Рекс Стаут - The Silent Speaker

Fritz’s voice came, “Is this it, Mr. Wolfe?”

He was kneeling on the rug in front of the longest section of bookshelves, and stacked beside him were a dozen volumes of the bound Lindenia , with a big gap showing on the bottom shelf, which was only a few inches above the floor. He was extending a hand with an object in it at which one glance was enough.

“Ideal,” Wolfe said approvingly. “She was really extraordinary. Give it to Archie. Archie, roll that machine out. Theodore, I’ll be with you in the potting room possibly later today, certainly tomorrow morning at the usual hour. Fritz, I congratulate you; you tried the bottom shelf first, which was sensible.”

Fritz was beaming as he handed me the cylinder and turned to go, with Theodore following him.

“Well,” I remarked as I plugged the machine in and inserted the cylinder, “this may do it. Or it may not.”

“Start it,” Wolfe growled. He was tapping on an arm of his chair with a finger. “What’s the matter? Won’t it go?”

“Certainly it will go. Don’t hurry me. I’m nervous and I have the brain of a — I forget what. Mollusk.”

I flipped the switch and sat down. The voice of Cheney Boone came to our ears, unmistakably the same voice we had heard on the other ten cylinders. For five minutes neither of us moved a muscle. I stared at the grill of the loud-speaker attachment, and Wolfe leaned back with his eyes closed. When it came to the end I reached and turned the switch.

Wolfe sighed clear to the bottom, opened his eyes, and straightened up.

“Our literature needs some revision,” he declared. “For example, ‘dead men tell no tales.’ Mr. Boone is dead. Mr. Boone is silent. But he speaks.”

“Yep.” I grinned at him. “The silent speaker. Science is wonderful, but I know one guy who won’t think so, goddam him. Shall I go get him?”

“No. We can arrange this, I think, by telephone. You have Mr. Cramer’s number?”

“Sure.”

“Good. But first get Saul. You’ll find him at Manhattan five, three-two-three-two.”

By ten minutes to four our guests had all arrived and were collected in the office. One of them was an old friend and enemy: Inspector Cramer. One was an ex-client: Don O’Neill. One was merely a recent acquaintance: Alger Kates. The fourth was a complete stranger: Henry A. Warder, Vice-President and Treasurer of O’Neill and Warder, Incorporated. Don O’Neill’s vice. Saul Panzer, who had retired to a chair over in the corner behind the globe, was of course not regarded as a guest but as one of the family.

Cramer was in the red leather chair, watching Wolfe like a hawk. O’Neill, entering and catching sight of his Vice-President, who had arrived before him, had immediately hit the ceiling, and then had just as immediately thought better of it, clamped his mouth shut, and congealed. The vice, Henry A. Warder, who was both broad and tall, built like a concrete buttress, looked as if he could use some buttressing himself. He was the only one whose demeanor suggested that smelling salts might be called for, being obviously scared silly. Alger Kates had not spoken a word to anyone, not a word, not even when I let him in. His basic attitude was that of a Sunday School teacher in a den of thieves.

Wolfe had clothes on for the first time since Wednesday evening. He sat and did a circle with his eyes, taking them in, and spoke:

“This is going to be disagreeable, gentlemen, for all three of you, so let’s make it as brief as we can. I’ll do my share. The quickest way is to begin by letting you listen to a Stenophone cylinder, but first I must tell you where I got it. It was found in this room an hour ago, behind the books” — he pointed — “on that bottom shelf. Miss Gunther placed it there, hid it there, when she came to see me Friday evening a week ago — a week ago last evening.”

“She wasn’t here,” O’Neill rasped. “She didn’t come.”

Wolfe regarded him without affection. “So you don’t want this to be brief.”

“You’re damn right I do! The briefer the better!”

“Then don’t interrupt. Naturally everything I’m saying is not only true but provable, or I wouldn’t be saying it. Miss Gunther came that evening, brought by Mr. Goodwin, after the others left, and happened to be alone in this room for several minutes. That I did not remember that sooner and search the room was inexcusable. It was an appalling failure of an intellect which has sometimes been known to function satisfactorily.

“However.” He made a brusque gesture. “That is between me and the universe. We shall now listen to that cylinder, which was dictated by Mr. Boone his last afternoon at his office in Washington. Do not, I beg you, interrupt it. Archie, turn it on.”

There were murmurs as I flipped the switch. Then Cheney Boone, the silent speaker, had the floor:

Miss Gunther, this is for no one but you and me. Make sure of that. One carbon only, for your locked file, and deliver the original to me.

I have just had a talk in a hotel room with Henry A. Warder, Vice-President and Treasurer of O’Neill and Warder. He is the man who has been trying to reach me through you and refusing to give his name. He finally got me directly, at home, and I made this appointment with him, for today, March 26th. He told me the following—

Warder catapulted out of his chair and started for the machine, screaming, “Stop it!”

It would be more in keeping with his size and appearance to say that he roared or blared, but it literally was a scream. Having anticipated some such demonstration, I had placed the machine at the end of my desk, only four feet from me, and therefore had no difficulty intercepting the attack. I planted myself in Warder’s line of approach, reached back of me to turn the switch, and spoke firmly:

“Nothing stirring. Back up and sit down.” From my coat pocket I produced an automatic and let it be seen. “All three of you are going to like it less and less as it goes along. If you get a simultaneous idea and try to act on it, I’ll wing you and it will be a pleasure.”

“That was under a pledge of confidence!” Warder was trembling from head to foot. “Boone promised—”

“Can it!” Cramer had left his chair and was beside Warder. He asked me, “They haven’t been gone over, have they?”

“They’re not gunmen,” Wolfe snapped. “They merely club people on the head — or one of them does.”

Cramer paid no attention to him. He started with Warder, gave him a quick but thorough frisking, motioned him back, and said to O’Neill, “Stand up.” O’Neill didn’t move. Cramer barked at him, “Do you want to get lifted?” O’Neill stood up and did some fancy breathing while Cramer’s expert hands went over him. When it was Alger Kates’s turn no pressure was required. He looked dazed but not even resentful. Cramer, through with him and empty-handed, moved across to the machine and stood with a hand resting on its frame. He growled at me:

“Go ahead, Goodwin.”

Not being a Stenophone expert and not wanting to damage the cylinder, I started it over at the beginning. Soon it was at the point where it had been interrupted:

He told me the following. Warder has known for several months that the president of his company, Don O’Neill, has been paying a member of the BPR staff for confidential information. He did not discover it by accident or any secret investigation. O’Neill has not only admitted it, but bragged about it, and Warder, as Treasurer, has been obliged to supply corporation funds for the purpose through a special account. He has done so under protest. I repeat that this is Warder’s story, but I am inclined to believe it as he tells it because he came to me voluntarily. It will have to be checked with the FBI to find out if they have had any lead in the direction of O’Neill and Warder and specifically Warder, but the FBI must not be given any hint of Warder’s communicating with me. I had to give him my pledge on that before he would say a word, and the pledge must be kept absolutely. I’ll talk this over with you tomorrow, but I have a hunch — you know how I have hunches — that I want to get it on a cylinder without delay.