Rex Stout: The League of Frightened Men

I took my eyes from the sheet to look at Wolfe. “Pretty good, sir. Pretty nice. I’m surprised it didn’t get him, he must have been tough. Maybe you didn’t go far enough. You only mentioned poison really, you could have brought in strangling and bleeding and crushed skulls and convulsions—”

“Proceed.”

Hibbard: I will pay you five hundred dollars a week.

Wolfe: I am sorry. To now my casuistry has managed a satisfactory persuasion that the money I have put in my bank has been earned. I dare not put this strain upon it.

Hibbard: But... you wouldn’t refuse. You can’t refuse a thing like this. My God. You are my only hope. I didn’t realize it, but you are.

Wolfe: I do refuse. I can undertake to render this man harmless, to remove the threat —

Hibbard: No. No!

Wolfe: Very well. One little suggestion: if you take out substantial life insurance, which would be innocent of fraud from the legal standpoint, you should if possible manage so that when the event comes it cannot plausibly be given the appearance of suicide; and since you will not be aware of the event much beforehand you will have to keep your wit sharpened. That is merely a practical suggestion, that the insurance may not be voided, to the loss of your beneficiary.

Hibbard: But... Mr. Wolfe... look here... you can’t do this. I came here... I tell you it isn’t reasonable —

Wolfe stopped me. “That will do, Archie.”

I looked up. “There’s only a little more.”

“I know. I find it painful. I refused that five hundred dollars — thousands perhaps — once; I maintained my position; your reading it causes me useless discomfort. Do not finish it. There is nothing further except Mr. Hibbard’s confused protestations and my admirable steadfastness.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve read it.” I glanced over the remaining lines. “I’m surprised you let him go. After all—”

Wolfe reached to the desk to ring for Fritz, shifted a little in his chair, and settled back again. “To tell you the truth, Archie, I entertained a notion.”

“Yeah. I thought so.”

“But nothing came of it. As you know, it takes a fillip on the flank for my mare to dance, and the fillip was not forthcoming. You were away at the time, and since your return the incident has not been discussed. It is odd that you should have innocently been the cause, by mere chance, of its revival.”

“I don’t get you.”

Fritz came with beer. Wolfe took the opener from the drawer, poured a glass, gulped, and leaned back again. He resumed, “By annoying me about the man on the witness-stand. I resigned myself to your tantrum because it was nearly four o’clock. As you know, the book came. I read it last night.”

“Why did you read it?”

“Don’t badger me. I read it because it was a book. I had finished The Native’s Return , by Louis Adamic, and Outline of Human Nature , by Alfred Rossiter, and I read books.”

“Yeah. And?”

“This will amuse you. Paul Chapin, the man on the witness-stand, the author of Devil Take the Hindmost , is the villain of Andrew Hibbard’s tale. He is the psychopathic avenger of an old and tragic injury.”

“The hell he is.” I gave Wolfe a look; I had known him to invent for practice. “Why is he?”

Wolfe’s eyelids went up a shade. “Do you expect me to explain the universe?”

“No, sir. Retake. How do you know he is?”

“By no flight. Pedestrian mental processes. Must you have them?”

“I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“I suppose so. A few details will do. Mr. Hibbard employed the unusual phrase, embark on a ship of vengeance , and that phrase occurs twice in Devil Take the Hindmost. Mr. Hibbard did not say, as the stenographer has it, that was difficult, for pawn , which is of course meaningless; he said, that was difficult, for Paul , and caught himself up pronouncing the name, which he did not intend to disclose. Mr. Hibbard said things indicating that the man was a writer, for instance speaking of his disguising his style in the warnings. Mr. Hibbard said that five years ago the man began to be involved in compensatory achievement. I telephoned two or three people this morning. In 1929 Paul Chapin’s first successful book was published, and in 1930 his second. Also, Chapin is a cripple through an injury which he suffered twenty-five years ago in a hazing accident at Harvard. If more is needed... “

“No. Thank you very much. I see. All right. Now that you know who the guy is, everything is cozy. Why is it? Who are you going to send a bill to?”

Two of the folds in Wolfe’s cheeks opened out a little, so I knew he thought he was smiling. I said, “But you may just be pleased because you know it’s corn fritters with anchovy sauce for lunch and it’s only ten minutes to the bell.”

“No, Archie.” The folds were gently closing. “I mentioned that I entertained a notion. It may or may not be fertile. As usual, you have furnished the fillip. Luckily our stake will be negligible. There are several possible channels of approach, but I believe... yes. Get Mr. Andrew Hibbard on the phone. At Columbia, or at his home.”

“Yes, sir. Will you speak?”

“Yes. Keep your wire and take it down as usual.”

I got the number from the book and called it. First the university. I didn’t get Hibbard. I monkeyed around with two or three extensions and four or five people, and it finally leaked out that he wasn’t anywhere around, but no one seemed to know where he was. I tried his home, an Academy number, up in the same neighborhood. There a dumb female nearly riled me. She insisted on knowing who I was and she sounded doubtful about everything. She finally seemed to decide Mr. Hibbard probably wasn’t home. Through the last of it Wolfe was listening in on his wire.

I turned to him. “I can try again and maybe with luck get a human being.”

He shook his head. “After lunch. It is two minutes to one.”

I got up and stretched, thinking I would be able to do a lot of destructive criticism on a corn fritter myself, especially with Fritz’s sauce. It was at that moment that Wolfe’s notion decided to come to him instead of waiting longer for him to go to it. It was a coincidence, too, though that was of no importance; she must have been trying to get our number while I was talking.

The telephone rang. I sat down again and got it. It was a woman’s voice, and she asked to speak to Nero Wolfe. I asked if I might have her name, and when she said “Evelyn Hibbard” I told her to hold the line and put my hand over the transmitter.

I grinned at Wolfe. “It’s a Hibbard.”

His brows lifted.

“A female Hibbard named Evelyn. Voice young, maybe a daughter. Take it.”

He took his receiver off and I put mine back to my ear and got my pad and pencil ready. As Wolfe asked her what she wanted I was deciding again that he was the only man I had ever met who used absolutely the same tone to a woman as to a man. He had plenty of changes in his voice, but they weren’t based on sex. I scribbled on the pad my quick symbols, mostly private, for the sounds in the receiver:

“I have a note of introduction to you from a friend, Miss Sarah Barstow. You will remember her, Mr. Wolfe, you... you investigated the death of her father. [2] See Fer-de-Lance , by Rex Stout. Could I see you at once? If possible. I’m talking from the Bidwell, Fifty-second Street. I could be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Hibbard, I am engaged. Could you come at a quarter past two?”

“Oh.” A little gasp floated after that. “I had hopes... I just decided ten minutes ago. Mr. Wolfe, it is very urgent. If you could possibly...”