Рекс Стаут: In the Best Families

“You damn faker,” I said indulgently. “You know perfectly well that I would rather eat soap than have you think I would knuckle under to that son of a bitch, and I know that you would rather put horseradish on oysters than have me think you would. I might if you didn’t know about it, and you might if I didn’t know about it, but as it is we’re stuck.”

Wolfe sighed again, deeper. “I take it that you’re going?”

“I am. But under one condition, that the trepidant vigilance begins as of now. That you call Fritz in, and Theodore down from the plant rooms, and tell them what we’re up against, and the chain bolts are to be kept constantly on both doors, and you keep away from windows, and nothing and no one is to be allowed to enter when I’m not here.”

“Good heavens,” he objected sourly, “that’s no way to live.”

“You can’t tell till you try it. In ten years you may like it fine.” I buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone to get Theodore.

Wolfe sat scowling at me.

When, swinging the car off the Taconic State Parkway to hit Route 100, my dash clock said only 2:40, I decided to make a little detour. It would be only a couple of miles out of my way. So at Pines Bridge I turned right, instead of left across the bridge. It wouldn’t serve my purpose to make for the entrance to the estate where EASTCREST was carved on the great stone pillar, since all I would see there was a driveway curving up through the woods, and I turned off a mile short of that to climb a bumpy road up a hill. At the top the road went straight for a stretch between meadows, and I eased the car off onto the grass, stopped, and took the binoculars and aimed them at the summit of the next hill, somewhat higher than the one I was on, where the roof and upper walls of a stone mansion showed above the trees. Now, in early April, with no leaves yet, and with binoculars, I could see most of the mansion and even something of the surrounding grounds, and a couple of men moving about.

That was Eastcrest, the legal residence of the illegal Arnold Zeck — but of course there are many ways of being illegal. One is to drive through a red light. Another is to break laws by proxy only, for money only, get your cut so it can’t be traced, and never try to buy a man too cheap. That was what Zeck had been doing for more than twenty years — and there was Eastcrest.

All I was after was to take a look, just case it from a hilltop. I had never seen Zeck, and as far as I knew Wolfe hadn’t either. Now that we were headed at him for the third time, and this time it might be for keeps, I thought I should at least see his roof and count his chimneys. That was all. He had been too damn remote and mysterious. Now I knew he had four chimneys, and that the one on the south wing had two loose bricks.

I turned the car around and headed down the hill, and, if you care to believe it, I kept glancing in the mirror to see if something showed up behind. That was how far gone I was on Zeck. It was not healthy for my self-respect, it was bad for my nerves, and I was good and tired of it.

Mrs. Rackham’s place, Birchvale, was only five miles from there, the other side of Mount Kisco, but I made a wrong turn and didn’t arrive until a quarter past three. The entrance to her estate was adequate but not imposing. I went on by, and before I knew it there was a neat little sign on the left:

The gate opening was narrow and so was the drive, and I kept going on past the house to a bare rectangle in the rear, not very well graveled, and maneuvered into a corner close to a wooden building. As I climbed out a voice came from somewhere, and then a ferocious wild beast leaped from behind a bush and started for me like a streak of lightning. I froze except for my right arm, which sent my hand to my shoulder holster automatically.

A female voice sounded sharp in command. “Back!”

The beast, ten paces from me, whirled on a dime, trotted swiftly to the woman who had appeared at the edge of the rectangle, whirled again and stood facing me, concentrating with all its might on looking beautiful and dangerous. I could have plugged it with pleasure. I do not like dogs that assume you’re guilty until you prove you’re innocent. I like democratic dogs.

A man had appeared beside the woman. They advanced.

She spoke. “Mr. Goodwin? Mr. Leeds had to go on an errand, but he’ll be back soon. I’m Annabel Frey.” She came to me and offered a hand, and I took it.

This was my first check on an item of information furnished us by Mrs. Rackham, and I gave her an A for accuracy. She had said that her daughter-in-law was very beautiful. Some might have been inclined to argue it, for instance those who don’t like eyes so far apart or those who prefer pink skin to dark, but I’m not so finicky about details. The man stepped up, and she pronounced his name, Hammond, and we shook. He was a stocky middle-aged specimen in a bright blue shirt, a tan jacket, and gray slacks — a hell of a combination. I was wearing a mixed tweed made by Fradick, with an off-white shirt and a maroon tie.

“I’ll sit in my car,” I told them, “to wait for Mr. Leeds. With the livestock around loose like that.”

She laughed. “Duke isn’t loose, he’s with me. He wouldn’t have touched you. He would have stopped three paces off, springing distance, and waited for me. Don’t you like dogs?”

“It depends on the dog. You might as well ask if I like lemon pie. With a dog who thinks of space between him and me only in terms of springing distance, my attitude is strictly one of trepidant vigilance.”

“My Lord.” She blinked long lashes over dark blue eyes. “Do you always talk like that?” The eyes went to Hammond. “Did you get that, Dana?”

“I quite agree with him,” Hammond declared, “as you know. I’m not afraid to say so, either, because it shows the lengths I’ll go to, to be with you. When you opened his kennel and he leaped out I could feel my hair standing up.”

“I know,” Annabel Frey said scornfully. “Duke knows too. I guess I’d better put him in.” She left us, speaking to the dog, who abandoned his pose and trotted to her, and they disappeared around a corner of the building. There was a similarity in the movements of the two, muscular and sure and quick, but sort of nervous and dainty.

“Now we can relax,” I told Hammond.

“I just can’t help it,” he said, irritated. “I’m not strong for dogs anyhow, and with these...” He shrugged. “I’d just as soon go for a walk with a tiger.”

Soon Annabel rejoined us, with a crack about Hammond’s hair. I suggested that if they had something to do I could wait for Leeds without any help, but she said no.

“We only came to see you,” she stated impersonally. “That is, I did, and Mr. Hammond went to the length of coming along. Just to see you, even if you are Archie Goodwin, I wouldn’t cross the street; but

I want to watch you work. So many things fall short of the build-up, I want to see if a famous detective does. I’m skeptical already. You look younger than you should, and you dress too well, and if you really thought that dog might jump you, you should have done something to — where did that come from? Hey!”

Sometimes I fumble a little drawing from my armpit, but that time it had been slick and clean. I had the barrel pointed straight up. Hammond had made a noise and an involuntary backward jerk.

I grinned at her. “Showing off. Okay? Want to try it? Get him and send him out from behind that same bush, with orders to take me, and any amount up to two bits, even, that he won’t reach me.” I returned the gun to the holster. “Ready?”