Рекс Стаут - Gambit

Wolfe flipped a hand. “That would be his risk, not yours or mine. To our risk we could not plead inadvertence. It’s barely possible that I misunderstand you, and, as I said, we should be certain of our understanding. Have you any evidence that Mr. Nash did in fact put arsenic in the chocolate?”

“No.”

“Or any reason to suppose that he did?”

“Reason.” Hausman showed his teeth. “Reason? No.”

“Then our risk would be formidable. If Mr. Nash accepted the offer and collaborated with me on contrivance of the details, naturally I would put them in an affidavit for him to sign. Without such an affidavit we would have nothing. And if he repudiated it later, we would have no defense to a charge of subornation of perjury. No lawyer could get us off. We would—”

“Not us. You. Your share of the—”

“Pfui.” Wolfe had straightened up. “Mr. Hausman. I do not say that I would suborn perjury in no conceivable circumstances. But if I did so for money, and if it became known, do you imagine I would refuse to disclose who had paid me? Or that Mr. Goodwin would refuse to confirm it? To show his appreciation for our cooperation, the judge might in his mercy sentence us to five years instead of six. Or even four.”

“It would be two against one, but a man of my standing—”

“Bah. Asked what you paid me fifty thousand dollars for, what would you say?” Wolfe shook his head. “You said that you know my reputation but it doesn’t mean anything. Assuredly it doesn’t to you, since, knowing it, you come to me with this witless proposal. Why? You’re not a nincompoop. It invites conjecture. Are you concerned not for Mr. Blount, but for yourself? Did you put the arsenic in the chocolate, and does Mr. Nash know it or suspect it, and is this your devious—”

The phone rang. I swiveled and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s residence, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Mr. Goodwin, this is Sally Blount. I want to speak with Nero Wolfe.”

“Hold the wire.” I covered the receiver and turned. “That girl who came this morning about her jewelry.”

He was frowning because he had had a speech interrupted. “What does she want?”

“You.”

He tightened his lips, turned and glared at his phone, then reached for it. I put mine to my ear. “Yes, madam? This is Nero Wolfe.”

“This is Sally Blount, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Yes.”

“I know you never go anywhere, but you have to. You must. You must come and talk with my mother. You didn’t say you were going to put it in the paper.”

“I didn’t decide to until after you left. Your name wasn’t mentioned.”

“I know, but when my mother saw it she guessed. She didn’t guess, she knew. She knew I had tried to persuade Dan Kalmus, and I had tried to persuade her too — didn’t I tell you that?”

“No.”

“I should have. Well, she knew, and I had to admit it, and you’ll have to come and talk with her. Right away. Now.”

“No. Bring her here tomorrow morning.”

“It has to be now. She has phoned Dan Kalmus, and he may come, and... you must!”

“No. Out of the question. But if you apprehend — you are at home?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Goodwin will go. Shortly.”

“It ought to be you! Surely you can—”

“No. Mr. Goodwin will be there within half an hour.”

He hung up, but, since I was on, the line was still open and she was talking. I cut in. “Save it. Relax. Expect me in twenty minutes.” I cradled the phone and left my chair. Wolfe had pushed the button, and, as I headed for the hall, Fritz appeared at the door.

“Come, Fritz,” Wolfe said. “Take Archie’s chair. Your memory may not match his, but it will serve.”

“Yes, sir.” As Fritz moved he winked at me, and as I passed him I winked back.

In the marble lobby of the marble tenement on Fifth Avenue in the Seventies, I was expected. The man in uniform didn’t even let me finish. When I said, “Name, Archie Goodwin, to see—”, he broke in, “Yes, Mr. Goodwin,” and showed me to the elevator. But he phoned while I was being lifted, for when I emerged on the sixteenth floor the client was there, standing in the doorway. She put a hand out, not as an offer to shake but asking for help. I took it with my right and gave it a pat with my left as I told her, “Nineteen minutes. Taxi drivers don’t like snow.”

Inside, in a foyer the size of Wolfe’s office, after I had shed my hat and coat she led me through an arch and across a dozen yards of rug to a fireplace. On the way I took a glance around. Pictures, chairs, a piano in a corner, doodads on stands, potted plants on a rack that took up most of the far end, lamps here and there. The fireplace, where a fire was going, was three times as wide as the one Wolfe used for burning dictionaries.

“Sit down,” Sally said. “I’ll bring my mother, but I don’t know what you’re going to say to her. Do you?”

“Of course not. It depends. What’s the pinch?”

“She says I must call it off — with Nero Wolfe. She’s going to tell Dan Kalmus to tell my father, and I know what he’ll say. I’m sure he will.” She put finger tips on my arm. “I’m going to call you Archie.”

“Good. I answer to it.”

“I can’t call him Nero, I don’t think anybody could, but I can call you Archie, and I’m going to. This morning, did I say this is the first good thing I have ever done?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it is, and I’m doing it, but I have to know somebody is with me. Really with me.” Her fingers were around my arm. “Will you? Are you? Archie?”

My mind wasn’t. It was still with the facts. But having it put to me straight like that, if I had tried hedging I wouldn’t have been loyal to my concept of the obligations of manhood. It had to be either yes or no. “Okay,” I said, “since it’s the first good thing you’ve ever done I’m with you all the way. Anyhow, you’re Nero Wolfe’s client and I work for him, so everything fits. As for what I’ll say to your mother, I’ll decide that when I see her. If she’s willing to—”

I stopped because her eyes left me. With her back to the fireplace, she had the room in view and I didn’t. I turned. A woman had entered and was approaching. Sally spoke. “I was coming for you, mother. Mr. Wolfe couldn’t come. This is Archie Goodwin.”

I would have appreciated better light. The lamps were shaded and not close. As she came near the firelight played on her face, but that’s tricky; one second she looked younger than her daughter, and the next, she was a hag. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands, Mr. Goodwin,” she said. “I wouldn’t mean it. Please sit down.”

She didn’t sit, she sank, into an armchair on the right. I took one at right angles to her and twisted to face her. Sally stood. I spoke. “Your daughter asked me what I was going to say to you, and I told her I didn’t know. She has hired Nero Wolfe to do a job for her and I work for him. If I tell you anything about it, it will have to be with your daughter’s consent. She’s the client.”

Her eyes were brown like Sally’s, but not as big. “You’re a private detective,” she said.

“Right.”

“It’s grotesque.” She shook her head. “A private detective telling me my daughter is his client and he can talk to me only with her consent. But of course it’s all grotesque. My husband in jail charged with murder. He has a lawyer, a good one. My daughter can’t hire a private detective without his approval. I have told her that, and now you must tell her. That’s... isn’t that wrong? It must be.”

Taking her in, I was making allowances. When lots of men had enjoyed being in the same room with her (according to Sally), and when Lon Cohen had been bewitched by her on sight, the circumstances had been different. The strain of the past ten days had to be considered, and allowing for it, I conceded that I too might have enjoyed being in the same room with her. I suspected that she might even have what will pull three men out of five, that without knowing it she could give you the feeling that she knew absolutely nothing but understood everything. It’s a rare gift. I once knew a woman in her sixties who — but Mrs. Blount had asked me a question. She had a long way to go to her sixties.