Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

I poured him another drink and he sat down and held onto it and crossed his legs. “Tell me,” he said, “is it true that Nero Wolfe was a eunuch in a Cairo harem and got his start in life by collecting testimonials from the girls for Pyramid Dental Cream?”

Like an ass, for half a second I was sore. “Listen,” I said, “Nero Wolfe is exactly—” Then I stopped and laughed. “Sure,” I said. “Except that he wasn’t a eunuch, he was a camel.”

Mike Ayers nodded. “That explains it. I mean it explains why it’s hard for a camel to go through a needle’s eye. I’ve never seen Nero Wolfe, but I’ve heard about him, and I’ve seen a needle. You got any other facts?”

I had to pour him another drink before the next customer arrived. This time it was a pair, Ferdinand Bowen, the stockbroker, and Dr. Loring A. Burton. I went to the hall for them to get away from Mike Ayers. Burton was a big fine-looking guy, straight but not stiff, well-dressed and not needing any favors, with dark hair and black eyes and a tired mouth. Bowen was medium-sized, and he was tired all over. He was trim in black and white, and if I’d wanted to see him any evening, which I felt I wouldn’t, I’d have gone to the theater where there was a first night and waited in the lobby. He had little feet in neat pumps, and neat little lady-hands in neat little gray gloves. When he was taking his coat off I had to stand back so as not to get socked in the eye with his arms swinging around, and I don’t cotton to a guy with that sort of an attitude towards his fellowmen in confined spaces. Particularly I think they ought to be kept out of elevators, but I’m not fond of them anywhere.

I took Burton and Bowen to the office and explained that Wolfe would be down soon and showed them Mike Ayers. He called Bowen Ferdie and offered him a drink, and he called Burton Lorelei. Fritz brought in another one, Alexander Drummond the florist, a neat little duck with a thin mustache. He was the only one on the list who had ever been to Wolfe’s house before, he having come a couple of years back with a bunch from an association meeting to look at the plants. I remembered him. After that they came more or less all together: Pratt the Tammany assemblyman, Adler and Cabot, lawyers, Kommers, sales manager from Philadelphia, Edwin Robert Byron, all of that, magazine editor, Augustus Farrell, architect, and a bird named Lee Mitchell, from Boston, who said he represented both Collard and Gaines the banker. He had a letter from Gaines.

That made twelve accounted for, figuring both Collard and Gaines in, at ten minutes past nine. Of course they all knew each other, but it couldn’t be said they were getting much gaiety out of it, not even Mike Ayers, who was going around with an empty glass in his hand, scowling. The others were mostly sitting with their funeral manners on. I went to Wolfe’s desk and gave Fritz’s button three short pokes. In a couple of minutes I heard the faint hum of the elevator.

The door of the office opened and everybody turned their heads. Wolfe came in; Fritz pulled the door to behind him. He waddled halfway to his desk, stopped, turned, and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.” He went to his chair, got the edge of the seat up against the back of his knees and his grip on the arms, and lowered himself.

Mike Ayers demanded my attention by waving his glass at me and calling, “Hey! A eunuch and a camel!”

Wolfe raised his head a little and said in one of his best tones, “Are you suggesting those additions to Mr. Chapin’s catalogue of his internal menagerie?”

“Huh? Oh. I’m suggesting—”

George Pratt said, “Shut up, Mike,” and Farrell the architect grabbed him and pulled him into a chair.

I had handed Wolfe a list showing those who were present, and he had glanced over it. He looked up and spoke. “I am glad to see that Mr. Cabot and Mr. Adler are here. Both, I believe, attorneys. Their knowledge and their trained minds will restrain us from vulgar errors. I note also the presence of Mr. Michael Ayers, a journalist. He is one of your number, so I merely remark that the risk of publicity, should you wish to avoid it—”

Mike Ayers growled, “I’m not a journalist, I’m a newshound. I interviewed Einstein—”

“How drunk are you?”

“Hell, how do I know?”

Wolfe’s brow lifted. “Gentlemen?”

Farrell said, “Mike’s all right. Forget him. He’s all right.”

Julius Adler the lawyer, about the build of a lead-pencil stub, looking like a necktie clerk except for his eyes and the way he was dressed, put in, “I would say yes. We realize that this is your house, Mr. Wolfe, and that Mr. Ayers is lit, but after all we don’t suppose that you invited us here to censor our private habits. You have something to say to us?”

“Oh, yes...”

“My name is Adler.”

“Yes, Mr. Adler. Your remark illustrates what I knew would be the chief hindrance in my conversation with you gentlemen. I was aware that you would be antagonistic at the outset. You are all badly frightened, and a frightened man is hostile almost by reflex, as a defense. He suspects everything and everyone. I knew that you would regard me with suspicion.”

“Nonsense.” It was Cabot, the other lawyer. “We are not frightened, and there is nothing to suspect you of. If you have anything to say to us, say it.”

I said, “Mr. Nicholas Cabot.”

Wolfe nodded. “If you aren’t frightened, Mr. Cabot, there is nothing to discuss. I mean that. You might as well go home.” Wolfe opened his eyes and let them move slowly across the eleven faces. “You see, gentlemen, I invited you here this evening only after making a number of assumptions. If any one of them is wrong, this meeting is a waste of time, yours and mine. The first assumption is that you are convinced that Mr. Paul Chapin has murdered two, possibly three, of your friends. The second, that you are apprehensive that unless something is done about it he will murder you. The third, that my abilities are equal to the task of removing your apprehension; and the fourth, that you will be willing to pay well for that service. Well?”

They glanced at one another. Mike Ayers started to get up from his chair and Farrell pulled him back. Pratt muttered loud enough to reach Wolfe, “Good here.” Cabot said:

“We are convinced that Paul Chapin is a dangerous enemy of society. That naturally concerns us. As to your abilities...”

Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Mr. Cabot. If it amuses you to maintain the fiction that you came here this evening to protect society, I would not dampen the diversion. The question is, how much is it worth to you?”

Mike Ayers startled all of us with a sudden shout, “Slick old Nick!” and followed it immediately with a falsetto whine, “Nicky darling...” Farrell poked him in the ribs. Someone grumbled, “Gag him.” But the glances of two or three others in the direction of Cabot showed that Wolfe was right; the only way to handle that bird was to rub it in.

A new voice broke in, smooth and easy. “What’s the difference whether we’re scared or not?” It was Edwin Robert Byron, the magazine editor. “I’d just as soon say I’m scared, what’s the difference? It seems to me the point is, what does Mr. Wolfe propose to do about it? Grant him his premise—”

“Grant hell.” Mike Ayers got up, flinging his arm free of Farrell’s grasp, and started for the table in the alcove. Halfway there he turned and blurted at them, “You’re damned tootin’ we’re scared. We jump at noises and we look behind us and we drop things, you know damn well we do. All of you that didn’t lay awake last night wondering how he got Andy and what he did with him, raise your hands. You’ve heard of our little organization, Wolfe you old faker? The League of Atonement? We’re changing it to the Craven Club, or maybe the League of the White Feather.” He filled his glass and lifted it; I didn’t bother to call to him that he had got hold of the sherry decanter by mistake. “Fellow members! To the League of the White Feather!” He negotiated the drink with one heroic swallow. “You can make mine an ostrich plume.” He scowled, and made a terrific grimace of disgust and indignation. “Who the hell put horse manure in that whiskey?”