Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

Wolfe was looking at him. I was saying to myself, look out, Paul Chapin, look out for those half-closed eyes, and if you take my advice you’ll shut up and beat it quick. Wolfe said:

“I reach that pinnacle occasionally, Mr. Chapin.”

“I’ll try to believe you. There are few who do. I just wanted to say this to you: my friends have wasted a lot of time and money pursuing a mirage which someone has cleverly projected for them. I tell you straight, Mr. Wolfe, it’s been a shock to me. That they should suspect me , knowing as they do how grateful I am for all their kindness! Really, incredible. I wanted to put this before you and save you from the loss of your time and money too. You would not be so fatuous as to chase a mirage?”

“I assure you, sir, I am far too immobile to chase anything whatever. But perhaps — since you are by your own admission definitely out of it — perhaps you have a theory regarding the incidents that have disturbed your friends? It might help us.”

“I’m afraid not.” Chapin shook his head regretfully. “Of course, it appears more than likely that it’s a practical joke, but I have no idea—”

“Murder isn’t a joke, Mr. Chapin. Death is not a joke.”

“Oh, no? Really, no? Are you so sure? Take a good case. Take me, Paul Chapin. Would you dare to assert that my death would not be a joke?”

“Why, would it?”

“Of course. A howling anticlimax. Death’s pretensions to horror, considering what in my case has preceded it, would be indescribably ludicrous. That is why I have so greatly appreciated my friends, their thoughtfulness, their solicitude—”

A cry from behind interrupted him; a cry, deeply anguished, in the voice of Dr. Burton: “Paul! Paul, for God’s sake!”

Chapin wheeled about on his good leg. “Yes?” Without raising his voice a particle he got into it a concentrated scorn that would have withered the love of God. “Yes, Lorry?”

Burton looked at him, said nothing, shook his head, and turned his eyes away. Chapin turned back to Wolfe. Wolfe said:

“So you adhere to the joke theory.”

“Not adhere precisely. It seems likely. So far as I am concerned, Mr. Wolfe, the only point is this: I suffer from the delusion of my friends that I am a source of peril to them. Actually, they are afraid of me. Of me ! I suffer considerably, I really do. The fact is that it would be difficult to conceive of a more harmless creature than I am. I am myself afraid! Constitutionally afraid of all sorts of things. For instance, on account of my pathetic physical inadequacy, I go in constant fear of this or that sort of violent attack, and I habitually am armed. See—”

Paul Chapin had us going all right. As his right hand came around behind him and his fingers started under the edge of his dinner coat, there were two or three cries of warning from the group, and I took it on the jump. With my momentum and him balanced against his walking-stick, I damn near toppled him over, but I had my grip on his right wrist and saved him from a tumble. With my left hand I jerked the gat from his hip pocket.

“Archie!” Wolfe snapped at me. “Release Mr. Chapin.”

I let go his wrist. Wolfe was still snapping: “Give him back his — article.”

I looked at the gat. It was a thirty-two, an old veteran, and a glance showed me it wasn’t loaded. Paul Chapin, his light-colored eyes having no look in them at all, held out his hand. I put the gun in it and he let it sit there on his palm as if it was a dish of applesauce.

Wolfe said, “Confound you, Archie. You have deprived Mr. Chapin of the opportunity for a dramatic and effective gesture. I know, Mr. Chapin. I am sorry. May I see the gun?”

Chapin handed it to him and he looked it over. He threw the cylinder out and back, cocked it, snapped the trigger, and looked it over again. He said, “An ugly weapon. It terrifies me. Guns always do. May I show it to Mr. Goodwin?”

Chapin shrugged his shoulders, and Wolfe handed the gat to me. I took it under my light and gave it a few warm glances; cocked it, saw what Wolfe had seen, and grinned. Then I looked up and saw Paul Chapin’s eyes on me and stopped grinning. You could still have said there was no look in them, but behind them was something I wouldn’t have cared to bring into plain sight. I handed him the gun, and he stuck it back into his hip pocket. He said, half to me and half to Wolfe, in an easy tone:

“That’s it, you see. The effect is psychological. I learned a good deal about psychology from my friend Andy Hibbard.”

There were ejaculations. George Pratt stepped to Chapin and glared at him. Pratt’s hands were working at his sides as he stammered, “You — you snake! If you weren’t a goddam cripple I’d knock you so far I’ll say you’d be harmless—”

Chapin showed no alarm. “Yes, George. And what made me a goddam cripple?”

Pratt didn’t retreat. “I helped to, once. Sure I did. That was an accident, we all have ’em, maybe not as bad as yours. Christ, can’t you ever forget it? Is there no man in you at all? Has your brain got twisted—”

“No. Man? No.” Chapin cut him off, and smiled at him with his mouth. He looked around at the others. “You fellows are all men though. Aren’t you? Every one. God bless you. That’s an idea, depend on God’s blessing. Try it. I tried it once. Now I must ask you to excuse me.” He turned to Wolfe. “Good evening, sir. I’ll go. Thank you for your courtesy. I trust I haven’t put too great a strain on your intelligence.”

He inclined his head to Wolfe and to me, turned and made off. His stick had thumped three times on the rug when he was halted by Wolfe’s voice:

“Mr. Chapin. I almost forgot. May I ask you for a very few minutes more? Just a small—”

Nicholas Cabot’s voice broke in, “For God’s sake, Wolfe, let him go—”

“Please, Mr. Cabot. May I, gentlemen? Just a small favor, Mr. Chapin. Since you are innocent of any ill intent, and as anxious as we are to see your friends’ difficulties removed, I trust you will help me in a little test. I know it will seem nonsensical to you, quite meaningless, but I should like to try it. Would you help me out?”

Chapin had turned. I thought he looked careful. He said, “Perhaps. What is it?”

“Quite simple. You use a typewriter, I suppose?”

“Of course. I type all my manuscripts myself.”

“We have a typewriter here. Would you be good enough to sit at Mr. Goodwin’s desk and type something at my dictation?”

“Why should I?” He hesitated, and was certainly being careful now. He looked around and saw twelve pairs of eyes at him; then he smiled and said easily, “But for that matter, why shouldn’t I?” He limped back towards me.

I pulled the machine up into position, inserted a sheet of paper, got up, and held my chair for him. He shook his head and I moved away, and he leaned his stick up against the desk and got himself into the chair, shoving his bum leg under with his hand. Nobody was saying a word. He looked around at Wolfe and said, “I’m not very fast. Shall I double-space it?”

“I would say, single-space. In that way it will most nearly resemble the original. Are you ready?” Wolfe suddenly and unexpectedly put volume and depth into his voice: “Ye should have killed me — comma — watched the last mean sigh —”

There was complete silence. It lasted ten seconds. Then Chapin’s fingers moved and the typewriter clicked, firm and fast. I followed the words on it. It got through the first three, but at the fourth it faltered. It stopped at the second l in killed , stopped completely. There was silence again. You could have heard a feather falling. The sounds that broke it came from Paul Chapin. He moved with no haste but with a good deal of finality. He pushed back, got himself onto his feet, took his stick, and thumped off. He brushed past me, and Arthur Kommers had to move out of his way. Before he got to the door he stopped and turned. He did not seem especially perturbed, and his light-colored eyes had nothing new in them as far as I could see from where I was.