Рекс Стаут: A Right to Die

It would have cramped Wolfe’s style a little if Whipple hadn’t been at home, but he was. He answered the phone. I started to tell him that Mr. Wolfe wanted to speak to him, but Wolfe was at his phone and cut in.

“This is Nero Wolfe, Mr. Whipple. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I owe you an apology. You were right, and I was wrong. I have just learned that your son is being held on a charge of murder. I am convinced that the charge is unfounded. If you want my services on your son’s behalf, I offer them without fee. My previous undertaking to discharge my obligation to you was fatuous; I should have said no. Now I say yes.”

Silence. Then: “His lawyer phoned an hour ago that he would probably be home by eight o’clock.”

“His lawyer was wrong. I have more accurate information. Do you accept my offer?”

“Yes. Of course. We’ll pay all we can.”

“You’ll pay nothing. My self-esteem needs repairs. But there’s a question: the approval of your son and his lawyer.”

“They’ll approve. I know they will. But how did you learn — are you sure...”

“Yes. A policeman is sitting here in the chair you sat in. When you have the approval of your son and his lawyer, let me know and I’ll proceed. I must talk with you and the lawyer.”

“Of course. I knew this — I knew it would happen, but now that — now that—”

“Yes. Some time has been lost. Let me know.” He hung up and swiveled.

Cramer asked, cold and slow, “What kind of a goddam play is this?”

Wolfe pinched his nose. “I believe I have never told you of an experience I had years ago at a place in West Virginia. I wanted to leave and come home, and I wanted a certain favor from a certain man. A young colored man made it possible for me to realize both desires. His name was Paul Whipple. I hadn’t seen him since until ten days ago — no, eleven. Now I’ll even the score.”

“The hell you will. You can’t possibly know that Dunbar Whipple didn’t kill that girl. The only way you could know that would be if you thought you knew who did kill her.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea who killed her.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s obvious that when Goodwin was checking on her he dug up something that you intend to use to pull one of your goddam fancy stunts. You’re not going to. I told you that if you had taken him on Goodwin would have been wanted downtown, and now I’m telling you that I’m taking you too. To the district attorney.” He rose. “If you want it done right, you’re under arrest as material witness. Come on.”

Wolfe, in no hurry, put his hands on the desk rim to push his chair back, arose, and got the edge of his vest between thumbs and forefingers to pull it down. “We shall of course stand mute and get bail tomorrow. May we have two minutes to call Mr. Parker? Get him, Archie.”

I slanted my eyes up at Cramer, waiting politely for permission, since I was under arrest. He stood and breathed for ten seconds. He spoke. “You told Whipple that the charge against his son is unfounded. Let’s hear you reply to what I said, that if you say Dunbar Whipple didn’t kill her you think you know who did.”

“I did reply. I have no idea who killed her.”

“Then why didn’t he?”

“I am not obliged to account for a conclusion I have formed. But I tell you on my word of honor — a phrase I respect, as you know — that the conclusion has no evidential basis. I know nothing of the circumstances that led to the death of Susan Brooke that you don’t know; indeed, I know much less than you do. I offer a suggestion. I am now committed to act in the interest of Mr. Whipple, I would like to proceed without delay, and I would rather not spend tonight and part of tomorrow in custody, mute or not. I’m going to ask Mr. Goodwin to type a full report, with all conversations verbatim, of his investigation of Susan Brooke, and I offer to send you a copy of it, with his affidavit. That should satisfy you.”

“What about you?”

“Dismiss me. All my knowledge of the matter will be contained in Mr. Goodwin’s report. Still my word of honor.”

“When will I get the report?”

“I can’t say. How long will it take, Archie?”

“It depends,” I told him. “If you want it all, every word, say forty hours. Three days and evenings. I talked with many people about many things. If you want only what could possibly be relevant, ten or twelve hours should do it. The affidavit could cover it.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Cramer said. “By five o’clock.”

“Maybe, but no guarantee.”

He regarded Wolfe, opened his mouth and closed it again, about-faced, and was going. Wolfe raised his voice to tell his back, “We are under arrest!”

“Balls,” Cramer said without stopping. As I got up and went to the hall to see that he was outside when the door shut, I was thinking that you couldn’t blame him for being rude. He was facing the fact that they were slapping the big one on a man that Nero Wolfe had decided to take on. I didn’t offer to help him with his hat and coat; it wouldn’t have been appreciated. When he was out and the door shut I stepped back in the office. Wolfe was back in his chair, looking sour.

I went to my desk and sat. “At least twelve hours,” I said. “I might as well be in jail.” I swiveled, got out paper and carbons, and swung the typewriter around.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Starting that damn report.”

“Why don’t you badger me first?”

“Waste of time. Anyway, didn’t I say no?”

“Yes. Why?”

I swiveled to face him. “You know why, since you phoned Whipple. When he barked at you, ‘What did you do, what did you do.’ I thought to myself, so he didn’t kill her. If he had killed her of course he would be putting on an act, but that act was just too good. Only a genius could be that good, and I’ve never seen any genius besides you. Then when he told me I knew who killed her. Then when he apologized to you. Do I have to go on?”

“No. It was manifest. He couldn’t possibly have been dissembling. You’re aware that the report is required not only for Mr. Cramer. I must have it.”

“Sure. Proceeding as usual. Giving me a long, mean, extremely difficult job.”

I turned and got at the paper and carbons.

It took eleven hours plus, four hours Thursday evening and most of Friday. Thirty-two pages and the affidavit. That may seem slow, but for most of it I had no notes. At a quarter past four Friday afternoon I put it in an envelope with a label addressed to Inspector Cramer, took it to a notary public on Eighth Avenue to have the affidavit made official, and then, in a taxi, to Homicide South on 20th Street. I also took a taxi back. It was a nice sunny winter day for a walk, but the Gazette was on the stands and there was an item in it which I wanted to enjoy at leisure.

There had been interruptions. Whipple had phoned late Thursday evening to say that Oster, the lawyer, had been glad to hear that he would have Nero Wolfe’s help and had approved on behalf of his client. At eight-thirty Friday morning, already at my desk, I was buzzed by Wolfe on the house phone from his room and instructed to call Lon Cohen and tell him that if he cared to send a reporter to 35th Street we would have an item that might be printable; and furthermore I was told to send the reporter up to the plant rooms if he came between nine and eleven. He came a little after ten, and Fritz took him up in the elevator. That wasn’t unprecedented but it was out of the ordinary. It was too bad I couldn’t tell Dunbar Whipple that, in the interest of a Negro, Wolfe was making an exception he had rarely made in the interest of any white man. I wondered then, and I still do, whether words had anything to do with it, knowing how he is about words. As he had told me, discussing words one evening at the dinner table, negro means black in Spanish and nero means black in Italian. And he had been born in Montenegro, Black Mountain. Maybe something buried in him but not dead, in his cesspool and/or garden.