Rex Stout - Plot It Yourself

“And also sure that Alice Porter did write it?”

“Yes.”

I went to my chair and sat. “Then she decided to do one on her own, that’s all. Obviously. That doesn’t help any, but it doesn’t hinder either. Does it?”

“It may. It makes it extremely likely that the one we’re after, the one we must find and expose, had no hand in this, and therefore we should waste no time or effort on it. Miss Wynn is not our client, and neither is Mr. Imhof. They are merely members of that committee. Of immediate concern is the fact that they were under a misapprehension when they agreed to contribute ten thousand dollars to the bait for Simon Jacobs. They assumed that this is another operation by the same person, and it isn’t. We must tell them so, and when we do they will probably decline to make the contribution.”

“Yeah.” I scratched my nose. I scratched my cheek. “Yeah. So they will. You work too hard. You read too much. I don’t suppose you could forget you read the damn thing? Just forget it for twenty-four hours, say?”

“No, and neither could you. You’ll have to phone them at once. Is it out of the question to offer Simon Jacobs as little as ten thousand?”

I shook my head. “No, not out of the question. I’d start at ten anyhow, but I’d like it better if I knew I could boost it. He might even take five. I could start at five.”

“Very well. Call Miss Wynn. I’ll speak with her.”

I swiveled, but as I reached for the phone it rang. It was Philip Harvey. He asked for Wolfe, and Wolfe took his receiver, I stayed on.

“Yes, Mr. Harvey? This is Nero Wolfe.”

“I have good news, Mr. Wolfe. Thanks to Cora Ballard. She has it all fixed with Richard Echols. She saw Paul Norris, his agent, and she saw him, and I’ve just had a talk with Echols, and it’s all set. Dexter’s lawyer will draw the necessary papers in the morning, one for Echols to sign and one for Title House, and they’ll be ready by noon. I’ve spoken with Mortimer Oshin, and he wants to know whether you want the ten thousand in cash or a certified check.”

“Cash would be better, I think.”

“All right, I’ll tell him. What about Amy Wynn? Is she coming across?”

“It’s uncertain. There has been a development. The manuscript of the story on which Alice Porter bases her claim was found this afternoon in a file in the office of the Victory Press.”

“ No! I’ll be damned! In Imhof’s office? Wonderful! Marvelous! Then of course she will. She’ll have to.”

“She may. There are complexities, now unresolved, which I’ll report on later. In any case, it will probably be best to give Jacobs only half of the agreed amount now, and the other half later, contingent on his satisfactory cooperation. If Miss Wynn won’t supply it, someone will. Your committee will see to that.”

“I suppose so. I can’t promise it.”

“I don’t ask you to. I will engage to put it up to Mr. Knapp, Mr. Dexter, and Mr. Imhof. They couldn’t possibly wriggle out of it.”

“Ha! You don’t know how publishers can wriggle. They’re experts. They’re champions.”

“That will make it all the more satisfying to pin them. Satisfying both to you and to me — if it proves to be necessary. Ten thousand may be enough. I will be responsible for any commitments I make.”

Wolfe hung up and turned to me. “Get Miss Wynn.”

At half past five the next day, Tuesday, I entered the vestibule of the tenement at 632 West 21st Street and pressed the button by Simon Jacobs’ name. In my breast pocket were two documents, one signed by Richard Echols and the other signed by Thomas Dexter for Title House. Both were notarized. In my side pocket was a neat little package containing five thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and Cs. Another five thousand was distributed among other pockets, not in packages.

I could have been there two hours earlier but for the fact that no hurricane had hit town. Nothing less than a hurricane would make Wolfe cancel his afternoon session in the plant rooms, from four to six, and it had been decided that instead of trying to hook Jacobs myself I was to bring him to 35th Street and watch Wolfe do it, chiefly because it would be desirable to have a witness. I was not to be visible; I would be stationed in the alcove at the end of the hall with my notebook, at the hole in the wall, concealed by a trick picture on the office side, through which I could both see and hear. I had the documents and money with me because it might take more than words to get Jacobs to come.

There had been no snags. Shortly after twelve Cora Ballard, the executive secretary of NAAD, had come in person with the documents. She had brought them instead of sending them because she wanted to brief us on Simon Jacobs, whom she had known for nearly thirty years, ever since he had joined NAAD in 1931. He had always been a little odd, but she had always regarded him as honest and honorable, so much so that when he had accused Richard Echols of plagiarism she had had a faint suspicion that there might be something to it, but had abandoned it when she tried to get in touch with him and he wouldn’t talk. He was proud and touchy and he loved his wife and kids, and her advice was not to threaten him or try to get tough with him but just show him the money and the documents and put it on a basis of common sense. All of which might have been very helpful if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had already been dead about fourteen hours.

No, no snags. It couldn’t be called a snag that Amy Wynn and Reuben Imhof had withdrawn their offer to sweeten the pot, since that had been expected. While Wolfe and I were at lunch a messenger had arrived with the ten thousand dollars’ worth of lettuce from Mortimer Oshin.

So at five-thirty I pressed the button in the vestibule, the click came, and I opened the door and entered. I was ready for the garlic and took a deep breath as I headed for the stairs. My opening line was on my tongue. Three flights up I turned to the front, and there, at the open door where Mrs. Jacobs and the boy had awaited me on my previous visit, I was again awaited, but not by them. In the dim light I took two steps before I recognized him, then stopped. We spoke simultaneously, and spoke the same words.

“Not you ,” we said.

I knew. As Jane Ogilvy would have put it, a fact felt though not perceived. The presence there of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Homicide West might have meant any one of a dozen things — one of the kids had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, or Jacobs had killed his wife, or one of them was merely being questioned about some other death by violence — but I knew. It had to be. That was why I said, “Not you. ”

“I’ve been here five minutes,” Purley said. “Just five minutes, and here you come. Jumping Jesus!”

“I’ve only been here five seconds,” I said, “and here you are. I came to see a man named Simon Jacobs on business. Please tell him I’m here.”

“What kind of business?”

“A private kind.”

His jaw worked. “Look, Goodwin.” He has been known to call me Archie, but in different circumstances. “I come here on a job. If I’m somewhere on a job and someone asks me who is the last person on God’s earth I would want to show up, I would name you. What I’d like, I’d like to tell you to go somewhere and scratch your ass with your elbow. A man’s body is found. He was murdered. We get him identified. I go to where he lived to ask some questions, and I no sooner get started than the bell rings and I go to the door, and it’s you, and you say you came to see him on business. When you come to see a corpse on business, I know what to expect. I’m asking you, what kind of business?”