Rex Stout - The League of Frightened Men

Wolfe was on the phone. He kept his usual tempo, taking his time, though he had to try three numbers before he reached the man he wanted. He finally got him. Nobody on the chairs moved by a hair while he was talking.

“Inspector Cramer? This is Nero Wolfe. That’s right. Good evening, sir.—Inspector, I would like you to do me a favor. I have guests in my office, and no leisure at present for long explanations. I believe you know how much reliance may be placed in any positive statement I may make. Well. Will you send a man to my office — perhaps two would be better — for the murderer of Dr. Loring A. Burton? I have him here.—No. No, indeed. I beg you, explanations can come later.—Of course, proof; what good is certainty without proof.—By all means, if you wish to come yourself. Certainly.”

He pushed the phone back, and Bowen jumped up. His knees were trembling, and so were his little lady-hands, which I was watching to see that he didn’t make a pass. I took advantage of his being up to feel his rear for a gun; and my hands on him startled him. He forgot what he was going to say to Wolfe and turned on me, and by God he hauled off and kicked me on the shin. I got up and grabbed him and pushed him back into his chair and observed to him:

“You try another friendly gesture like that and I’ll paste you one.”

Drummond, who had been sitting next to Bowen, on the other side, moved away. Several others got up. Wolfe said:

“Sit down, gentlemen.—I beg you, there is no occasion for turmoil.—Archie, if you will kindly bring Mr. Bowen closer; I would like to see him better while talking to him. If it is necessary to prod him, you may do so.”

I stood up and told the stockbroker to find his feet. He didn’t move and he didn’t look up; his hands were in his lap twisting in a knot and there were various colors distributed over his face and neck and I was surprised not to see any yellow. I said, “Get a move on or I’ll move you.” From behind me I heard George Pratt’s voice:

“You don’t have to prove you’re tough. Look at the poor devil.”

“Yeah?” I didn’t turn because I didn’t care to take my eyes off of Bowen. “Was it your shin he kicked? Speak when you’re spoken to.”

I grabbed Bowen’s collar and jerked him up, and he came. I admit he was pitiful. He stood for a second trying to look around at them, and he tried to keep the quaver out of his voice: “Fellows. You understand why... if I don’t say anything now to... to this ridiculous...”

He couldn’t finish it anyhow, so I hauled him away. I put a chair up and sat him in it, then I perched on the edge of Wolfe’s desk so as to face him. Two or three of the bunch got to their feet and approached us. Wolfe turned to face the stockbroker:

“Mr. Bowen. It gives me no pleasure to prolong your discomfiture in the presence of your friends, but in any event we must wait until the police arrive to take you away. Just now you used the word ridiculous; may I borrow it from you? You are the most ridiculous murderer I have ever met. I do not know you well enough to be able to say whether it was through vast stupidity or extraordinary insouciance; however that may be, you planned the most hazardous of all crimes as if you were devising a harmless parlor game.

“I am not merely taunting you; I am depriving you of your last tatters of hope and courage in order to break you down. You stole a large sum from Dr. Burton through his account with your firm. I know nothing of the mechanism of your theft; that will be uncovered when the District Attorney examines your books. You found that Dr. Burton had discovered the theft, or suspected it, and on Saturday you went to his apartment to appeal to him, but already you had arranged an alternative in case the appeal failed. You were with Burton in his study. He went to his wife’s room to ask her if she cared enough for Estelle Bowen to make a big sacrifice for her, and his wife said no. Burton returned to the study and you got your answer; but during his absence you had got his automatic pistol from the drawer of his desk and put it in your pocket. Since you were his close friend, you had probably known for a long time that he kept a gun there; if not, you heard him in this room a week ago tonight telling all of us that on the occasion of Paul Chapin’s last visit to him he had got the gun from the drawer before he went to see Chapin in the foyer. Would you like a drink?”

Bowen made no reply or movement. Mike Ayers went to the table and got a shot of rye and came over with it and offered it to him, but Bowen paid no attention. Mike Ayers shrugged his shoulders and drank it himself. Wolfe was going on:

“Soon you left, at twenty minutes past six. No one went to the foyer with you; or if Burton did go, you pushed the button on the edge of the door as you went out, so it would not lock, and in a moment re-entered. At all events, you were alone in the foyer and the Burtons thought you had gone. You listened. Hearing no one, you went to the telephone. You had your gloves in your hand, and not to be encumbered with them while phoning, you laid them on the table. But before your call had gone through you were interrupted by the sound of someone approaching in the drawing-room. Alarmed, you ran for the concealment which you had already decided on: the curtained closet next to the light switch and the double doors. You got behind the curtain in time, before Miss Burton, the daughter of the house, came through, leaving the apartment.

“You realized that you had left your gloves lying on the table, and that concerned you, for you would need them to keep fingerprints from the gun — and, by the way, did it occur to you that the phone would show prints? Or did you wipe them off? No matter. But you did not at once dash out for the gloves, for you needed a little time to collect yourself after the alarm that the daughter had given you. You waited, and probably congratulated yourself that you did, for almost at once you heard the double door opening again, and footsteps, and the opening of the entrance door. It was Dora Chapin, arriving to do Mrs. Burton’s hair.

“Mr. Paul Chapin was out Saturday afternoon and did not return until rather late. This morning on the telephone, the switchboard operator at 203 Perry Street told me that there was a phone call for Mr. Chapin some fifteen or twenty minutes before he arrived home. So it seems likely that about six-forty you emerged from your hiding place, got the gloves, and tried the phone again, but there was no answer from the Chapin apartment. You returned to the closet, and fifteen minutes later tried again. Of course you did not know that the last phone call of yours, at about five minutes to seven, happened to coincide with Mr. Chapin’s entrance into the hall of 203 Perry Street; the switchboard operator called to him, and he answered that call at the switchboard itself, so the operator heard it. Apparently you imitated Dr. Burton’s voice with some success, for Mr. Chapin was deceived. He went upstairs to his apartment for a few minutes, and then came down to take a cab to Ninetieth Street.

“After phoning Chapin you returned again to the closet and waited there, with an accelerated pulse, I presume, and an emergency demand on your supply of adrenaline. Indeed, you seem practically to have exhausted the latter. I imagine that it seemed quite a while before Chapin arrived, and you were surprised to find that it had been only thirty-five minutes since your phone call. At all events, he came, was admitted by the maid, and sat down. In your closet, you kept your ears keen to learn if he took a chair that would turn his back to you; you had your gloves on, and the gun in your right hand ready for action. Still you strained your ears, to hear the approach of Dr. Burton. You heard his steps crossing the drawing-room, and the instant the sound came of his hand on the doorknob, you moved. Here, I confess, you showed efficiency and accuracy. Your left arm shot out past the edge of the curtain, your fingers found the light switch and pushed it, and the foyer was in darkness except for the dim light that wandered through the door from the drawing-room after Dr. Burton had opened it. With the light off, you jumped from the closet, found Chapin in his chair, and shoved him off onto the floor — not difficult with a cripple, was it, Mr. Bowen? By that time Dr. Burton had approached the commotion and was quite close when you shot him, and there was enough light from the drawing-room door for you to tell where his middle was. You pulled the trigger and held it for four shots, then threw the gun to the floor — and made your exit, after closing the double door. In the hall you ran to the stairs, and ran down them. There were only four flights, and one more to the basement, and a short stretch of hall to the service entrance. You calculated that even if you encountered someone, there would be no great danger in it, for the guilt of Paul Chapin would be so obvious that no questions would be asked of anyone outside of the apartment.