Rex Stout - Plot It Yourself

There was another phone call, from Cora Ballard, the executive secretary. She said she had been worrying about the decision of the committee to let Nero Wolfe go ahead with a free hand. She appreciated the fact that a private detective couldn’t very well tell a group of people what he was doing and going to do, but the committee had no authority to hire a detective to investigate a murder, and naturally she was worried. It wouldn’t be easy to get a large attendance of the NAAD council on short notice, but she could probably set one up for Monday or Tuesday of next week, and would I ask Mr. Wolfe to take no important steps until then? She was afraid that if he went ahead and did something drastic he would be acting without authority, and she thought he ought to know that. I told her I thought so too and I would certainly tell him. There’s no point in being rude when you can end a conversation quicker by being polite.

I had the radio on for the six-o’clock news when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms. He had a cluster of Phalaenopsis Aphrodite in his hand, and he got a vase from the shelf, took it to the kitchen for water, brought it back, put the stem in, and placed it on his desk. That’s the only hard work he ever does around the office. When the news stopped for a commercial I turned it off and told him, “Still nothing about plagiarism or our clients or you. If the cops have made any headway they’re playing it close—”

The doorbell rang, and I stepped to the hall for a look through the one-way glass panel. A glance was enough. I turned to tell Wolfe, “Cramer.”

He made a face. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

He took a breath. “Let him in.”

Inspector Cramer of Homicide West had sat in the red leather chair facing the end of Wolfe’s desk oftener and longer than any other three people combined. He just about filled it. How he sat depended on circumstances. I have seen him leaning back with his legs crossed, comfortable and relaxed, with a glass of beer in his hand. I have also seen him with his broad rump just catching the edge, his jaw set and his lips tight, his big red face three shades redder, his gray eyes bulging.

That day he was in between, at least at the start. He declined Wolfe’s offer of beer, but he made himself comfortable. He said he’d just stopped in on his way somewhere, which meant he wanted something he knew damn well a phone call wouldn’t get. Wolfe said it was pleasant to see him, which meant “What do you want?” Cramer took a cigar from his pocket, which meant that he expected it to take more than a couple of minutes to get what he was after.

“This Jacobs thing is a hash if I ever saw one,” Cramer said.

Wolfe nodded. “It is indeed.”

“One thing about it, I’ve heard something I never heard before. I’ve heard Sergeant Stebbins pay you and Goodwin a compliment. He says as smart as you are, you couldn’t possibly have arranged that scheme to buy Jacobs, with all that gang knowing about it, without having a pretty good idea of what might happen. He even says you expected it to happen, but of course that’s stretching it, I can’t see you conniving at murder.”

“Give Mr. Stebbins my regards,” Wolfe said, “and my thanks for the compliment.”

“I will. Is that all you have to say?”

Wolfe slapped a palm on the desk. “What the devil do you expect me to say? Did you come here for the pleasure of screwing from me an admission that I bungled? I’ll oblige you. I bungled. Anything else?”

“You’re not a bungler.” Cramer waved it away with the cigar. “Okay, we’ll skip that; we might as well. What’s bothering me is that the theory of the case the way we’re going at it is based on something you know about and we don’t. I’ve read Goodwin’s statement three times. According to him, you decided that the three stories were all written by the same person, and it wasn’t Alice Porter or Simon Jacobs or Jane Ogilvy. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“And you decided that by comparing them with books two of them had written and a transcript of Jane Ogilvy’s testimony in court.”

“Yes.”

“Then we’d like to check it. I agree with Sergeant Stebbins that you’re smart, I ought to know, but the whole approach depends on that, and naturally we want to check it. I understand that you have all that stuff here — the stories and the transcript and the books — and we want them. I’m no expert on writing myself, but we know a man who is. If this theory is right they’ll probably be needed as evidence sooner or later. You have them?”

Wolfe nodded. “And I intend to keep them.”

Cramer stuck the cigar between his lips and clamped his teeth on it. I had seen him light one only once, years ago. The cigar had a specific function, the idea being that with his teeth closed on it he couldn’t speak the words that were on his tongue, and that gave him time to swallow them and substitute others. In five seconds he removed the cigar and said, “That’s not reasonable.”

“Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said. “Let’s avoid a squabble if possible. The books are mine; you can get other copies elsewhere. The transcript and manuscripts belong to others and are in my care. I will surrender them only upon request from the owners. You can get them by court order only by establishing that they are material evidence, and I doubt if you can do that as things now stand. You can try.”

“You goddam arrog—” Cramer stuck the cigar in his mouth and set his teeth on it. In four seconds he took it out. “Listen, Wolfe. Just answer a question. Would I be a sap if I worked a homicide case on a theory that rested entirely on something you and Goodwin said, not under oath?”

A corner of Wolfe’s mouth twitched. That was his smile. “Yes,” he said, “I must concede that. Perhaps we can resolve the difficulty. I offer a trade. In twenty-four hours you have doubtless gathered information that I would like to have. Give it to me. Then I will lend you what you came for, provided you sign an agreement to return it to me within twenty-four hours, intact.”

“It would take all night to tell you all we’ve gathered.”

“I don’t want it all. Half an hour should do it, maybe less.”

Cramer eyed him. “Forty-eight hours.”

Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “I won’t haggle. Very well, forty-eight. First and most important, have you discovered anything that contravenes the theory?”

“No.”

“Have you discovered anything that suggests some other theory?”

“No.”

“Have you discovered anything that supports the theory?”

“Only that the members of that committee verify Goodwin’s statement. That doesn’t prove you were right in the conclusion you made from reading that stuff, and that’s why I want it. The widow knows nothing about it. She says. She also says that Jacobs had no enemies, that there couldn’t have been anybody who had a reason to kill him except maybe one person, and that was a man named Goodwin who came to see him last Thursday. Because Jacobs told her to shut the door on him if he came again. We haven’t asked Goodwin where he was Monday night from nine to eleven.”

“I’m sure he appreciates your forbearance. Mr. Stebbins told Mr. Goodwin the period was nine to twelve.”

“That was tentative. The stomach contents squeezed it a little. Nine to eleven.”

“Good. Mr. Goodwin was here with me. Of course you have learned, or tried to, how many people knew of the plan to allure Jacobs. How many?”

“So far, forty-seven.”

“They have all been spoken with?”

“All but two who are out of town.”

“Do any of them merit attention?”

“They all do as long as we’re on this theory. None of them especially. We haven’t spotted anything that looks like a lead.”