Рекс Стаут - Please Pass the Guilt

Wolfe’s head turned. “Archie?”

“You said it,” I told Meer, “to Pete Damiano. I can’t name the day, but it was soon after it happened. About a month ago.”

“Oh, him.” He grinned, or make it that he probably thought he grinned. “Pete would say anything.”

“That’s witless,” Wolfe said. “You knew it was likely, at least possible, that that would be remembered and you would be asked about it, and you should have had a plausible reply ready. Merely to deny it won’t do. It’s obvious that you’re implicated, either by something you know or something you did, and you should be prepared to deal with contingencies. I am, and I believe one is imminent. I ask you the same question I asked Miss Lugos this morning, in the same terms: In the early afternoon of Monday, May nineteenth, shortly after lunch, you were with Miss Lugos in her room, tête-à-tête. What did you talk about? What was said?”

That got a frown. “You asked her that? What did she say?”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I don’t remember.”

“Pfui. I’ve asked you seven questions and got only no’s and nothings. I’ve apologized to you; now I apologize to myself. Another time, Mr. Meer. Mr. Goodwin will show you out.”

I rose, but stood, because Meer thought he was going to say something. His lips parted twice but closed again. He looked up at me, saw only an impassive mug, got up, tucked the brief case under his arm, and moved. I followed him, but got ahead in the hall, opened the front door, and waited until he was down and at the door of the Jaguar to close it. Back in the office, I asked, “Do we need to discuss any guesses?”

Wolfe grunted. “You might as well have gone before lunch. Shall I apologize to you?”

“No, thanks. The phone number is on your pad, as usual.” I went and got my bag from the hall and let myself out, on my way to the garage for the Heron and then to the West Side Highway, headed for Lily Rowan’s glade in Westchester. That’s what she calls it, The Glade.

Amory Browning did something Monday morning that had never been done before. He walked down the aisles of the three plant rooms, clear to the potting room, without seeing an orchid. I didn’t actually see him, since he was behind me, but I’m sure he did. With that blaze of color, right and left and overhead, you’d think he would have to be blind. In a way he was.

It was twenty past ten and I had just returned from a walk crosstown to the bank and back, to deposit the check from the client, when the ring of the doorbell took me to the hall, and there was the next president of CAN. When I went and opened the door, he crossed the sill and went on by and headed for the office, and when I got there he was standing at the end of Wolfe’s desk.

“Where is he?” he demanded.

“Where he always is at this hour, up on the roof. He’ll be down at eleven. You can wait, or maybe I can help.”

“Get him down here. Now.”

The man at the top speaking, but he didn’t look it. I had formerly estimated that he had been pudgy for about five years, but now I would have made it ten.

“It can’t be done,” I said. “With him a rule is a rule. He’s part mule. If it’s really urgent he might talk on the phone.”

“Get him.”

“I’ll try.” I went to the kitchen, sat at the little table where I eat breakfast, reached for the house phone, and pushed the “P” button.

After a two-minute wait, about par, the usual “Yes?”

“Me in the kitchen. Amory Browning is in the office. I once saw a picture somewhere of a dragon snorting fire. That’s him. He ordered me to get you down here now. I told him you might talk on the phone.”

Silence for eight seconds, then: “Bring him.”

“Okay, but have something ready to throw.”

The elevator will take up to 600 pounds, but I thought a little deep breathing would be good for him, so I took him to the stairs, and he surprised me by not stopping to catch up on oxygen at the landings. He wasn’t panting even at the top. As I said, he was behind me down the aisles, but when I opened the door to the potting room I let him by. Wolfe, in his long-sleeved, yellow smock, was at the side bench opening a bale of tree fern. He turned part way and said, “You don’t like to be interrupted at work. Neither do I.”

Browning was standing with his feet apart. “You goddam cheap bully!”

“Not ‘cheap.’ I haven’t earned that reproach. What do you want?”

“Nothing. Calling my secretary a liar. Getting her here on a Saturday morning just to butter your ego by insulting her. I came to tell you that you can tell Mrs. Odell that there will be no more cooperation from anyone at CAN. Tell her if she wants to know why, to call me. Is that plain enough?”

“Yes indeed. Is that what you came for, to tell me that?”

“Yes!”

“Very well, you’ve told me.” Wolfe turned back to the bale of tree fern.

Browning was stuck. Of course with the “Is that plain enough?” he should have whirled and headed for the door. Now what could he do for an exit? He could only just go, and I admit he had sense enough to realize it. He just went, and I followed, and again he didn’t see an orchid. I supposed that on the way down the three flights he would decide on an exit line to use on me, but evidently he was too mad to bother, though I passed him down in the hall and opened the door for him. Not a word. I went to the office and sat to ask myself why I had bothered to deposit the check.

And in three minutes the doorbell rang and I went to the hall and there was Saul Panzer.

It’s moments like that that make life worth living, seeing Saul there on the stoop. If he had just wanted to make a routine report or ask a question or ask for help, he would have phoned. If he had wanted to consult Wolfe, he would have waited until eleven o’clock. And if he had bad news, he would have let his face show it as I came down the hall. So he had something good. I opened the door wide and said, “My god, are you welcome. How good is it?”

“I guess I’m awful obvious,” he said, and stepped in. “I think it’s satisfactory.”

I slammed the door shut. “For a nickel I’d kiss you.” I looked at my wrist: 10:47. “You’d rather tell him, but I don’t want to wait thirteen minutes. Neither do you or you wouldn’t be here yet. We’ll go up.”

It took us about half as long as it had taken Browning and me. I won’t say that we didn’t see an orchid as we passed through the rooms, but we didn’t stop to admire one. Wolfe, still in the yellow smock, was at the sink washing his hands, and Theodore stood there with a paper towel ready for him. Theodore babies him, which is one of the reasons he is not my favorite fellow being.

Wolfe, turning and seeing Saul, was on as quick as I had been. He said, “Indeed,” and ignored the dripping water from his hands. “What?”

“Yes, sir,” Saul said. “Once in a while I do something exactly right and am lucky along with it, and that’s a pleasure. I would enjoy leading up to it, but it’s been a long time since we’ve brought you anything. Dennis Copes’s twin sister, Diana, is the wife of Lieutenant J. M. Rowcliff. They have two children, a boy and a girl. Dennis and Diana see each other quite often — as I said, twins.”

Wolfe took the towel from Theodore, patted with it, dropped it in the bin, took another, rubbed with it, missed the bin. It fluttered to the floor and Theodore picked it up. Wolfe flattened his right palm against his left and made slow circles.

“Are Mr. Rowcliff and Mr. Copes on good terms?”

“No. They see each other very seldom. Apparently never would suit them fine.”