Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

Saul had phoned around noon and Wolfe had talked to him from the kitchen while I was out with Pitney Scott. A little after two Fred Durkin phoned. He said that Paul Chapin had been to the barber and a drugstore, and that the town dick and the guy in the brown cap and pink necktie were still on deck, and he was thinking of forming a club. Wolfe went on reading. About a quarter to three Orrie Cather called up and said he had got hold of something he wanted to show us and could he come on up with it; he was at the Fourteenth Street subway station. I told him yes. Then, just before Orrie arrived, a call came that made Wolfe put down his book. It was from Farrell the architect, and Wolfe talked to him. He said he had had a nice lunch with Mr. Oglethrope, and he had had a tough argument but had finally persuaded him. He was phoning from the publisher’s office. Paul Chapin had on several occasions found it convenient to make use of a typewriter there, but there was some disagreement as to which one or ones, so he was going to take samples from a dozen of them. Wolfe told him to be sure that the factory number of the machine appeared on each sample.

I said, after we hung up, “Okay, that one’s turning brown. But even if you hang the warnings on him, you’ve just started. The Harrison demise is out, you’ll never tie that up. And I’m telling you that the same goes for Dreyer, unless you get Leopold Elkus down here and perform an operation on him. You’ve got to find a hole in his story and open it up, or we’ve licked. What the hell are we waiting for? It’s all right for you, you can keep occupied, you’ve got a book to read — what the devil is it, anyhow?”

I got up to take a squint at it, a dark gray cover stamped in gold: The Chasm of the Mind , by Andrew Hibbard. I grunted. “Huh, maybe that’s where he is, maybe he fell in.”

“Long ago.” Wolfe sighed. “Poor Hibbard, he couldn’t exclude his poetic tendencies even from his title. Any more than Chapin can exclude his savagery from his plots.”

I dropped back into my chair. “Listen, boss.” There was nothing he hated more than being called boss. “I’m beginning to catch on. I suppose Dr. Burton has written books too, and Byron, and maybe Dreyer, and of course Mike Ayers. I’ll take the roadster and drive out to Pike County for a little duck hunting, and when you get caught up with your reading just wire me care of Cleve Sturgis and I’ll mosey back and we’ll tackle this murder case. And take it easy, take your time; if you eat the apple after it is too ripe you’ll get ptomaine poisoning or erysipelas or something, at least I hope to God you will.” I was glaring at him, with no result except to make me feel like a sap, because he merely shut his eyes so as not to see me. I got up from my chair and glared anyhow. “Damn it, all I’m asking for is just a little halfway co-operation! One little lousy cablegram to that Roman wop! I ask you, should I have to work myself into turmoil — now what the hell do you want?”

The last was for Fritz. He had appeared in the door. He was frowning, because he never liked to hear me yell at Wolfe, and I frowned back at him. Then I saw someone standing behind him and I let the frown go and said:

“Come on in, Orrie. What’s the loot?” I turned to Wolfe and smoothed my voice out and opened up the respect: “He phoned a while ago and said he had got hold of something he wanted to show us. I told you, but you were engrossed in your book.”

Orrie Cather had a bundle about the size of a small suitcase, wrapped in brown paper and tied with heavy string.

I said, “I hope it’s books.”

He shook his head. “It’s not heavy enough for books.” He set it down on the desk and looked around, and I shoved up a chair for him.

“What is it?”

“Search me. I brought it here to open it. It may be just a lot of nothing at all, but I had a hunch.”

I got out my pocketknife, but Wolfe shook his head. He said to Orrie, “Go on.”

Orrie grinned. “Well, as I say, it may be a lot of nothing at all, but I’d got so fed up after a day and a half finding out nothing whatever about that cripple except where he buys his groceries and how often he gets his shoes shined, that when something came along that looked like it might be a little break I guess I got excited. I’ve just been following your instructions—”

“Yes. Let us arrive at the package.”

“Right. This morning I dropped in at the Greenwich Bookshop. I got talking with the guy, and I said I supposed he had Paul Chapin’s books in his circulating library, and he said sure, and I said I might like to get one, and he handed me one and I looked it over—”

I couldn’t help it; I snorted and stopped him. Orrie looked surprised, and Wolfe moved his eyes at me. I sat down.

“Then I said Chapin must be an interesting guy and had he ever seen him, and he said sure, Chapin lived in that neighborhood and bought books there and came in pretty often. He showed me a photograph of Chapin, autographed, on the wall with some others. A woman with black hair was sitting at a desk in the back of the shop, and she called out to the guy that that reminded her, Mr. Chapin never had come for the package he had left there a couple of weeks ago, and with Christmas stuff coming in the package was in the way, and hadn’t he better phone Mr. Chapin to send for it. The guy said maybe he would a little later, it was too early for Chapin to be up. I deposited my dollar and got my book and went down the street to a lunch counter and sat down with a cup of coffee to think.”

Wolfe nodded sympathetically. Orrie looked at him suspiciously and went on: “I figured it this way. Two weeks ago was about the time the cops were warming up on Chapin. What if he got hep they would pull a search on him, and he had something in his place he didn’t want them to see? There were a lot of things he might do, and one of them was to wrap it up and take it to his friends at the bookshop and ask them to keep it for him. It would be about as safe there as anywhere. Anyhow, I decided I liked Chapin well enough to do him the favor of taking a look at his package for him. I got an envelope and a piece of paper from a stationery store and went to a real estate office and bummed the use of a typewriter. I wrote a nice note to the bookshop. I had used my eyes on Chapin’s signature on the autographed photograph and got it pretty good. But then I was afraid to send it, so soon after I’d been there and heard the package mentioned. I decided to wait until afternoon. So a while ago I got a boy and sent him to the bookshop with the note, and I’m telling you it worked and they gave it to him.” Orrie nodded his head at the desk. “That’s it.”

I got up and got out my knife again. Wolfe said, “No. Untie it.” I started to work at the knot, which was a lulu. Orrie wiped his hand across his forehead and said, “By God, if it’s just fishing tackle or electric light bulbs or something, you’ll have to give me a drink. This is the only break I’ve had.”

I said, “Among other things, there’s just a chance we might find a set of typewriter type-bars. Or love-letters from Mrs. Loring A. Burton, huh?—There’s nothing doing on this knot. He didn’t want me to untie it, or anybody else. Even if I do get it, I could never tie it back again the same.” I picked up my knife again, and looked at Wolfe. He nodded, and I slashed the string.

I took off the paper, several thicknesses. It wasn’t a suitcase, but it was leather, and not imitation. It was an oblong box made of light tan calfskin, a special job, beautifully made, with fine lines of tooling around the edges. It was a swell number. Orrie grunted:

“Jesus, I may be in for grand larceny.”

Wolfe said, “Go on,” but he didn’t get up so he could see.