Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

Three or four heads nodded. George Pratt, with the group at the desk, said, “Good here.” Cabot smiled openly and murmured, “Don’t forget your disability.”

“Good. The second point, about the money. In my opinion, the sums I have listed are adequate but not extortionate. If I fail to satisfy you I get nothing, so it comes to this: would Mr. Gaines be willing at this moment to pay me eight thousand dollars, and Dr. Burton seven thousand, and Mr. Michael Ayers one hundred and eighty, in return for a guarantee of freedom from the fear which has fastened itself upon them? I take it that you agree that it is proper to have the amounts graded in accordance with ability to pay.”

Again heads nodded. He was easing them into it; he was sewing them up. I grinned to myself, “Boss, you’re cute, that’s all, you’re just cute.” Lee Mitchell from Boston spoke again:

“Of course I can’t speak definitely for Mr. Collard and Mr. Gaines. I think I may say — you can probably count them in. I’ll go back to Boston tonight and they’ll wire you tomorrow.”

Cabot said, “You can cross Elkus out. He wouldn’t pay you a cent.”

“No?”

“No. He’s as sentimental as Andy Hibbard was. He’d sooner see us all killed than help catch Paul Chapin.”

“Indeed. It is disastrous to permit the vagaries of the heart to infect the mind. We shall see — Gentlemen. I would like to satisfy myself now on one point. Frankly, I do not wish it to be possible for any of you to say, at any time in the future, that I have acted with a ruthlessness or vindictiveness which you did not contemplate or desire. My understanding is that you are all convinced that Paul Chapin is a murderer, that he has threatened you with murder, and that he should be caught, discovered, convicted and executed. I am going to ask Mr. Goodwin to call off your names. If my understanding is correct, you will please respond with yes. ”

He nodded at me. I took up the list on which I had checked those present. Before I could call one, Lee Mitchell said, “On that I can answer for Mr. Collard and Mr. Gaines. Unqualifiedly. Their response if yes. ”

There was a stir, but no one spoke. I said, “Ferdinand Bowen.”

The broker said, husky but firm, “Yes.”

“Dr. Loring A. Burton.”

For a moment there was no reply, then Burton murmured in a tone so low it was barely heard, “No.” Everyone looked at him. He looked around, swallowed, and said suddenly and explosively, “Nonsense! Yes, of course! Romantic nonsense. Yes!”

Farrell said to him, “I should hope so. The wonder is you weren’t first.”

I went on, “Augustus Farrell.”

“Yes.”

I called the others, Drummond, Cabot, Pratt, Byron, Adler, Kommers; they all said yes. I called, “Michael Ayers.” He was still sprawled in his chair. I said his name again. Farrell, next to him, dug him in the ribs: “Mike! Hey! Say yes.” Mike Ayers stirred a little, opened his eyes into slits, bawled out, “Yes!” and shut his eyes again.

I turned to Wolfe, “That’s all, sir.”

I usually heard Fritz when he went down the front hall to answer the doorbell, but that time I didn’t; I suppose because I was too interested in the roll I was calling. So I was surprised when I saw the door of the office opening. The others saw me look and they looked too. Fritz came in three steps and waited until Wolfe nodded at him. “A gentleman to see you, sir. He had no card. He told me to say, Mr. Paul Chapin.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe didn’t move. “Indeed. Show him in.”

Fritz went back to the hall to get the visitor. I missed a bet, but Wolfe probably didn’t — I don’t know; I should have been taking notice of the expressions on the faces of our guests, but I wasn’t; my eyes were glued on the door. I imagine all the others’ were too, except Wolfe’s. I heard the thud of Paul Chapin’s walking-stick on the rubber tile of the hall.

He limped in and stopped a few paces from the door. From where he was he couldn’t see Wolfe, on account of the group gathered at the desk. He looked at the group, and at those around on chairs, and tossed his head up twice, his chin out, like a nervous horse trying to shake the rein. He said, “Hello, fellows,” and limped forward again, far enough into the room so he could see Wolfe, first sending a quick sharp glance at me. He was standing less than eight feet from me. He was dressed for evening, a dinner coat. He wasn’t a big guy at all, rather under medium size than over; you couldn’t call him skinny, but you could see the bone structure of his face — flat cheeks, an ordinary nose, and light-colored eyes. When he turned his back to me so as to face Wolfe I saw that his coat didn’t hang straight down over his right hip pocket, and I uncrossed my legs and brought my feet back to position, just in case.

There had been no audible replies to his salutation. He looked around again, back again at Wolfe, and smiled at him. “You are Mr. Wolfe?”

“Yes.” Wolfe had his fingers intertwined on his belly. “You are Mr. Chapin.”

Paul Chapin nodded. “I was at the theater. They’ve done a book of mine into a play. Then I thought I’d drop in here.”

“Which book? I’ve read all of them.”

“You have? Really. I wouldn’t suppose... The Iron Heel.”

“Oh yes. That one. Accept my congratulations.”

“Thank you. I hope you don’t mind my dropping in. I knew of this gathering, of course. I learned of it from three of my friends, Leo Elkus and Lorry Burton and Alex Drummond. You mustn’t hold it against them, except possibly Leo. He meant well, I think, but the others were trying to frighten me. They were trying it with a bogy, but for a bogy to be effective its terrors must be known to the victim. Unfortunately you were unknown to me. You have terrors, I suppose?”

Since Chapin’s first word he had kept his eyes on Wolfe, ignoring the others. They were regarding him with varying reactions on their faces: Mitchell of Boston with curiosity, Bowen with a sour poker face, Cabot with uncomfortable indignation, Mike Ayers with scowling disgust... I was looking them over. Of a sudden Dr. Burton left his chair, strode to the desk, and grabbed Chapin by the arm. He said to him:

“Paul, for God’s sake. Get out of here! This is terrible. Get out!”

Drummond the florist put in, his cultured tenor transformed by intensity into a ferocious squeal, “This is the limit, Paul! After what we — after what I — you dirty murdering rat!”

Others, breaking their tension, found their tongues. Wolfe stopped them. He said sharply, “Gentlemen! Mr. Chapin is my guest!” He looked at Chapin, leaning on his stick. “You should sit down. Take a chair.—Archie.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be going in a moment.” Chapin sent a smile around; it would have been merely a pleasant smile but for his light-colored eyes where there was no smile at all. “I’ve been standing on one foot for twenty-five years. Of course all of you know that; I don’t need to tell you. I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you by coming here; really, I wouldn’t disconcert you fellows for anything. You’ve all been too kind to me, you know very well you have. If I may get a little literary and sentimental about it — you have lightened life’s burden for me. I’ll never forget it, I’ve told you that a thousand times. Of course, now that I seem to have found my métier, now that I am standing on my own feet — that is, my own foot—” he smiled around again — “I shall be able to find my way the rest of the journey without you. But I shall always be grateful.” He turned to Wolfe. “That’s how it is, you see. But I didn’t come here to say that, I came to see you. I was thinking that possibly you are a reasonable and intelligent man. Are you?”