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Rex Stout: The Red Box

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Rex Stout The Red Box
  • Название:
    The Red Box
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  • Издательство:
    Farrar & Rinehart
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    1937
  • Язык:
    Английский
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    5 / 5
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The Red Box: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Wolfe and Archie investigate the death of a model who ate a piece of poisoned candy. One of the suspects begs Wolfe to handle his estate and especially the contents of a certain red box. Wolfe is at first concerned about a possible conflict of interest, but feels unable to refuse when the man dies in his office before telling Wolfe where to find the red box. The police naturally think that he told Wolfe somewhat more before dying. This novel presents the series’ first instance of a murder taking place in Wolfe’s office.

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“No.” She was shaking her head. “I won’t do that. What you said... about Perren’s murder. He was murdered. Wasn’t he?”

“Certainly. He died ardently. I repeat that because I like it. If you make a conjecture from it, all the better as preparation for you. I do not advise your spending the night with a friend on account of any danger to yourself, for there is none. In fact, there is no danger left for anyone, except as I embody it. But you must know that if you go home you won’t get much sleep. The police will be clamoring for minutiae; they are probably bullying your family at this moment, and it would only be common sense to save yourself from that catechism. Tomorrow morning I could inform you of developments.”

She shook her head again. “No.” She sounded decisive. “I’ll go home. I don’t want to run away... I just came here... and anyhow, mother and Lew and my uncle... no. I’ll go home. But if you could only tell me... please, Mr. Wolfe, please... if you could tell me something so I would know...”

“I can’t. Not now. I promise you, soon. In the meantime—”

The phone rang. I swiveled and got it. Right away I was in a scrap. Some sap with a voice like a foghorn was going to have me put Wolfe on the wire immediately and no fooling, without bothering to tell me who it was that wanted him. I derided him until he boomed at me to hold it. After waiting a minute I heard another voice, one I recognized at once:

“Goodwin? Inspector Cramer. Maybe I don’t need Wolfe. I’d hate to disturb him. Is Helen Frost there?”

“Who? Helen Frost?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why should she be? Do you think we run a night shift? Wait a minute, I didn’t know it was you, I think Mr. Wolfe wants to ask you something.” I smothered the transmitter and turned: “Inspector Cramer wants to know if Miss Frost is here.”

Wolfe lifted his shoulders half an inch and dropped them. Our client said, “Of course. Tell him yes.”

I told the phone, “No, Wolfe can’t think of anything you’d be likely to know. But if you mean Miss Helen Frost, I just saw her here in a chair.”

“Oh. She’s there. Some day I’m going to break your neck. I want her up here right away, at her home — no, wait. Keep her. I’ll send a man—”

“Don’t bother. I’ll bring her.”

“How soon?”

“Right now. At once. Without delay.”

I rang off and whirled my chair to face the client. “He’s up at your apartment. I suppose they all are. Do we go? I can still tell him I’m shortsighted and it wasn’t you in the chair.”

She rose. She faced Wolfe and she was sagging a little, but then she straightened out the spine. “Thank you,” she said. “If there really isn’t anything...”

“I’m sorry, Miss Frost. Nothing now. Perhaps tomorrow. I’ll get word to you. Don’t resent Mr. Cramer more than you must. He unquestionably means well. Good night.”

I got up and bowed her ahead and through the office door, and snared my hat in the hall as I went by.

I had put the roadster in the garage, so we had to walk there for it. She waited for me at the entrance, and after she got in and I turned into Tenth Avenue, I told her:

“You’ve been getting lefts and rights both, and you’re groggy. Lean back and shut your eyes and breathe deep.”

She said thank you, but she sat straight and kept her eyes open and didn’t say anything all the way to 65th Street. I was thinking that presumably I would make a night of it. Ever since she had busted in on us with the news, I had been kicking myself for having been in such a hell of a hurry to get away from 73rd Street; it had happened right there at Gebert’s car, parked in front of mine, not five minutes after I left. That had been luck for you. I could have been right there, closer than anyone else...

I didn’t get to make a night of it, either. My sojourn at the Frost apartment as Helen’s escort was short and sour. She handed me her key to the door to the entrance hall, and as soon as I got it open there stood a dick. Another one was in a chair by the mirrors. Helen and I started to go on by, but got blocked. The dick told us:

“Please wait here a minute? Both of you.”

He disappeared into the living room, and pretty soon that door opened again and Cramer entered. He looked preoccupied and unfriendly.

“Good evening, Miss Frost. Come with me, please.”

“Is my mother here? My cousin—”

“They’re all here. — All right, Goodwin, much obliged. Pleasant dreams.”

I grinned at him. “I’m not sleepy. I can stick around without interfering—”

“You can also beat it without interfering. I’ll watch you do that.”

I could tell by his tone there was no use; he would merely have gone on being adamant. I ignored him. I bowed to our client:

“Good night, Miss Frost.”

I turned to the dick: “Look sharp, my man, open the door.”

He didn’t move. I reached for the knob and swung it wide open and went on out, leaving it that way. I’ll bet by gum he closed it.

Chapter 17

The next morning, Saturday, there was no early indication that the detective business of Nero Wolfe had any burden heavier than a feather on either its mind or its conscience. I had my figure laved and clothed before eight o’clock, rather expecting a pre-breakfast summons to some sort of action from the head of the firm, but I might as well have snoozed my full 510 minutes. The house phone stayed silent. As usual, Fritz took a tray of orange juice, crackers and chocolate to Wolfe’s room at the appointed moment, and there was no indication that I was scheduled for anything more enterprising than slitting open the envelopes of the morning mail and helping Fritz empty the wastebasket.

At nine o’clock, when I was informed by the hum of the elevator that Wolfe was ascending for his two hours with Horstmann in the plant rooms, I was seated at the little table in the kitchen, doing the right thing by a pile of toast and four eggs cooked in black butter and sherry under a cover on a slow fire, and absorbing the accounts in the morning papers of the sensational death of Perren Gebert. It was a new one on me. The idea was that when he started to enter his car he had bumped his head against a sauce dish full of poison which had been perched on a piece of tape stuck to the cloth of the top above the driver’s seat, and the poison had spilled on him, most of it going down the back of his neck. The poison wasn’t named. I decided to finish with my second cup of coffee before going to the shelves in the office for a book on toxicology to glance over the possibilities. There couldn’t be more than two or three that would furnish results as sudden and complete as that, applied externally.

A little after nine o’clock a phone call came from Saul Panzer. He asked for Wolfe and I put him through to the plant rooms; and then, to my disgust but not my surprise, Wolfe shooed me off the line. I stretched out my legs and looked at the tips of my shoes and told myself that the day would come when I would walk into that office carrying a murderer in a suitcase, and Nero Wolfe would pay dearly for a peek. Soon after that, Cramer phoned. He was also put through to Wolfe, and this time I kept my line and scribbled it in my notebook, but it was a waste of paper and talent. Cramer sounded tired and bitter, as if he needed three drinks and a good long nap. The gist of his growlings was that they were on the rampage at the District Attorney’s office and about ready to take drastic action. Wolfe murmured sympathetically that he hoped they would do nothing that would interfere with Cramer’s progress on the case, and Cramer told Wolfe where to go. Kid stuff.

I got out a book on toxicology, and I suppose to an ignorant onlooker I would have appeared to be a studious fellow buried in research, but as a matter of fact I was a caged tiger. I wanted to get in a lick somewhere, so much that it made my stomach ache. I wanted to all the more, because I had scored a couple of muffs on the case, once when I had failed to bring Gebert away from that gang of gorillas up at Glennanne, and once when I had beat it from 73rd Street three minutes before Perren Gebert got his right there on the spot.

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