Рекс Стаут - Please Pass the Guilt

“You might try a million. No one has ever bid high enough to make it tough for me. But I did invite you to reach me, didn’t I? Do you know what I suspect? I’ll bet that at the back of my mind, down in the subconscious, there was a sneaking idea that after two weeks and three days of the cops and the DA getting nowhere, you might want to discuss it with Nero Wolfe. Do you know anything about him?”

“Personally and definitely, no. I know his reputation, certainly.”

One Pirate had watched a third strike go by and another one had popped up to the infield. Now a third one lofted a major-league blooper out to left center and both Cleon Jones and Tommy Agee were on the gallop. It would fall in... but it didn’t. Jones stretched an arm and one-handed it, and kept it. A good inning for Koosman. As the picture of the commercial started, I turned to the couch. “To be honest,” I said, “I may as well admit that that letter was dumb. How could you needle the police or the District Attorney about neglecting the most important fact if I didn’t tell you what it is? I apologize, and I not only apologize, I pay a forfeit. The most important fact is that your husband entered that room and opened that drawer, and the most important question is, why? Unless and until they have the answer to that the ten best investigators in the world couldn’t possibly solve the case. Tell Inspector Cramer that, but don’t mention Nero Wolfe. The sound of that name riles him.” I stood up. “I realize that it’s possible that you know why he entered the room and opened the drawer, and you have told the DA and he’s saving it, but from the published accounts I doubt it, and so does Mr. Wolfe. Thank you for letting me see Cleon Jones make that catch.”

I turned and was going, but she raised her voice. “Damn it, sit down!”

I did so, and as I sat Jerry Grote lined a double to the right-field corner. Bud Harrelson beat out a bunt and Grote moved to third, and Mrs. Odell pushed the button and the sound came on. More action and two Mets crossed the plate. When Ed Charles made the third out the score was tied, and as the commercial started she pushed the button, looked at me, and said, “Call Wolfe and tell him I want to see him. Now.” She aimed a finger. “The phone on that desk. How long will it take him?”

“Too long. Forever. You certainly don’t know him ‘definitely.’ He leaves his house only for personal errands no one else can do, never on business. I suppose you’d rather not discuss it on the phone, so you’ll have to go to him. The address is on the letterhead. Six o’clock would be a good time, he’ll be available then, and the game will be—”

“My god, what a nerve,” she said. “You think I would?”

“No, I think you wouldn’t. But you said you want to see him, and I—”

“All right, all right. Forget it.” She pushed the button. Bob Murphy had replaced Ralph Kiner and he talks louder. She had to raise her voice: “Miss Haber will take you down. She’s in the hall.”

I got up and went. I hadn’t the slightest idea, as I was escorted to the elevator and down, and to the entrance, by Miss Haber, and as I walked to Madison Avenue and turned downtown, headed for a bar where I knew there was a TV, whether or not I had wasted a letterhead and a postage stamp and most of an afternoon. On a bet I would have taken either end. But after all, she had said she wanted to see him, and if I know women one-tenth as well as Wolfe pretends to think I do, she was strongly inclined to get what she wanted. By the time the game ended, which the Mets won 7 to 5, I would no longer have taken either end. Two to one I had hooked her. That was how it looked as I used my key on the door of the old brownstone a little before six o’clock.

Of course I couldn’t leave the house that evening. When I’m not there Fritz usually answers the phone, but sometimes Wolfe does, and she might call any minute. She might . She didn’t. It was also possible that she would tell either Cramer or the DA about it and he would call. He didn’t. When I went to bed around midnight the odds were no longer two to one. But there was still an off chance, and when I went to the office after breakfast Sunday morning, I rang Lily Rowan and told her I was stuck for the day and would send the tickets for the ball game by messenger, and I hoped she could find someone who could yell at the umpire as loud as I did. And then, about eight minutes after the messenger had come and taken the tickets, the phone rang, and it was Mrs. Odell in person, not the secretary. She said she wanted to speak with Wolfe and I said no, that he didn’t even know I had written her and seen her.

“My god,” she said, “you might think he’s the President. I want to see him. Bring him.”

“I can’t and he wouldn’t. Honestly, Mrs. Odell, I wish he would. It would do him good to get out more, but not a chance. If there was a way of scoring pigheadedness it would be interesting to match him with you. I think he’d win.”

“Of course I’m pigheaded. I always have been.”

“I’m perfectly willing to make it ‘strong-minded’ if you prefer.”

Silence. It lasted so long that I thought she had quit without bothering to hang up. Then she said, “I’ll be there at six o’clock.”

“Today? Sunday?”

“Yes.” She hung up.

I took a deep breath and enjoyed it. So far so good, but the highest hurdle was still ahead. The Sunday household routine was different. Theodore didn’t come on Sunday and Wolfe’s morning with the orchids could be anything from twenty minutes to four hours. Also Fritz might leave for the day right after breakfast, or he might not. That day not, he had said. The question was when to spring it. Going up to the plant rooms with it was of course out of the question; I wasn’t welcome there even for a real emergency. I decided not to decide until he came down and I saw what his mood was like.

When he showed, a little after eleven, he had the Sunday Times under one arm and a fourteen-inch raceme of Peristeria elata in the other hand, and his “Good morning” was a greeting, not just a growl. So when the flowers were in the vase and his bulk was satisfactorily arranged in the made-to-order chair he wouldn’t swap for its weight in uranium, I spoke.

“Before you get started on the Review of the Week , I have an item you won’t like. A woman is coming to see you at six o’clock today. Mrs. Peter J. Odell, whose husband opened a desk drawer and died. I had to ignore the rule on consulting you before making an appointment.”

He was glaring at me. “I was here. I was available.”

“Sure, but it was an emergency.” I opened a drawer of my desk and took out a paper. “This is a carbon of a letter I sent her Friday afternoon.” I rose, handed it to him, and returned to my chair. “She phoned yesterday morning, or her secretary did, and I went to see her yesterday afternoon, at her house on Sixty-third Street. She asked me to phone you to come, which of course wasn’t discussable. I told her the only place she could see you was your office. She phoned this morning, an hour ago, and said she would be here at six o’clock.

He had read the letter. He read it again, with his lips pressed tight. He dropped it on his desk and looked at me. Not a glare or a scowl, just a hard, straight look. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “It would be insufferable, as you well know.”

I nodded. “Of course that’s the reaction I expected. But she’ll be here at six. The emergency I referred to is in the safe. Your checkbook. You have of course noticed that since May first I have been giving you a memo of the condition every week instead of twice a month. Of the hundred and fifty-eight days this year you have worked about ten and I have worked less than twenty, not counting office chores. I happened—”