Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

I threw the carbon onto the desk and did some more yawning. Finally Wolfe said:

“You understand, Archie. I think it would be possible for us to go ahead without assuming the drudgery of discovering the murderer of Dr. Burton. I would indeed regard that as obvious, if only men could be depended upon to base their decisions on reason. Alas, there are only three or four of us in the world, and even we will bear watching. And our weak spot is that we are committed not to refer our success to a fact, we must refer it to the vote of our group of clients. We must not only make things happen, we must make our clients vote that they have happened. That arrangement was unavoidable. It makes it necessary for us to learn who killed Dr. Burton, so that if the vote cannot be sufficiently swayed by reason it can be bullied by melodrama. You see that.”

I said, “I’m sleepy. When I have to wait until nearly midnight for my dinner and then it’s squirrel stew...”

Wolfe nodded. “Yes, I know. Under those circumstances I would be no better than a maniac.—Another thing. The worst aspect of this Burton development, from our standpoint, is what it does to the person of Mr. Chapin. He cannot come here to get his box — or for anything else. It will be necessary to make arrangements through Mr. Morley, and go to see him. What jail will they keep him in?”

“I suppose, Centre Street. There are three or four places they could stick him, but the Tombs is the most likely.”

Wolfe sighed. “That abominable clatter. It’s more than two miles, nearer three I suppose. The last time I left this house was early in September, for the privilege of dining at the same table with Albert Einstein, and coming home it rained. You remember that.”

“Yeah. Will I ever forget it. There was such a downpour the pavements were damp.”

“You deride me. Confound it... ah well. I will not make a virtue of necessity, but neither will I whimper under its lash. Since there is no such thing as bail for a man charged with murder, and since I must have a conversation with Mr. Chapin, there is no escaping an expedition to Centre Street. Not, however, until we know who killed Dr. Burton.”

“And not forgetting that before the night’s out the cripple may empty the bag for Cramer by confessing that he did it.”

“Archie.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at me. “If you persist... but no. King Canute tried that. I only say again, nonsense. Have I not made it clear to you? It is the fashion to say anything is possible. The truth is, very few things are possible, pitiably few. That Mr. Chapin killed Dr. Burton is not among them. We are engaged on a project. It is futile to ask you to exclude from your brain all the fallacies which creep, familiar worms, through its chambers, but I do expect you not to let them interfere with our necessary operations. It is late, past two o’clock, time for bed. I have outlined your activities for tomorrow — today. I have explained what may be done, and what may not. Good night, sleep well.”

I stood up and yawned. I was too sleepy to be sore, so it was automatic that I said, “Okay, boss.” I went upstairs to bed.

Sunday morning I slept late. I had been given three chores for that day, and the first one on the list probably wouldn’t be practical at any early hour, so twice when I woke up to glance at the clock I burrowed in again. I finally tumbled out around nine-thirty and got the body rinsed off and the face scraped. When I found myself whistling as I buttoned my shirt I stopped to seek the source of all the gaiety, and discovered I probably felt satisfied because Paul Chapin was behind bars and couldn’t see the sunshine which I was seeing on the front of the houses across the street. I stopped whistling. That was no way to feel about a guy when I was supposed to be fighting for his freedom.

It was Sunday morning in November, and I knew what had happened when I had called down to Fritz that I was out of the bathtub: he had lined a casserole with butter, put in it six tablespoons of cream, three fresh eggs, four Lambert sausages, salt, pepper, paprika and chives, and conveyed it to the oven. But before I went to the kitchen I stopped in the office. Andrew Hibbard was there with the morning paper. He said that he hadn’t been able to sleep much, that he had had breakfast, and that he wished to God he had some of his own clothes. I told him that Wolfe was up on the top floor with the orchids and that he would be welcome up there if he cared to see them. He decided to go. I went to the phone and called up Centre Street and was told that Inspector Cramer hadn’t shown up yet and they weren’t sure when he would. So I went to the kitchen and took my time with the casserole and accessories. Of course the murder of Dr. Burton was front page in both papers. I read the pieces through and enjoyed them very much.

Then I went to the garage and got the roadster and moseyed downtown.

Cramer was in his office when I got there, and didn’t keep me waiting. He was smoking a big cigar and looked contented. I sat down and listened to him discussing with a couple of dicks the best way to persuade some Harlem citizen to quit his anatomy experiments on the skulls of drugstore cashiers, and when they went I looked at him and grinned. He didn’t grin back. He whirled his chair around to face me and asked me what I wanted. I told him I didn’t want anything, I just wanted to thank him for letting me squat on the sidelines up at Doc Burton’s last night.

He said, “Yeah. You were gone when I came out. Did it bore you?”

“It did. I couldn’t find any clue.”

“No.” But still he didn’t grin. “This case is one of those mean babies where nothing seems to fit. All we’ve got is the murderer and the gun and two witnesses. Now what do you want?”

I told him, “I want lots of things. You’ve got it, inspector. Okay. You can afford to be generous, and George Pratt ought to hand you two grand, half of what you saved him. I’d like to know if you found any fingerprints on the gun. I’d like to know if Chapin has explained why he planned it so amateur, with him a professional. But what I’d really like is to have a little talk with Chapin. If you could arrange that for me—”

Cramer was grinning. He said, “I wouldn’t mind having a talk with Chapin myself.”

“Well, I’d be glad to put in a word for you.”

He pulled on his cigar, and then took it out and got brisk. “I’ll tell you, Goodwin. I’d just as soon sit and chin with you, but the fact is it’s Sunday and I’m busy. So take this down. First, even if I passed you in to Chapin you wouldn’t get anywhere. That cripple is part mule. I spent four hours on him last night, and I swear to God he wouldn’t even tell me how old he is. He is not talking, and he won’t talk to anyone except his wife. He says he don’t want a lawyer, or rather he don’t say anything when we ask him who he wants. His wife has seen him twice, and they won’t say anything that anyone can hear. You know I’ve had a little experience greasing tongues, but he stops them all.”

“Yeah. Did you try pinching him, just between you and me?”

He shook his head. “Haven’t touched him. But to go on. After what Nero Wolfe said on the phone last night — I suppose you heard that talk — I had an idea you’d be wanting to see him. And I’ve decided nothing doing. Even if he was talking a blue streak, not a chance. Considering how we got him, I don’t see why you’re interested anyhow. Hell, can’t Wolfe take the short end once in his life?—Now wait a minute. You don’t need to remind me Wolfe has always been better than square with me and there’s one or two things I owe him. I’ll hand him a favor when I’ve got one the right size. But no matter how tight I’ve got this cripple sewed up, I’m going to play safe with him.”