Рекс Стаут: A Right to Die

Wolfe said distinctly, “Pride of race.”

“What! Who?”

“You, of course. You may not be aware—”

Whipple was moving, up. On his feet, his eyes, half closed, slanted down at Wolfe. “I am not a racist. I see I have made a mistake. I didn’t think—”

“Nonsense. Sit down. Your problem—”

“Forget it. Forget me. I should have forgotten you. To accuse me of—”

“Confound it,” Wolfe bellowed, “sit down! An anthropologist disclaiming pride of race? You should know better. If you are an anthropos you have it. The remark was not offensive, but I withdraw it because it was pointless. You have been moved to action; what moved you is immaterial. What moves me is the fact that I’m indebted to you and you have dunned me, and I’ll pay. But first I have a comment. Will you please sit down?”

“I suppose I’m touchy,” Whipple said, and sat.

Wolfe regarded him. “The comment is about marriage. It’s possible that Miss Brooke is more realistic than you are. She may be intelligent enough to know that no matter whom she marries there will be the devil to pay. The difficulties, snags, embarrassments, and complications — I use your words, though I would prefer sharper ones — are in any case inevitable. If she marries a man of her own color and class, the grounds for them will be paltry, ignoble, degrading, and tiresome. If she marries a Negro the grounds will be weighty, worthy, consequential, and diverting. I have never met a woman with so much sense, but there may be one. What if it is Miss Brooke?”

Whipple was shaking his head. “No, sir. Of course that’s very clever. It’s good talk, but it’s talk.” He smiled. “My father used to say about a good talker, ‘He rides words bareback.’ No, sir.”

“You’re fixed.”

“Yes. If you want to put it that way, I am.”

“Very well. You remember Mr. Goodwin.”

Whipple shot me a glance. “Of course.”

“Will you arrange for him to meet Miss Brooke? Perhaps a meal, lunch or dinner, with you, her, and your son? With some plausible pretext?”

He was looking doubtful. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. She knows what I — my attitude. Does Mr. Goodwin have to meet her? And my son?”

“Not necessarily your son. Her, yes. I can’t proceed until he has seen her, spoken with her, and if possible danced with her, and reported. This may even settle it. His feeling for attractive young women, his understanding of them, and his talent for gaining their confidence may be all we’ll need.” He turned. “Archie. Have you a suggestion?”

I nodded. “Sure.” He had asked for it. “I meet her, feel her out, understand her, get her confidence, bring her here and install her in the south room, and you seduce her and then marry her. As for the difficulties, snags, embar—”

Whipple cut in. “Mr. Goodwin. You can joke about it, but I can’t.”

I met his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to, Mr. Whipple. I was merely reacting to Mr. Wolfe’s joke about me and attractive young women. But of course I’ll have to meet her. He never leaves the house on business. How urgent is it? Have they set a date for the wedding?”

“No.”

“How sure are you they’re not already married?”

“I’m quite sure. My son wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t dissemble with me — or with his mother.”

“Is his mother with you on this?”

“Yes. Completely.” He turned to Wolfe. “You said your remark about pride of race was pointless, but you had made the remark. With my wife I suppose it could be called that. Is it pride of race if she wants her son’s wife to be a girl, a woman, with whom she can be friends? Real friends? Speaking as an American Negro, as a man, and as an anthropologist, can she expect to get true familial intimacy from a white woman?”

“No,” Wolfe said. “Nor from a colored woman either if it’s her son’s wife.” He waved it away. “However, you’re fixed.” He tilted his head to look at the wall clock: forty minutes till dinner. “Since Mr. Goodwin’s suggestion isn’t feasible, let’s see if we can find one. Tell me all you know about Miss Brooke.”

I got out my notebook.

It took only half an hour, so there were still ten minutes when I returned to the office after escorting Whipple to the front, helping him on with his coat, handing him his hat, and letting him out. Wolfe sat with his current book, closed, in his hands, gazing at it with his lips tight. He had been cheated out of a full hour of reading.

I stood and looked down at him. “If you expect an apology,” I said, “you’ll have to expect. When you make personal remarks about me with company present, I react.”

His head came up. “Of course. You always do. I’m in the middle of a chapter.”

“I didn’t know that. As for my letting him in and not telling you, there are exceptions to—”

“Bah. You wanted to see if I would recognize him. I didn’t until I heard the name. Did you?”

“Since we’re being frank, no. Not his face or voice. With me too it was the name.” I went on. It’s better to keep going after a lie. “Anyway, it’s a new slant on civil rights. She has a right to marry the man she loves, and look who’s trying to stop her. He had a nerve to begin by quoting that speech.”

He grunted. “I’m obliged.”

“Yeah. We’re really going to tackle it?”

“You are.”

“You leave it to me?”

“No. We’ll discuss it later.”

“There isn’t much to discuss. No matter what we dig up about her, he’ll probably—”

There were footsteps in the hall, and Fritz was at the door to announce dinner. Wolfe put the book down, stroked it with his fingertips, and rose.

That was Monday, February 24. Forty-two hours later, at one o’clock Wednesday, I had lunch with Susan Brooke at Lily Rowan’s penthouse on 63rd Street between Madison and Park.

In the random assortment of facts Whipple had supplied there had been nothing to bite on. She had graduated from Radcliffe four or five years ago, and not long after had come to New York. She was living with her married brother, an electronics engineer, in his Park Avenue apartment, and so was her mother. They were from Wisconsin — Racine, Whipple thought, but wasn’t sure. He didn’t actually know that she was financially independent; he had assumed it, because for more than two years she had been working for the ROCC as a volunteer, no pay, and she had made cash contributions amounting to $2350. Not office work; she made contacts and arranged fund-raising parties and meetings.

That was about all Whipple knew, except for a couple of dozen useless little details and a few even more useless guesses.

The Lily Rowan idea was of course mine, since she was my friend, not Wolfe’s. My first suggestion, Monday evening after dinner, was that I would phone the ROCC office, speak with the executive director, Thomas Henchy, and tell him that Wolfe was considering making a substantial contribution, that he would like to discuss it, and that in my opinion the best person to see him would be Miss Susan Brooke because I had heard that she made a good impression with men. That was vetoed by Wolfe on the ground (a) that he would feel committed to a substantial contribution, at least a grand, and (b) that with an attractive young woman I would get farther sooner if he wasn’t present. Of course the real ground was that she was a woman. There are many things he likes about the old brownstone on West 35th Street, which he owns: the furniture and rugs and books and soundproofing; the plant rooms on the roof; Fritz Brenner, the chef; the big kitchen; Theodore Horstmann, the orchid nurse; and me, the man and the muscle. But what he likes best is that there is no woman in it, and it would suit him fine if one never crossed the doorsill.