Рекс Стаут - A Family Affair

“Like me, you have different clients for different cases. Who’s your client in this one?”

“I am. Myself. I have had my nose pulled. Spat upon. Pierre Ducos was murdered in a bedroom of my house. The man who did it will pay. Is one—”

“Then why are you withholding evidence from the police?”

“Because it’s my job. And it may not be evidence; I’m finding out. I start a question the third time: Is one of your clients connected in any way with Watergate?”

“Everyone in Washington is connected in some way with Watergate. That’s stretching it, but not much. The members of all those juries have thousands of relatives and friends. No present or former client of mine is or has been actually involved in Watergate. You’re supposed to be asking the questions, but I’ll ask another one. Do you really believe one of us six men killed Harvey Bassett? Or was implicated in his murder or the other one?”

“Of course I do. I’m paying three men forty dollars an hour to inquire about you. To your knowledge, have any of them been connected in any way with Watergate?”

“To my knowledge, no. If I were Haldeman, I would say not to my recollection, but I’m not Haldeman.”

“Where were you and what were you doing last Friday night, October twenty-fifth, from six p.m. to two a.m.?”

“By god, you ask it. I remember because that was the night Bassett died. I was at home in Washington. From nine p.m. on I was playing bridge with my wife and two friends until after midnight. I sleep late most Saturdays. At nine o’clock my wife woke me to tell me that Bassett had been murdered. What was the other one? Monday? I was at my office in Washington. Next question.”

Wolfe likes to say that no alibi is impregnable, but I hoped he wouldn’t send me to crack that one. Wives and bridge-playing friends can lie, but there was Monday too, and for us that was the one we really wanted.

He looked up at the wall clock. Eight minutes past eleven. “I’m short on sleep,” he said. “Are you going to see the District Attorney?”

Ackerman shook his head. “You heard what they said, especially Judd. He agrees with you; all we have is hearsay — from you. I’ll be short on sleep too. I’d like to make the midnight to Washington.”

“Then you’ll excuse me.” Wolfe pushed his chair back and rose. “I’m going to bed.” He headed for the door. Ackerman got up, told me, “He’s a goddam freak,” and walked out.

When Wolfe came down to the office at eleven o’clock Friday morning, Roman Vilar was sitting in the red leather chair.

It had been a busy morning — for me — starting with the routine phone calls from the hired hands. I told them about the party we had had — that nothing had been learned to change the program, they were to carry on, Saul on Judd and Fred on Vilar. Orrie’s day at Rusterman’s had been a blank; no one had seen a stranger in the dump room Monday, day or night. Having been instructed by Wolfe — summoned on the house phone when I went to the kitchen for breakfast — I sicked Orrie on Benjamin Igoe.

There had been three phone calls. From Lon Cohen to say that they had been sorry not to get my usual contribution to the poker game — which was libel, since I win as often as he does and nearly as often as Saul Panzer — and to ask when I would spill a bean. From Bill Wengert of the Times to insinuate that he might let me have a short paragraph on page 84 if I would bring it gift-packaged, addressed to him personally. From Francis Ackerman in his Washington office to say that if Wolfe wanted to see him again, tell him a day in advance, and to warn us that our phone might be tapped or our office bugged. Watergate had certainly got on lawyers’ nerves.

Not a peep from Cramer or the DA’s office. I had got Roman Vilar the third try, a little before ten, and he said he would have to cancel two appointments to come at eleven, and he would.

I had also done the chores, including drawing a check for three grand for Wolfe to sign because the fifteen hundred had about cleaned out the reserve cash box, and clipping November 1 coupons from some municipal bonds — in the tidy pile in the upper compartment of the safe with its own lock. I made a face as I clipped, because the rate on those bonds was 5.2 per cent, and high-grade tax-exempt municipals then being issued returned close to 8 per cent. Life is no joke if you’re in or above the 50-per-cent bracket, as Wolfe was. Equal to 15 per cent on your money, and you only have to clip coupons — or have Archie Goodwin do it if you’re busy nursing orchids.

Roman Vilar was not just a security errand boy. Fred had told me that Vilar Associates was maybe the biggest and best-known outfit in industrial security, and on the phone I had to go through two secretaries to get him. And he didn’t start the conversation by inviting questions, far from it. He offered Wolfe a job, and me too.

“Before we get onto Harvey Bassett and your problem,” he said, “I’d like to make a suggestion. One of my associates suggested it when I told him I was coming here, and three of us discussed it. We have some good investigators on our staff — two of them are absolutely top drawer — but as my associate said, think what it would mean if we were going after a contract with a big corporation, if we could say that if a really tough situation turned up we would put our best man on it, Nero Wolfe. Think what just the name would do. Of course there would be a certain amount of work for you, not too much, we know how you feel about work, but the main thing will be the name . I don’t have to tell you how famous you are, you know that, and that’s not all. There is also Archie Goodwin. We want him too, and the starting figure will be a hundred and twenty thousand for you, ten thousand a month, and thirty-six thousand for Goodwin, three thousand a month. We would prefer a five-year contract, but it could be three years if you prefer that, or even an option to terminate it at the end of a year if you would rather have it that way. Starting the first of the year, two months from now, but of course we could announce it immediately. I can see it, nothing loud or flashy, just a simple one-sentence announcement: ‘If a major problem arises, our Nero Wolfe will be available.’ ”

He was leaning forward in the chair, all his points pointing — chin, nose, ears. “Of course,” he said, “I don’t expect an immediate answer. You’ll want to consider it. You’ll want to find out about us. But it’s a firm offer. I would sign a contract here and now.”

“Yes,” Wolfe said, “I’ll want to find out about you. Where were you and what were you doing last Friday night, October twenty-fifth, from six p.m. to two a.m.?”

Vilar slid back in his chair. He grinned. “I didn’t expect that .”

Wolfe nodded. “A fair exchange. Near the end of my talk with Mr. Ackerman last evening he asked if I really believe one of you six men killed Harvey Bassett, and I said of course, I am paying three men forty dollars an hour to inquire about you. That isn’t ten thousand dollars a month, but it’s a thick slice. It shouldn’t take a month. You’re in the security business. Richard Nixon’s main buoy, in his frantic effort to keep himself afloat, was his plea of national security. Have you been involved in any way with any of the phenomena included in the term ‘Watergate’?”

“No.”

“Have you had any connection with anyone who has been involved?”

“One of the technicians who examined that tape with an eighteen-and-a-half-minute gap has done some work for me. Look, Wolfe. In my business I don’t answer questions, I ask them. Forget it. Where I was last Friday night, for instance. Go fly a kite. We should have gone along with Ackerman. I may go to the DA myself. Why don’t you? Why did you turn Hahn down? What are you trying to sell?”