Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

I beat it. I walked to the garage for the roadster, and the sharp air glistened in my lungs. After I got the roadster out into the light I looked it over and couldn’t find a scratch on it, and it was then I reflected on miracles. I got back in and headed uptown.

I was worried about Wolfe. It looked to me like he was rushing things beyond reason. It was true that Andrew Hibbard’s parole was up that evening, but probably he could have been persuaded to extend it, and besides it certainly wasn’t vital to produce him at the meeting as a stunt. But it was like Wolfe not to wait until the confession was actually in the bag. That sort of gesture, thumbing his nose at luck, was a part of him, and maybe an important part; there were lots of things about Wolfe I didn’t pretend to know. Anyhow, there was no law against worrying, and it didn’t make my head feel any better to reflect on the outcome of the meeting that evening if Paul Chapin stayed mule. So that was what I reflected on, all the way to Ninetieth Street.

Wolfe had said that both of the questions I was to ask Mrs. Burton were quite important. The first was simple: Did Dr. Burton telephone Paul Chapin between 6:50 and 7:00 o’clock Saturday evening and ask him to come to see him?

The second was more complicated: At 6:30 Saturday evening a pair of gray gloves was lying on the table in the Burton foyer, near the end towards the double doors. Were the gloves removed between then and 7:20 by anyone in the apartment?

I got a break. Everybody was home. The housekeeper had me wait in the drawing-room and Mrs. Burton came to me there. She looked sick, I thought, and had on a gray dress that made her look sicker, but the spine was still doing its stuff. The first question took about nine seconds; the answer was no, definitely. Dr. Burton had done no telephoning after 6:30 Saturday evening. The second question required more time. Mrs. Kurtz was out of it, since she hadn’t been there. The daughter, having left before 6:30, seemed out of it too, but I asked Mrs. Burton to call her in anyhow, to make sure. She came, and said she had left no gloves on the foyer table and had seen none there. Mrs. Burton herself had not been in the foyer between the time she returned home and around six, and 7:33 when the sound of the shots had taken her there on the run. She said she had left no gloves on that table, and certainly had removed none. She sent for Rose. Rose came, and I asked her if she had removed a pair of gloves from the foyer table between 6:30 and 7:20 Saturday evening.

Rose looked at Mrs. Burton instead of me. She hesitated, and then she spoke: “No, ma’am, I didn’t take the gloves. But Mrs. Chapin—”

She stopped. I said, “You saw some gloves there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“When I went to let Mrs. Chapin in.”

“Did Mrs. Chapin take them?”

“No, sir. That’s when I noticed them, when she picked them up. She picked them up and then put them down again.”

“You didn’t go back later and get them?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

That settled that. I thanked Mrs. Burton, and left. I wanted to tell her that before tomorrow noon we would have definite news for her that might help a little, but I thought Wolfe had already done enough discounting for the firm and I’d better let it ride.

It was after three when I got back to the office, and I got busy on the phone. There were eight names left for me, that Wolfe hadn’t been able to get. He had told me the line to take, that we were prepared to mail our bills to our clients, the signers of the memorandum, but that before doing so we would like to explain to them in a body and receive their approval. Which again spoke fairly well for Wolfe’s nerve, inasmuch as our clients knew damn well that it was the cops who had grabbed Chapin for Burton’s murder and that we had had about as much to do with it as the lions in front of the library. But I agreed that it was a good line, since the object was to get them to the office.

I was doing pretty well with my eight, having hooked five of them in a little over half an hour, when, at a quarter to four, while I was looking in the book for the number of the Players’ Club, on the trail of Roland Erskine, the phone rang. I answered, and it was Wolfe. As soon as I heard his voice I thought to myself, uh-huh, here we go, the party’s up the flue. But it didn’t appear that that was the idea. He said to me:

“Archie? What luck at Mrs. Burton’s?”

“All negatives. Burton didn’t phone, and nobody took any gloves.”

“But perhaps the maid saw them?”

“Oh, you knew that too. She did. She saw Mrs. Chapin pick them up and put them down again.”

“Excellent. I am telephoning because I have just made a promise and I wish to redeem it without delay. Take Mr. Chapin’s box from the cabinet, wrap it carefully, and convey it to his apartment and deliver it to Mrs. Chapin. I shall probably be at home by your return.”

“Okay. You got any news?”

“Nothing startling.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything startling. Let’s try a plain straightforward question. Did you get the confession signed or didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“It’s really signed?”

“It is. But I forgot to say: before you wrap Mr. Chapin’s box take out a pair of gloves, gray leather, and keep them. Please get the box to Mrs. Chapin at once.”

“Okay.”

I hung up. The fat devil had put it over. I had no idea what items of ammunition he had procured from Dora Chapin, and of course he had the advantage that Chapin was already in the Tombs with a first degree murder charge glued on him, but even so I handed it to him. I would say that that cripple was the hardest guy to deal with I had ever run across, except the perfume salesman up in New Rochelle who used to drown kittens in the bathtub and one day got hold of his wife by mistake. I would have loved to see Wolfe inserting the needle in him.

Wolfe had said without delay, so I let the last three victims wait. I wrapped the box up and drove down to Perry Street with it, removing a pair of gloves first in accordance with instructions and putting them in a drawer of my desk. I parked across the street from 203 and got out. I had decided on the proper technique for that delivery. I went across to where the elevator man was standing inside the entrance and said to him:

“Take this package up to Mrs. Chapin on the fifth floor. Then come back here and I’ll give you a quarter.”

He took the package and said, “The cop was sore as a boil yesterday when he found you’d gone. How’re you feeling?”

“Magnificent. Run ahead, mister.”

He went, and came back, and I gave him a quarter. I asked him, “Did I break anything on your vertical buggy? The lever wouldn’t work.”

He grinned about a sixteenth of an inch. “I’ll bet it wouldn’t. Naw, you didn’t break it.”

So I kept Wolfe’s promise for him and got the package delivered without running any unnecessary risk of being invited in for tea, and all it cost me was two bits, which was cheap enough.

Wolfe returned before I got back home. I knew that in the hall, seeing his hat and coat there. Since it was after four o’clock he would of course be upstairs with the plants, but all of his traipsing around had me nervous, and before going to the office I went up the three flights. I had hardly seen the orchids for more than brief glances for nearly a week. Wolfe was in the tropical room, going down the line looking for aphids, and from the expression on his face I knew he had found some. I stood there, and pretty soon he turned and looked at me as if I was either an aphid myself or had them all over me. There was no use attempting any conversation. I beat it downstairs to resume at the telephone.