Rex Stout - The Red Box

It was after two when I went to the garage for the roadster, and there I got another irritation when I found that the washing and polishing job had been done by a guy with one eye.

Downtown, on Centre Street, I parked at the triangle, and went in and took the elevator. I walked down the upstairs corridor as if I owned it, entered the anteroom of Cramer’s office as cocky as they come, and told the hulk at the desk:

“Tell the inspector, Goodwin of Nero Wolfe’s office.”

I stood up for ten minutes, and then was nodded in. I was hoping somewhat that Cramer would be out and my dealings would be with Burke, not on account of my natural timidity, but because I knew it would be better for everyone concerned if Cramer had a little more time to cool off before resuming social intercourse with us. But he was there at his desk when I entered, and to my surprise he didn’t get up and take a bite at my ear. He snarled a little:

“So it’s you. You walk right in here. Burke made a remark about you this morning. He said that if you ever wanted a rubdown you ought to get Smoky to do it for you. Smoky is the little guy with a bum leg that polishes the brass railings downstairs at the entrance.”

I said, “I guess I’ll sit down.”

“I guess you will. Go ahead. Want my chair?”

“No, thanks.”

“What do you want?”

I shook my head at him wistfully. “I’ll be doggoned, Inspector, if you’re not a hard man to please. We do our best to help you find that red box, and you resent it. We catch a dangerous character trying to make an illegal entry, and hand him over to you, and you resent that. If we wrap this case up and present you with it, I suppose you’ll charge us as accessories. You may remember that in that Rubber Band affair—”

“Yeah, I know. Past favors have been appreciated. I’m busy. What do you want?”

“Well...” I tilted my head back so as to look down on him. “I represent the executor of Mr. McNair’s estate. I came to invite Mr. Perren Gebert to attend the funeral services at the Belford Memorial Chapel at nine o’clock this evening. If you would kindly direct me to his room?”

Cramer gave me a nasty look. Then he heaved a deep sigh, reached in his pocket for a cigar, bit off the end and lit it. He puffed at it and got it established in the corner of his mouth. Abruptly he demanded:

“What have you got on Gebert?”

“Nothing. Not even passing a red light. Nothing at all.”

“Did you come here to see him? What does Wolfe want you to ask him?”

“Nothing. As Tammany is my judge. Wolfe says he’s just clinging to the cliff of existence or something like that and he wouldn’t let him in the house.”

“Then what the devil do you want with him?”

“Nothing. I’m just keeping my word. I promised somebody I would come down here and ask you how he is and what his future prospects are. So help me, that’s on the level.”

“Maybe I believe you. Do you want to look at him?”

“Not especially. I would just as soon.”

“You can.” He pressed a button in a row. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to have you. This case is open and shut, open for the newspapers and shut for me. If you’ve got any curiosity about anything that you think Gebert might satisfy, go ahead and take your turn. They’ve been working on him since seven o’clock this morning. Eight hours. They can’t even make him mad.”

A sergeant with oversize shoulders had entered and was standing there. Cramer told him: “This man’s name is Goodwin. Take him down to Room Five and tell Sturgis to let him help if he wants to.” He turned to me. “Drop in again before you leave. I may want to ask you something.”

“Okay. I’ll have something thought up to tell you.”

I followed the sergeant out to the corridor and down it to the elevator. We stayed in for a flight below the ground floor, and he led me the length of a dim hall and around a corner, and finally stopped at a door which may have had a figure 5 on it but if so I couldn’t see it. He opened the door and we went in and he closed the door again. He crossed to where a guy sat on a chair mopping his neck with a handkerchief, said something to him, and turned and went out again.

It was a medium-sized room, nearly bare. A few plain wooden chairs were along one wall. A bigger one with arms was near the middle of the room, and Perren Gebert was sitting in it, with a light flooding his face from a floor lamp with a big reflector in front of him. Standing closer in front of him was a wiry-looking man in his shirt sleeves with little fox ears and a Yonkers haircut. The guy on the chair that the sergeant had spoken to was in his shirt sleeves too, and so was Gebert. When I got close enough to the light so that Gebert could see me and recognize me, he half started up, and said in a funny hoarse tone:

“Goodwin! Ah, Goodwin—”

The wiry cop reached out and slapped him a good one on the left side of his neck, and then with his other hand on his right ear. Gebert quivered and sank back. “Sit down there, will you?” the cop said plaintively. The other cop, still holding his handkerchief in his hand, got up and walked over to me:

“Goodwin? My name’s Sturgis. Who are you from, Buzzy’s squad?”

I shook my head. “Private agency. We’re on the case and we’re supposed to be hot.”

“Oh. Private, huh? Well... the inspector sent you down. You want a job?”

“Not just this minute. You gentlemen go ahead. I’ll listen and see if I can think of something.”

I stepped a pace closer to Gebert and looked him over. He was reddened up a good deal and kind of blotchy, but I couldn’t see any real marks. He had no necktie on and his shirt was torn on the shoulder and there was dried sweat on him. His eyes were bloodshot from blinking at the strong light and probably from having them slapped open when he closed them. I asked him:

“When you said my name just now, did you want to tell me something?”

He shook his head and made a hoarse grunt. I turned and told Sturgis: “He can’t tell you anything if he can’t talk. Maybe you ought to give him some water.”

Sturgis snorted. “He could talk if he wanted to. We gave him water when he passed out a couple of hours ago. There’s only one thing in God’s world wrong with him. He’s contrary. You want to try him?”

“Later maybe.” I crossed to the row of chairs by the wall and sat down. Sturgis stood and thoughtfully wiped his neck. The wiry cop leaned forward to get closer to Gebert’s face and asked him in a wounded tone:

“What did she pay you that money for?”

No response, no movement.

“What did she pay you that money for?”

Again, nothing.

“What did she pay you that money for?”

Gebert shook his head faintly. The cop roared at him in indignation, “Don’t shake your head at me! Understand? What did she pay you that money for?”

Gebert sat still. The cop hauled off and gave him a couple more slaps, rocking his head, and then another pair.

“What did she pay you that money for?”

That went on for a while. It appeared to me doubtful that any progress was going to be made. I felt sorry for the poor dumb cops, seeing that they didn’t have brains enough to realize that they were just gradually putting him to sleep and that in another three or four hours he wouldn’t be worth fooling with. Of course he would be as good as new in the morning, but they couldn’t go on with that for weeks, even if he was a foreigner and couldn’t vote. That was the practical viewpoint, and though the ethics of it was none of my business, I admit I had my prejudices. I can bulldog a man myself, if he has it coming to him, but I prefer to do it on his home grounds, and I certainly don’t want any help.