Rex Stout: The Red Box

There was some stirring, but no comments. They all stared at the box, except Helen Frost; she stuck to Wolfe. Cramer was looking wary and thoughtful, with his eyes glued on the box.

Wolfe spoke with sudden sharpness: “Archie. We can dispense with notes. Most of the words will be mine, and I shall not forget them. Please take your gun and keep it in your hand. If it appears to be needed, use it. We don’t want anyone squirting nitrobenzene around here — that will do, Mr. Frost! I say stop it! I remind you that a woman and two men have been murdered! Stay in your chair!”

Dudley Frost actually subsided. It may have been partly on account of my automatic which I had got from the drawer and now held in my hand resting on my knee. The sight of a loaded gun out in the open always has an effect on a guy, no matter who he is. I observed that Cramer had shoved his chair back a few inches and was looking even warier than before, with a scowl on his brow.

Wolfe said, “This, of course, is melodrama. All murder is melodrama, because the real tragedy is not death but the condition which induces it. However.” He leaned back in his chair and aimed his half-closed eyes at our client. “I wish to address myself, Miss Frost, primarily to you. Partly through professional vanity. I wish to demonstrate to you that engaging the services of a good detective means much more than hiring someone to pry up floorboards and dig up flower beds trying to find a red box. I wish to show you that before I ever saw this box or its contents, I knew the central facts of this case; I knew who had killed Mr. McNair, and why. I am going to shock you, but I can’t help that.”

He signed. “I shall be brief. First of all, I shall no longer call you Miss Frost, but Miss McNair. Your name is Glenna McNair, and you were born on April 2nd, 1915.”

I got a glimpse of the others from the corner of my eye, enough to see Helen sitting rigid and Lew starting from his chair and Dudley staring with his mouth open, but my chief interest was Mrs. Frost. She looked paler than she had when she came in, but she didn’t bat an eye. Of course the display of the red box had prepared her for it. She spoke, cutting through a couple of male ejaculations, cool and curt:

“Mr. Wolfe. I think my brother-in-law is right. This sort of nonsense makes it a case for lawyers.”

Wolfe matched her tone: “I think not, Mrs. Frost. If so, there will be plenty of time for them. For the present, you will stay in that chair until the nonsense is finished.”

Helen Frost said in a dry even tone, “But then Uncle Boyd was my father. He was my father. All the time. How? Tell me how?” Lew was out of his chair, with a hand on her shoulder, staring at his Aunt Callie. Dudley was making sounds.

Wolfe said, “Please. Sit down, Mr. Frost. Yes, Miss McNair, he was your father all the time. Mrs. Frost thinks that I did not learn that until this red box was found, but she is wrong. I was definitely convinced of it on Thursday morning, when you told me that in the event of your death before reaching twenty-one all of Edwin Frost’s fortune would go to his brother and nephew. When I considered that, in combination with other points that had presented themselves, the picture was complete. Of course, the first thing that brought this possibility to my mind was the fact of Mr. McNair’s unaccountable desire to have you wear diamonds. What special virtue did a diamond have on you — since he seemed not otherwise fond of them? Could it be this, that the diamond is the birthstone for April? I noted that possibility.”

Llewellyn muttered, “Good God. I said — I told McNair once—”

“Please, Mr. Frost. Another little point: Mr. McNair told me Wednesday evening that his wife died, but not that his daughter did. He said he ‘lost’ his daughter. That of course is a common euphemism for death, but why had he not employed it for his wife also? A man may either be direct or euphemistic, but not often both in the same sentence. He said his parents died. Twice he said his wife died. But not his daughter; he said he lost her.”

Glenna McNair’s lips were moving. She muttered, “But how? How? How did he lose me...”

“Yes, Miss McNair. Patience. There were various other little points, things you told me about your father and yourself; I don’t need to repeat them to you. Your dream about the orange, for instance. A subconscious memory dream? It must have been. I have told you enough, I hope, to show you that I did not need the red box to tell me who you are and who killed Mr. McNair and Mr. Gebert and why. Anyway, I shan’t further coddle my vanity at your expense. You want to know how. That is simple. I’ll give you the main facts — Mrs. Frost! Sit down!”

I don’t know whether Wolfe regarded my automatic mostly as stage property or not, but I didn’t. Mrs. Edwin Frost had stood up, and she had a fair-sized black leather handbag she was clutching. I’ll admit it was unlikely she would be lugging an atomizer loaded with nitrobenzene into Wolfe’s office, to have it found if she was searched, but that wasn’t a thing to take a chance on. I thought I’d better butt in for the sake of an understanding. I did so:

“I ought to tell you, Mrs. Frost, if you don’t like this gun pointed at you, give me that bag or lay it on the floor.”

She ignored me, looking at Wolfe. She said with calm indignation, “I can’t be compelled to listen to this rubbish.” I saw a little flash back in her eyes from the fire inside. “I am going. Helen! Come.”

She moved toward the door. I moved after her. Cramer was on his feet and got in front of her before I did. He blocked her way but didn’t touch her. “Wait, Mrs. Frost. Just a minute.” He looked at Wolfe. “What have you got? I’m not playing this blind.”

“I’ve got enough, Mr. Cramer.” Wolfe was crisp. “I’m not a fool. Take that bag from her and keep her in here or you’ll eternally regret it.”

Cramer didn’t hesitate more than half a second. That’s one thing I’ve always liked about him, he never fiddle-faddles much. He put a hand on her shoulder. She stepped back, away from it, and stiffened. He snapped, “Give me the bag and sit down. That’s no great hardship. You’ll have all the chance for a comeback you want.”

He reached for it and took it. I noticed that at that juncture she didn’t appeal to her masculine relatives; I don’t imagine she was very strong on appeals. She wasn’t doing any quivering, either. She gave Cramer the straight hard eye:

“You keep me here by force. Do you?”

“Well...” Cramer shrugged. “We think you’ll stay for a while. Just till we get through.”

She walked back and sat down. Glenna McNair sent her one swift glance, and then looked back at Wolfe. The men weren’t looking at her.

Wolfe said testily, “These interruptions will help no one. Certainly not you, Mrs. Frost; nothing can help you now.” He looked at our client. “You want to know how. In 1916 Mrs. Frost went with her baby daughter Helen, then only a year old, to the east coast of Spain. There, a year later, her daughter died. Under the terms of her deceased husband’s will, Helen’s death meant that the entire fortune went to Dudley and Llewellyn Frost. Mrs. Frost did not like that, and she made a plan. It was wartime, and the confusion all over Europe made it possible to carry it out. Her old friend Boyden McNair had a baby daughter almost the same age as Helen, just a month apart, and his wife was dead and he was penniless, with no means of making a livelihood. Mrs. Frost bought his daughter from him, explaining that the child would be better off that way anyhow. Inquiry is now being made in Cartagena regarding a manipulation of the record of deaths in the year 1917. The idea was, of course, to spread the report that Glenna McNair died and Helen Frost lived.