Рекс Стаут - The Silent Speaker

“I would like to know whether I can count on this being treated as confidential. I merely want to know what to expect.”

“You’re a simpleton too,” Wolfe snapped. “What’s the difference whether I say yes or no — to you? I don’t even know your name. Wouldn’t I do as I please?”

“You think—” Smith said, and didn’t finish it. Probably the sentence as conceived might have betrayed a trace of some emotion, like sizzling rage for instance, and that wasn’t to be permitted under any circumstances. So I don’t think it is exaggerating to say that he was rendered speechless. He stayed that way clear out to the stoop, not even telling me good night.

By the time I got back to the office Wolfe had already rung for beer. I knew that by deduction when Fritz entered almost immediately with the tray. I blocked him off and told him:

“Mr. Wolfe has changed his mind. Take it back. It’s after ten o’clock, he had only two hours’ sleep last night, and he’s going to bed. So are you and either me or I or both.”

Wolfe said nothing and made no sign, so Fritz beat it with the tray.

“It reminds me,” I remarked, “of that old picture, there was one in our dining room out in Ohio, of the people in the sleigh throwing the baby out to the wolves that were chasing them. That may not strictly apply to Dexter or Kates, but it certainly does to O’Neill. Esprit de corps my eye. Good God, he was the Chairman of the Dinner Committee. I used to worry about that picture. One way of looking at it, it was heartless to toss out the baby, but on the other hand if they hadn’t the wolves would eventually have got the whole works, baby, horses, and all. Of course the man could have jumped out himself, or the woman could. I remember I decided that if it was me I would kiss the woman and baby good-by and then jump. I was eight years old at the time, a minor, and I don’t regard myself as still committed to that. What do you think of the lousy bastards, anyhow?”

“They’re in a panic.” Wolfe stood up and pulled his vest down, and maneuvered himself into motion toward the door. “They’re desperate. Good night, Archie.” From the threshold he rumbled, without turning, “For that matter, so am I.”

The next day, Wednesday, here came the envelopes from Bascom. There were four in the morning mail, three in the one o’clock delivery (as I was later informed for bookkeeping purposes, since I was not there at the time), and in late afternoon nine more arrived by messenger. At that time I hadn’t the slightest idea what line the Bascom battalion was advancing on, nor did I know what Saul Panzer and Bill Gore were doing, since their telephoned reports were taken by Wolfe, with me instructed to disconnect. The Bascom envelopes were delivered to Wolfe unopened, as ordered.

I was being entrusted with nothing but the little chores, as for example a phone call I was told to make to the Stenophone Company to ask them to deliver a machine to us on a daily rental basis — one equipped with a loudspeaker, like the one the manager had brought us on Sunday and sent for on Monday. They weren’t very affable about it and I had to be persuasive to get a promise of immediate delivery. I followed instructions and got the promise, though it was clear over my head, since we had nothing to play on it. An hour later the machine came and I stuck it in a corner.

The only other Wednesday morning activity in which I had a share was a phone call to Frank Thomas Erskine. I was told to make it, and did so, informing Erskine that expenses were skyrocketing and we wanted a check for another twenty thousand at his early convenience. He took that as a mere routine detail and came back at me for an appointment with Wolfe at eleven o’clock, which was made.

The most noteworthy thing about that was that when they — Breslow, Winterhoff, Hattie Harding, and the two Erskines — arrived, sharp at eleven, they had Don O’Neill with them! That was a fair indication that they had not come to take up where John Smith had left off, since Smith’s central idea had been to frame O’Neill for a pair of murders, unless they were prepared to sweeten it up with an offer of a signed confession by O’Neill in triplicate, one copy for our files, and I felt that I knew O’Neill too well to expect anything like that, since he had tried to kick me.

Erskine brought the check with him. They stayed over an hour, and it was hard to guess why they had bothered to come, unless it was to show us in the flesh how harassed they were. No comment remotely touching on the errand of John Smith was made by anyone, including Wolfe. Half of their hour was used up in trying to get from Wolfe some kind of a progress report, which meant it was wasted, and they spent most of the other half in an attempt to pry a prognosis out of him. Twenty-four hours? Forty-eight? Three days? For God’s sake, when? Erskine stated categorically that each additional day’s delay meant untold damage to the most vital interests of the Republic and the American people.

“You’re breaking my heart, Pop,” young Erskine said sarcastically.

“Shut up!” his father barked at him.

They scratched and pulled hair right in front of us. The pressure was too much for them, and the NIA was no longer a united front. I sat and looked them over, having in mind Smith’s offer of testimony regarding the placing of the scarf in Kates’s overcoat pocket, and came to the conclusion that it might be had from any one of them with respect to any other of them, with the possible exception of Erskine vs. Erskine, and even that was not unthinkable. Their only constructive contribution was the announcement that the next day, Thursday, over two hundred morning and evening papers in a hundred towns and cities would run a full page ad offering a reward of one hundred thousand dollars to anyone furnishing information leading to the arrest and trial of the murderer of either Cheney Boone or Phoebe Gunther, or both.

“There should be a healthy reaction to that, don’t you think?” Erskine asked plaintively but not too hopefully.

I missed Wolfe’s answer, and the rest of it, because I was leaving at that moment, on my way upstairs to run a comb through my hair and maybe wash my hands. I barely had time enough to get the car and be parked at the Forty-ninth Street entrance of the Waldorf at twelve-fifty, and since once in a million years a girl is early instead of late I didn’t want to take a chance.

Nina Boone showed up at fourteen minutes past one, which was par and therefore called for no comment one way or the other. I met her as she emerged, steered her to where I was parked just west of the entrance, and opened the door. She climbed in. I turned to observe, and, as I expected, there one was, looking left and right. He was not an acquaintance and I didn’t know his name, but I had seen him around. I crossed to him and said:

“I’m Archie Goodwin, Nero Wolfe’s handy man. If you’d been on her heels you’d have seen her get in my car there. I can’t ask you to ride with us because I’m working on her, but here’s some choices. I’ll wait till you get a taxi, and I’ll bet you a finiff I lose you in less than ten minutes; or I’ll grease you to miss the trail right here. Two bits. Fifteen cents now and the other dime when I see a copy of your report. If—”

“I’ve been told,” he said, “that there are only two ways to deal with you. One is to shoot you, and this is too public. The other — give me the fifteen cents.”

“Okay.” I fished for three nickels and handed them to him. “It’s on the NIA. Actually I don’t care. We’re going to Ribeiro’s, the Brazilian restaurant on Fifty-second Street.”

I went and got in the car beside my victim, started the engine, and rolled.