter past six he hadn’t come back, and that was ridiculous. Four hours. All bets were off. He was in a hospital or the morgue, or in an airplane headed for Montenegro. I was regretting that I hadn’t turned on the six-o’clock news and considering whether to start phoning now or wait until after dinner when the doorbell rang and I went to the hall, and there he was. He
never carried keys. I went and opened the door and he entered, said, “I decided to do an errand,” and unbuttoned his coat.