Рекс Стаут - Gambit

“Good. So do I.” I went to the door to the big room, on through, and to the table where the game had a couple of kibitzers. Neither they nor the players gave me a glance as I arrived. More than half of the men were still on the board. One of Black’s knights was attacked by a pawn, and I raised a brow when he picked up a rook to move it, but then I saw that the white pawn was pinned. Nash’s voice came from behind my shoulder. “This man is a police officer, Mr. Carruthers.” No eyes came to me, not an eye. White, evidently Mr. Carruthers, said without moving his head, “Don’t interrupt, Nash. You know better.”

A fascinating game if it fascinates you. With nothing better to do, I stuck with it for half an hour, deciding for both White and Black what the next move should be, and made a perfect record. Wrong every time. When Black moved a rook to where a knight could take it, but with a discovered check by a bishop which I hadn’t seen, I conceded I would never be a Botvinnik or even a Paul Jerin and went to the hall for my hat and coat. The only words that had passed had been when White had pushed a pawn and Black had murmured, “I thought you would,” and White had murmured, “Obvious.”

It was snowing harder, but there were still twenty minutes before six o’clock, so I walked some more. As for my mind, I told it that it now had some new data to work on, since I had shown it the scene of the crime and had even established the vital fact that it took seventy-eight seconds to go down to the kitchen and back up, but it wasn’t interested. Around Eighteenth Street I gave up and began to look at people going by. Girls are better looking in snowstorms, especially at night.

When I mounted the stoop of the old brownstone and used my key I found that the bolt wasn’t on, so I didn’t have to push the button for Fritz. Shaking the snow off my coat and hat before entering, putting them on the hall rack, and proceeding to the office, the only greeting I got was a sidewise glance. Wolfe was at his desk with his current book, African Genesis , by Robert Ardrey. Crossing to my desk, I sat and picked up the late edition of the Gazette. We have three copies delivered, one for Wolfe, one for Fritz, and one for me. It was on the front page, the first item under LATE BULLETINS.

Wolfe must have been on a long paragraph, for a full minute passed before he looked up and spoke.

“It’s snowing?”

“Yes. And blowing some.”

His eyes went back to the book. “I hate to interrupt,” I said, “but I might forget to mention it later. I saw Lon Cohen. He got it in today, as you may have noticed.”

“I haven’t looked. Did you get anything useful?”

“Not useful to me. Possibly to you.” I got my notebook from my pocket.

“Doubtful. You have a nose.” He went back to his book.

I gave him time for another paragraph. “Also I went and had a look at the Gambit Club.”

No comment.

“I know,” I said, “that that book is extremely interesting. As you told me at lunch, it tells what happened in Africa a hundred thousand years ago, and I realize that that is more important than what is happening here now. My talk with Lon can wait, and all I did at the Gambit Club, besides taking a look at the couch Jerin sat on, was watch a game of chess, but you told Miss Blount you would let her know who you want to see first. If you expect her to get someone here this evening I ought to phone her now.”

He grunted. “It isn’t urgent. It’s snowing.”

“Yeah. It may clear up by the time the trial starts. Don’t you think?”

“Confound it, don’t badger me!”

So he was phutzing. Since one of my most important functions is needling him when his aversion to work takes control, it was up to me, but the trouble was my mind. Showing it the scene of the crime had accomplished nothing. If I couldn’t sick it onto the job how could I expect to sick him? I got up and went to the kitchen to ask Fritz if there had been any phone calls, though I knew there hadn’t, since there had been no note on my desk.

However, there were three calls in the next hour, before dinner, and two during dinner — the Times , the Daily News , and the Post , and two of the networks, CBS and NBC. With all of them I confirmed the item in the Gazette and told them we had nothing to add. The News was sore because I had given it to the Gazette , and of course the Times tried to insist on speaking with Wolfe. When the last trumpet sounds the Times will want to check with Gabriel himself, and for the next edition will try to get it confirmed by even Higher Authority.

I had returned to the dining room after dealing with CBS, to deal with my second helping of papaya custard, when the doorbell rang. During meals Fritz answers it. He came from the kitchen, went down the hall to the front, and in a minute came back, entered, and said, “Mr. Ernst Hausman. He said you would know the name.”

Wolfe looked at me, not as a friend or even a trusted assistant. “Archie. This is your doing.”

I swallowed custard. “No, sir. Yours. The Gazette. I merely followed instructions. You said the murderer might think it necessary to do something, and here he is.”

“Pfui. Through a blizzard?”

He really meant it. On a fine day he would venture out to risk his life in the traffic only on a strictly personal errand, and this was night and snow was falling. “He had to,” I said. “With you on it he knew he was done for and he came to confess.” I pushed my chair back and left it. A man coming without an appointment before we had had our coffee — he was capable of telling Fritz to tell him to come tomorrow morning.

“Okay, Fritz,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

We always have our after-dinner coffee in the office, mainly because the chair behind his desk is the only one that Wolfe can get his bulk really comfortable in, and of course the guest had to be invited to partake. He said he’d try it, he was very particular about coffee, and when Fritz put a cup on the stand by the red leather chair and was going to pour he said the cup was too small and told Fritz to bring a larger one. Ideal company. He must have been fun at dinner parties.

He didn’t look his seventy-two years, and I had to admit he didn’t look like a murderer, but murderers seldom do. One thing was sure, if he murdered at all he would use poison, because with a gun or knife or club he might get spots on his perfectly tailored three-hundred-dollar suit or his sixty-dollar shoes or his twenty-dollar tie, or soil his elegant little hands, or even spatter blood on his neat little face with its carefully barbered mustache.

He lifted the larger cup and took a sip. “Quite good,” he conceded. He had a thin finicky voice. He took another sip. “Quite good.” He looked around. “Good room. For a man in your line of work quite unexpected. That globe over there — I noticed it when I came in. What’s its diameter? Three feet?”

“Thirty-two and three-eighths inches.”

“The finest globe I ever saw. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it.”

“I paid five hundred.”

Hausman shook his head and sipped coffee. “Not worth it Do you play chess?”

“Not now. I have played.”

“How good were you?”

Wolfe put his cup down. “Mr. Hausman. Surely you didn’t come through a snowstorm at night for this.” He reached for the pot.

“Hardly.” He showed his teeth. It wasn’t a grin; it was simply that his lips suddenly parted enough for his teeth to show and then closed again. “But before I go into matters I have to be satisfied about you. I know you have a reputation, but that doesn’t mean anything. How far can you be trusted?”