Рекс Стаут - Murder Is Corny

“The corn,” he said. “Has it come?”

For Pete’s sake. Being finicky about grub is all right up to a point, but there’s a limit “No,” I said. “Unless Saul brought it.”

He grunted. “A possibility occurred to me. When it comes — if it comes — no. I’ll see for myself. The possibility is remote, but it would be—”

“Here it is,” I said. “Good timing.” A man with a carton had appeared on the stoop. As I started to the front the door bell rang, and as I opened the door Wolfe was there beside me. The man, a skinny little guy in pants too big for him and a bright green shirt, spoke. “Nero Wolfe?”

“I’m Nero Wolfe.” He was on the sill. “You have my corn?”

“Right here.” He put the carton down and let go of the cord.

“May I have your name, sir?”

“My name’s Palmer. Delbert Palmer. Why?”

“I like to know the names of men who render me a service. Did you pick the corn?”

“Hell, no. McLeod picked it.”

“Did you pack it in the carton?”

“No, he did. Look here, I know you’re a detective. You just ask questions from habit, huh?”

“No, Mr. Palmer. I merely want to be sure about the corn. I’m obliged to you. Good day, sir.” He bent over to slip his fingers under the cord, lifted the carton, and headed for the office. Palmer told me distinctly, “It takes all kinds,” turned, and started down the steps, and I shut the door. In the office, Wolfe was standing eying the carton, which he had put on the seat of the red leather chair. As I crossed over he said without looking up, “Get Mr. Cramer.”

It’s nice to have a man around who obeys orders no matter how batty they are and saves the questions for later. That time the questions got answered before they were asked. I went to my desk, dialed Homicide South, and got Cramer, and Wolfe, who had gone to his chair, took his phone.

“Mr. Cramer? I must ask a favor, I have here in my office a carton which has just been delivered to me. It is supposed to contain corn, and perhaps it does, but it is conceivable that it contains dynamite and a contraption that will detonate it when the cord is cut and the flaps raised. My suspicion may be groundless, but I have it I know this is not your department, but you will know how to proceed. Will you please notify the proper person without delay?... That can wait until we know what’s in the carton.... Certainly. Even if it contains only corn I’ll give you all relevant information.... No, there is no ticking sound. If it does contain explosive there is almost certainly no danger until the carton is opened. Yes, I’ll make sure.”

He hung up, swiveled, and glared at the carton. “Confound it,” he growled, “again. We’ll get some somewhere before the season ends.”

The first city employee to arrive, four or five minutes after Wolfe hung up, was one in uniform. Wolfe was telling me what Saul’s errand had been when the doorbell rang, and since I resented the interruption I trotted to the front, opened the door, saw a prowl car at the curb, and demanded rudely, “Well?”

“Where’s that carton?” he demanded back.

“Where it will stay until someone comes who knows something.” I was shutting the door but his foot was there.

“You’re Archie Goodwin,” he said. “I know about you. I’m coming in. Did you yell for help or didn’t you?”

He had a point. An officer of the law doesn’t have to bring a search warrant to enter a house whose owner has asked the police to come and get a carton of maybe dynamite. I gave him room to enter, shut the door, took him to the office, pointed to the carton, and said, “If you touch it and it goes off we can sue you for damages.”

“You couldn’t pay me to touch it,” he said. “I’m here to see that nobody does.” He glanced around, went over by the big globe, and stood, a good fifteen feet away from the carton. With him there, the rest of the explanation of Saul’s errand had to wait, but I had something to look at to pass the time — a carbon copy, one sheet, which Wolfe had taken from his desk drawer and handed me, of something Saul had typed on my machine during my absence Thursday evening.

The second city employee to arrive, at ten minutes to six, was Inspector Cramer. When the bell rang and I went to let him in the look on his face was one I had seen before. He knew Wolfe had something fancy by the tail, and he would have given a month’s pay before taxes to know what. He tramped to the office, saw the carton, turned to the cop, got a salute but didn’t acknowledge it, and said, “You can go, Schwab.”

“Yes, sir. Stay out front?”

“No. You won’t be needed.”

Fully as rude as I had been, but he was a superior officer. Schwab saluted again and went. Cramer looked at the red leather chair. He always sat there, but the carton was on it I moved up one of the yellow ones, and he sat, took his hat off and dropped it on the floor, and asked Wolfe, “What is this, a gag?”

Wolfe shook his head. “It may be a bugaboo, but I’m not crying wolf. I can tell you nothing until we know what’s in the carton.”

“The hell you can’t When did it come?”

“One minute before I telephoned you.”

“Who brought it?”

“A stranger. A man I had never seen before.”

“Why do you think it’s dynamite?”

“I think it may be. I reserve further information until—”

I missed the rest because the doorbell rang and I went. It was the bomb squad, two of them. They were in uniform, but one look and you knew they weren’t flatties — if nothing else, their eyes. When I opened the door I saw another one down on the sidewalk, and their special bus, with its made-to-order enclosed body, was double-parked in front. I asked, “Bomb squad?” and the shorter one said, “Right,” and I convoyed them to the office. Cramer, on his feet, returned their salute, pointed to the carton, and said, “It may be just corn. I mean the kind of corn you eat. Or it may not Nero Wolfe thinks not. He also thinks it’s safe until the flaps are opened, but you’re the experts. As soon as you know, phone me here. How long will it take?”

“That depends, Inspector. It could be an hour, or ten hours — or it could be never.”

“I hope not never. Will you call me here as soon as you know?”

“Yes, sir.”

The other one, the taller one, had stooped to press his ear against the carton and kept it there. He raised his head, said, “No comment,” eased his fingers under the carton’s bottom, a hand at each side, and came up with it. I said, “The man who brought it carried it by the cord,” and got ignored. They went, the one with the carton in front, and I followed to the stoop, watched them put it in the bus, and returned to the office. Cramer was in the red leather chair, and Wolfe was speaking.

“... But if you insist, very well. My reason for thinking it may contain an explosive is that it was brought by a stranger. My name printed on it was as usual, but naturally such a detail would not be overlooked. There are a number of people in the metropolitan area who have reason to wish me ill, and it would be imprudent—”

“My God, you can lie.”

Wolfe tapped the desk with a fingertip. “Mr. Cramer. If you insist on lies you’ll get them. Until I know what’s in that carton. Then we’ll see.” He picked up his book, opened to his place, and swiveled to get the light right.

Cramer was stuck. He looked at me, started to say something, and vetoed it. He couldn’t get up and go because he had told the Bomb Squad to call him there, but an inspector couldn’t just sit. He took a cigar from a pocket, looked at it, put it back, arose, came to me, and said, “I’ve got some calls to make.” Meaning he wanted my chair, which was a good dodge since it got some action; I had to move. He stayed at the phone nearly half an hour, making four or five calls, none of which sounded important, then got up and went over to the big globe and started studying geography. Ten minutes was enough for that, and he switched to the bookshelves. Back at my desk, leaning back with my legs crossed, my hands clasped behind my head, I noted which books he took out and looked at Now that I knew who had killed Ken Faber, little things like that were interesting. The one he looked at longest was The Coming Fury, by Bruce Catton. He was still at that when the phone rang. I turned to get it, but by the time I had it to my ear he was there. A man asked for Inspector Cramer and I handed it to him and permitted myself a grin as I saw Wolfe put his book down and reach for his phone. He wasn’t going to take hearsay, even from an inspector.