Рекс Стаут - The Silent Speaker

The cheers had begun again, and the tray was ready, so I left them. Fritz came to the hall with me, closed the kitchen door, held my sleeve, and told my ear:

“Archie, this is awful. I just want to say I know how awful it is for you. Mr. Wolfe told me when I took up his breakfast this morning that you had formed a passion for Miss Gunther and she had you wound around her finger. She was a beautiful girl, very beautiful. This is awful, what happened here.”

I said, “Go to hell,” jerked my arm to free my sleeve, and took a step. Then I turned to him and said, “All I meant was, this is a hell of a night and it will take you a week to clean up the joint. Go back and finish that lesson in French I was giving them.”

In the office they were as before. I peddled beer around, making three sales to outsiders, leaving three bottles for Wolfe, which was about as I had calculated, went back to the kitchen and got myself a sandwich and a glass of milk, and returned to my desk with them. The strategy council was going on and on, with Wolfe still aloof in spite of the beer. The sandwich made me hungry and I went and got two more. Long after they were gone the council was still chewing the fat.

They were handicapped, of course, by continual interruptions, both by phone and by personal appearances. One of the phone calls was for Travis from Washington, and when he was through with it his face displayed no triumph. The nine cylinders had all been listened to, and there was nothing for us to bite on. They contained plenty of evidence that they had been dictated by Boone at his Washington office on Tuesday afternoon, but no evidence at all that would help to uncover a murderer. The BPR was trying to hang onto the transcriptions, but the Washington FBI promised to send a copy to Travis, and he agreed to let Cramer see it.

“So,” Travis said aggressively, daring us to hint that we were no better off than before, “that proves that Miss Gunther was lying about them. She had them all the time.”

“Nine.” Wolfe grunted in disgust. “Pfui.”

That was his only contribution to their discussion of the cylinders.

It was five minutes past three Tuesday morning when Phillips, the expert with less than his share of chin, entered the office with objects in his hands. In his right was a gray topcoat, and in his left was a silk scarf with stripes of dark brown and terra cotta. It was obvious that even an expert is capable of having feelings. His face showed plainly that he had something.

He looked at Wolfe and me and asked, “Do I report here, Inspector?”

“Go ahead.” Cramer was impatient. “What is it?”

“This scarf was in the right-hand pocket of this coat. It was folded as it is now. Unfolding one fold exposes about forty square inches of its surface. On that surface are between fifteen and twenty particles of matter which in our opinion came from that piece of pipe. That is our opinion. Laboratory tests—”

“Sure.” Cramer’s eyes were gleaming. “You can test from hell to breakfast. You’ve got a microscope up there, and you know what I want right now. Is it good enough to act on, or isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is. We made sure before—”

“Whose coat is it?”

“The tag says Alger Kates.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s Kates’s coat.”

Since they were a strategy council, naturally they didn’t send for Kates immediately. They had to decide on strategy first — whether to circle him and get him tangled, or slide it into him gently, or just hit him on the head with it. What they really had to decide was who was going to handle it; that would determine the method, and they started to wrangle about it. The point was, as it always is when you’ve got a crusher like that scarf in his pocket, which way of using it was most likely to crumble him and get a confession? They hadn’t been going long when Travis interposed:

“With all this top authority present, and me not in it officially anyhow, I hesitate to make a suggestion.”

“So what is it?” the D.A. asked tartly.

“I would suggest Mr. Wolfe for it. I have seen him operate, and if it means anything I freely admit that he is my superior at it.”

“Suits me,” Cramer said at once.

The other two looked at each other. Neither liked what he was looking at, and neither liked Travis’s suggestion, so simultaneously they said nothing.

“Okay,” Cramer said, “let’s go. Where do you want the coat and scarf, Wolfe, in sight?”

Wolfe half opened his eyes. “What is this gentleman’s name?”

“Oh. Phillips. Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Phillips.”

“How do you do, sir. Give the coat to Mr. Goodwin. Archie, put it behind the cushions on the couch. Give me the scarf, please.”

Phillips had handed me the coat without hesitation, but now he balked. He looked at Cramer. “This is vital evidence. If those particles get brushed off and scattered...”

“I’m not a ninny,” Wolfe snapped.

“Let him have it,” Cramer said.

Phillips hated to do it. He might have been a mother instructed to entrust her newborn infant to a shady character. But he handed it over.

“Thank you, sir. All right, Mr. Cramer, get him in here.”

Cramer went, taking Phillips with him. In a moment he was back, without Phillips and with Alger Kates. We all gazed at Kates as he stepped across and took the chair indicated by Cramer, facing Wolfe, but it didn’t visibly disconcert him. He looked to me as he had up in my room, as if he might bust out crying any minute, but there was no evidence that he had done so. After he had sat down all I had was his profile.

“You and I have hardly spoken, have we, Mr. Kates?” Wolfe asked.

Kates’s tongue came out to wet his lips and went back in again. “Enough to satisfy—” he began, but his thin voice threatened to become only a squeak, and he stopped for a second and then started over. “Enough to satisfy me.”

“But my dear sir.” Wolfe was gently reproachful. “I don’t believe we’ve exchanged a word.”

Kates did not unbend. “Haven’t we?” he asked.

“No, sir. The devil of it is that I can’t honestly say that I don’t sympathize with your attitude. If I were in your position, innocently or not, I would feel the same. I don’t like people piling questions on me, and in fact I don’t tolerate it.” Wolfe let his eyes open another millimeter. “By the way, I am now, momentarily, official. These gentlemen in authority have deputized me to talk with you. As you doubtless know, that doesn’t mean that you must tolerate it. If you tried to leave this house before they let you go, you would be arrested as a material witness and taken somewhere, but you can’t be compelled to take part in a conversation if you are determined not to. What do you say? Shall we talk?”

“I’m listening,” Kates said.

“I know you are. Why?”

“Because, if I don’t, the inference will be made that I’m frightened, and the further inference will be made that I am guilty of something that I am trying to conceal.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.” Wolfe sounded as if he were grateful for a major concession. With casual unhurried movement he brought the scarf out from beneath the rim of the desk, where he had been holding it in his hand, and put it down on the blotter. Then he cocked his head at Kates as if trying to decide where to begin. From where I sat, having Kates’s profile, I couldn’t tell whether he even gave the scarf a glance. Certainly he didn’t turn pale or exhibit any hand-clenching or tremors of the limbs.

“On the two occasions,” Wolfe said, “that Mr. Goodwin went to Fifty-fifth Street to see Miss Gunther, you were there. Were you a close friend of hers?”