Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

“Didn’t I tell you about the pipe?”

“You may have. Saul Panzer, after a full day, had to offer one little morsel. A news vendor at One Hundred Sixteenth Street and Broadway, who has known Mr. Hibbard by sight for several years, saw him enter the subway between nine and ten o’clock last Tuesday evening.”

“That was the only bite Saul got?”

Wolfe nodded, on his way slanting forward to reach the button on his desk. “The police had got that too, and no more, though it has been a full week since Mr. Hibbard disappeared. I telephoned Inspector Cramer this morning, and Mr. Morley at the District Attorney’s office. As you know, they lend information only at usurious rates, but I gathered that they have exhausted even conjecture.”

“Morley would deal you an extra card any time.”

“Perhaps, but not when he has none to deal. Saul Panzer is following a suggestion I offered him, but its promise is negligible. There is no point in his attempting a solitary fishing expedition; if Mr. Chapin went for a walk with Mr. Hibbard and pushed him off a bridge into the East River, we cannot expect Saul to dive for the corpse. The routine facilities of the police and Bascom’s men have covered, and are covering, possibilities of that nature. As for Mr. Chapin, it would be useless to question him. He has told both Bascom and the police that he spent last Tuesday evening in his apartment, and his wife sustains him. No one in the neighborhood remembers seeing him venture forth.”

“You suggested something to Saul?”

“Merely to occupy him.” Wolfe poured a glass of beer. “But on the most critical front, at the moment, we have met success. Mr. Farrell has gained the adherence of twenty individuals to the memorandum — all but Dr. Elkus in the city, and all but one without, over the telephone. Mr. Pitney Scott, the taxi-driver, is excluded from these statistics; there would be no profit in hounding him, but you might find occasion to give him a glance; he arouses my curiosity, faintly, in another direction. Copies of the memorandum have been distributed, for return. Mr. Farrell is also collecting the warnings, all copies except those in the possession of the police. It will be well to have—”

The telephone rang. I nearly knocked my glass of milk over getting it. I’m always like that when we’re on a case, and I suppose I’ll never get over it; if I had just landed ten famous murderers and had them salted down, and was at the moment engaged in trying to run down a guy who had put a slug in a subway turnstile, Fritz going to answer the doorbell would put a quiver in me.

I heard a few words, and nodded at Wolfe. “Here’s Farrell now.” Wolfe pulled his phone over, and I kept my receiver to my ear. They talked only a minute or two.

After we had hung up, I said, “What what? Farrell taking Mr. Somebody to lunch at the Harvard Club? You’re spending money like a drunken sailor.”

Wolfe rubbed his nose. “I am not spending it. Mr. Farrell is. Decency will of course require me to furnish it. I requested Mr. Farrell to arrange for an interview with Mr. Oglethorpe; I did not contemplate feeding him. It is now beyond remedy. Mr. Oglethorpe is a member of the firm which publishes Mr. Chapin’s books, and Mr. Farrell is slightly acquainted with him.”

I grinned. “Well, you’re stuck. I suppose you want him to publish your essay on The Tyranny of the Wheel. How’s it coming on?”

Wolfe ignored my wit. He said, “Upstairs this morning I spent twenty minutes considering where Paul Chapin might elect to type something which he would not wish to be traced to him. The suggestion in one of Bascom’s reports, that Chapin has a duplicate set of type-bars for his machine which he substitutes on occasion, I regard as infantile. Not only would the changing of the bars be a difficult, laborious and uninspired proceeding; there is also the fact that the duplicate set would have to be concealed in some available spot, and that would be hazardous. No. Not that. Then there is the old trick of going to a typewriter agency and using one of their machines exposed for sale. But a visit from Paul Chapin, with his infirmity, would be remembered; also, that is excluded by the fact that all three of the warnings were executed on the same typewriter. I considered other possibilities, including some of those explored by Bascom, and one seemed to offer at least a faint promise. Mr. Chapin might call at the office of his publisher and, wishing to alter a manuscript, or even merely to write a letter, request the use of a typewriter. I am counting on Mr. Farrell to discover that; having discovered it, he may be able to get Mr. Oglethorpe’s permission to take a sample of the work of the machine that Chapin used — or if that is not known, of each machine in their office.”

I nodded. “That’s not very dumb. I’m surprised that Farrell can still pay his dues at the Harvard Club.”

“When a man of a certain type is forced into drastic financial retrenchment, he first deserts his family, then goes naked, and then gives up his club. Which reminds me, I gave Mr. Farrell twenty dollars this afternoon. Please record it. You may also note on your list those who have initialed the memorandum, and file the various copies. Also, note that we have an additional contributor, Miss Evelyn Hibbard. I arranged it with her this morning. The amount is three thousand dollars.” He sighed. “I made a large reduction from the ten thousand she offered Saturday on account of the altered circumstances.”

I had been waiting for that, or something like it. I made the Farrell entry in the cashbook, but didn’t get out the list. I felt like clearing my throat, but I knew that wouldn’t do, so I swallowed instead. I put the cashbook back and turned to Wolfe:

“You understand, sir, I wouldn’t accuse you of trying to put anything over. I know you just forgot about it.”

His eyes opened at me. “Archie. You are trying the cryptic approach again. To what this time?”

“No, sir. This is on the level. You just forgot that Miss Evelyn Hibbard is my client. I went to see her Saturday at your suggestion; you couldn’t take her on because you had other plans in mind. Remember, sir? So of course any arrangement she might make in this connection could only be with my advice and consent.”

Wolfe was keeping his eyes open. He murmured, “Preposterous. Puerile trickery. You would not attempt to maintain that position.”

I sighed, as much like one of his sighs as I could make it. “I hate to, sir. I really do. But it’s the only honest thing I can do, protect my client. Of course you understand the ethics of it, I don’t have to explain—”

He cut me off. “No. I would suggest that you refrain from explaining. How much would you advise your client to pay?”

“One thousand bucks.”

“Absurd. In view of her original offer—”

“All right. I won’t haggle. I’ll split the difference with you. Two thousand. I stick there. I’m glued.”

Wolfe shut his eyes. “Done, confound you. Enter it.—Now take your notebook. Tomorrow morning...”

Wednesday morning pretty early I was sitting in the kitchen, with the Times propped up in front of me but not really seeing it because I was busy in my mind mapping out the day, getting on towards the bottom of my second cup of coffee, when Fritz returned from a trip to the front door to say that Fred Durkin wanted to see me. One thing I hate to be disturbed at is my last two healthy swallows of morning coffee, so I nodded and took my time. When I got to the office Fred was sitting there scowling at his hat on the floor, where it had landed when he had tried to toss it so it would hook on the back of my chair. He always missed. I picked it up and handed it to him and said: