Рекс Стаут - A Family Affair

There wasn’t much to take. I put what there was in my pockets and walked out. My next-door neighbor on the left said something, but he was always saying something, and I didn’t listen. The stranger herded me down the hall to the door at the end with steel bars about the size of my wrist, on which he had to use a key, on through, and across to the elevator. As we waited for it to come, he said, “You’re number two hundred and twenty-four.”

“Oh? I didn’t know I had a number.”

“You don’t. My number. Guys I’ve had that I seen their pitcher in the paper.”

“How many years?”

“Nineteen. Nineteen in January.”

“Thanks for telling me. Two hundred and twenty-four. An interesting job you’ve got.”

“ You call it interesting. It’s a job.”

The elevator came.

In a big room on the ground floor with ceiling lights that glared, Nathaniel Parker sat on a wooden chair at one end of a big desk. The man behind the desk was in uniform, and another one in uniform stood at the other end. As I crossed over, Parker got up and offered a hand and I took it. The one standing pointed to a little pile of articles on the desk, handed me a 5-by-8 card, and said, “If it’s all there, sign on the dotted line. There’s your coat on the chair.”

It was all there — knife, key ring, wallet with no money in it because I had it in my pocket. Since I had been standing mute, I made sure the card didn’t say anything it shouldn’t before I signed. My coat smelled of something, but I smelled even worse, so what the hell. Parker was on his feet, and we walked out. The one behind the desk hadn’t said a word. Neither did Parker until we were out on the sidewalk. Then he said, “Taxis are impossible, so I brought my car. It’s around the corner.”

I said firmly, “Also there’s a bar around the corner.” My voice sounded funny, probably rusty and needed oil. “I’d like to hear you talk a little, and not while you’re driving.”

The bar was pretty full, but a couple were just leaving a booth and we grabbed it. Parker ordered vodka on the rocks, and when I said a double bourbon and a large glass of milk he raised his brows.

“Milk for my stomach,” I told him, “and bourbon for my nerves. How much this time?”

“Thirty thousand. Thirty for Wolfe and the same for you. Coggin pushed hard for fifty thousand because you’re implicated, so he says, and you’re standing mute. He said the charge will be changed to conspiracy to obstruct justice, and of course that was a mistake, and Judge Karp called him. You don’t go to court with a threat .”

“Where’s Wolfe?”

“At home. I took him an hour ago. I want to know exactly what the situation is.”

“It’s simple. There have been three murders, and we’re standing mute.”

“Hell, I know that. That’s all I know. I have never known Wolfe like this. He’s practically standing mute to me . I’m counting on you to tell me exactly where it stands. In confidence. I’m your counsel.”

The drinks came, and I took a sip of milk and then one of bourbon, and then two larger sips. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” I said. “It will take an hour and a half. But I can’t tell you why we’ve dived into a foxhole because I don’t know. He’s standing mute to me too. We could give them practically everything we’ve got and still go right on with our knitting — we’ve done that a thousand times, as you know — but he won’t. He told Roman Vilar — you know who he is?”

“Yes. He told me that much.”

“He told him he’s buying satisfaction. Goody. He’ll pay for it with our licenses. Of course—”

“Your licenses have been suspended.”

“We won’t need them if we’re behind bars. Where are Saul and Fred and Orrie?”

“They’re behind bars now. I’ll get them out tomorrow morning. Judge Karp has said he’ll sit. You honestly don’t know why Wolfe has holed in?”

“Yes, I don’t. You’re my lawyer?”

“Of course.”

“Then I can give you a privileged communication. Have you got an hour?”

“No, but go ahead.”

I took a swallow of bourbon and one of milk. “First a question. If I tell you everything as your client, I’ll also be telling you things about your other client that he is not telling. What about conflict of interest? Should I get another lawyer?”

“Not unless you want a better one. He knows I’m acting for you. He knows you can tell me anything you want to. If he’s willing to risk a conflict of interest, it’s up to you. Of course, if you want another lawyer—”

“No, thank you. You’ll be famous. It’s a coincidence — Wolfe will like that. Five men being tried now in Washington for conspiracy to obstruct justice — Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mitchell, Mardian, and Parkinson. Five being charged here with conspiracy to obstruct justice — Wolfe, Goodwin, Panzer, Durkin, and Cather. That’s probably what Wolfe has in mind. I’m glad to be in on it. So here’s my privileged communication.”

I drank, milk and then bourbon for a change, and proceeded to confide in my lawyer.

An hour and a half later, at five minutes past eight, Parker dropped me off at Thirty-fifth Street and Eighth Avenue. I would stretch my legs for a block and a half. He now had plenty of facts but could offer no suggestion on what to do with them, since I still intended to hang on. It was ten to one that he would have liked to advise me to turn loose but couldn’t on account of Wolfe. That looked to me a lot like conflict of interest, but I had learned not to try splitting hairs with a lawyer. They think you’re not in their class. Anyway we shook hands before I climbed out.

At the brownstone the chain bolt was on and I had to ring for Fritz. I am not rubbing it in when I say that he pinched his nose when I took my coat off; a super cook has a super sense of smell.

“I don’t need to say,” he said. “Anyway, here you are, grâce à Dieu . You look terrible.”

I kept the coat on my arm. “I feel worse. This will have to go to the cleaners, and so will I. In about two hours I’ll come down and clean out the refrigerator and shelves for you, and you can start over. He’s in the dining room?”

“No, I took up a tray, a plain omelet with five eggs and bread for toast, and coffee. Before that he had me rub lilac vegetal on his back. The paper said you were in jail, all of you. Are you going to tell me anything? He didn’t.”

“It’s like this, Fritz. I know ten thousand details that you don’t know, but the one important detail, what’s going to happen next — I’m no better off than you are. You tell me something. You know him as well as I do, maybe better. What’s the French word for crazy? Insane. Batty.”

“Fou. Insensé.”

“I like fou . Is he fou ?”

“No. He looked me in my eye.”

“Okay, then wait and see. Do me a favor. Buzz him on the house phone and tell him I’m home.”

“But you’ll see him. He’ll see you.”

“No he won’t. I’m not fou either. You’ll see me in two hours.” I headed for the stairs.

You would expect — anyway, I would — that the main assault in the campaign of the media to get the story to the American people would come from the Gazette . The Gazette was the leader in emphasizing flavor and color in everything from markets to murders, and also there was the habit of my exchanging tits for tats with Lon Cohen. But the worst two were Bill Wengert of the Times and Art Hollis of CBS News. Now that the dinner party at Rusterman’s was in the picture — nobody knew exactly how — and the murder of Harvey H. Bassett of NATELEC was connected with the other two — nobody knew exactly why — probably the brass at the Times was on Wengert’s neck. And Hollis, the damn fool, had sold CBS the idea of sending a crew with equipment to Nero Wolfe’s office for a twenty-six-minute interview without first arranging to get them in. So for a couple of days a fair amount of my time and energy was devoted to public relations. Omitting the details, I will only remark that it is not a good idea to persuade the Times that any future item of news with your name in it will not be fit to print.