Rex Stout - Too Many Clients

“He was merely obeying orders.” Cramer’s tone sharpened a little. “And he followed you here, and maybe you do need protection. There are things to be protected from besides personal violence, like making mistakes. Maybe coming here was one. If you came to tell Nero Wolfe something you haven’t told us, something about your husband, something that is or may be connected with his death, it was a mistake. So I want to know what you’ve said to him and what he said to you. All of it. You’ve been here nearly half an hour.”

For half a second I thought she was going to spill it, and she did too. My guess would be that what popped into her mind was the notion that the simplest and quickest way to see that room on 82nd Street would be to tell Cramer abut it, and she might actually have acted on it if Wolfe’s voice hadn’t come at her from behind.

“I’ll return your retainer if you want it, madam.”

“Oh,” she said. She didn’t turn. “I hired him to do something,” she told Cramer.

“To do what?”

“To find out who killed my husband. You didn’t even find his body, and now all you do is follow me around, and this stuff about protecting me when there’s nothing to protect me from. If I had anything to tell anybody I’d tell him, not you.” She took a step. “Get out of the way; I’m going to see that man.”

“You’re making a mistake, Mrs. Yeager. I want to know what you said to Wolfe.”

“Ask him.” Seeing that Cramer wasn’t going to move, she circled around him, headed for the hall. I followed her out and to the front. As I reached for the knob she came close, stretched her neck to get her mouth near my ear, and whispered, “When will you take me to see that room?” I whispered back, “As soon as I get a chance.” I would have liked to stay at the door to see how she went about finding her tail, but if Cramer was going to blurt at Wolfe, “When did you take over that room on Eighty-second Street?” I wanted to be present, so I closed the door and went back to the office.

Cramer wasn’t blurting. He was in the red leather chair, the front half of it, with his feet planted flat. Wolfe was saying... “and that is moot. I’m not obliged to account to you for my acceptance of a retainer unless you charge interference with the performance of your official duty, and can support the charge.”

“I wouldn’t be here,” Cramer said, “if I couldn’t support it. It wasn’t just the report that Mrs. Yeager was here that brought me. That would be enough, finding that you were sticking your nose into a murder investigation, but that’s not all. I’m offering you a chance to cooperate by asking you a straight question: What information have you got about Yeager that might help to identify the person that killed him?”

So he knew about the room, and we were up a tree. I went to my desk and sat. It would be hard going, and probably the best thing for Wolfe to do would be to empty the bag and forget the clients.

He didn’t. He hung on. He shook his head. “You know better than that. Take a hypothesis. Suppose, for instance, that I have been informed in confidence that a certain person owed Yeager a large sum of money and Yeager was pressing for payment. That might help to identify the murderer, but I am not obliged to pass the information on to you unless I am confronted with evidence that it would help. Your question is straight enough, but it’s impertinent, and you know it.”

“You admit you have information.”

“I admit nothing. If I do have information the responsibility of deciding whether I am justified in withholding it is mine — and the risk.”

“Risk my ass. With your goddam luck, and you talk about risk. I’ll try a question that’s more specific and maybe it won’t be so impertinent. Why did Goodwin phone Lon Cohen at the Gazette at five o’clock Monday afternoon to ask for dope on Yeager, more than two hours before Yeager’s body was found?”

I tried to keep my face straight, and apparently succeeded, since Cramer has good eyes with a lot of experience with faces, and if my relief had shown he would have spotted it. Inside I was grinning. They hadn’t found the room; they had merely got a tip from some toad at the Gazette and had put the screws on.

Wolfe grunted. “That is indeed specific.”

“Yeah. Now you be specific. I’ve seen you often enough horn in on a murder case, that’s nothing new, but by God this is the first time you didn’t even wait until the body was found. How did you know he was dead?”

“I didn’t. Neither did Mr. Goodwin.” Wolfe turned a hand over. “Mr. Cramer. I don’t take every job that’s offered to me. When I take one I do so to earn a fee, and sometimes it’s necessary to take a calculated risk. I’m taking one now. It’s true that someone, call him X, said something in this room Monday afternoon that caused Mr. Goodwin to phone Mr. Cohen for information about Thomas G. Yeager. But, first, nothing that X said indicated that he knew Yeager was dead, and it is our opinion that he did not know. Second, nothing that X said indicated that Yeager was in peril, that anyone intended to kill him or had any motive for killing him. Third, nothing that X said was the truth. We have discovered that every word he uttered was a lie. And since our conclusion that he didn’t know Yeager was dead, and therefore he didn’t kill him, is soundly based, I am justified in keeping his lies to myself, at least for the present. I have no information for you.”

“Who is X?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nuts. Is it Mrs. Yeager?”

“No. I probably wouldn’t name him even if I could, but I can’t.”

Cramer leaned forward. “Calculated risk, huh? Justified. You are like hell. I remember too many—”

The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s offi—”

“I’ve got one, Archie.”

My fingers tightened around the phone, and I pressed it closer to my ear. Fred again: “That you, Archie?”

“Certainly. I’m busy.” If I told him to hold the wire and went to the kitchen, Cramer would step to my desk and pick it up.

“I said I’ve got another one. Another woman.”

“I’m not sure that was sensible, Mr. Gerson. That might get you into serious trouble.”

“Oh. Somebody there?”

“Certainly.” Fred had good enough connections in his skull, but the service was a little slow. “I guess I’ll have to, but I don’t know how soon I can make it. Hold the wire a minute.” I covered the transmitter and turned to Wolfe. “That damn fool Gerson has found his bonds and has got two of his staff locked in a room. He could get hooked for more damages than the bonds are worth. He wants me to come, and of course I ought to, but.”

Wolfe grunted. “You’ll have to. The man’s a nincompoop. You can call Mr. Parker from there if necessary.”

I uncovered the transmitter and told it, “All right, Mr. Gerson, I’m on my way. Keep them locked in till I get there.” I hung up and went.

At the curb in front was Cramer’s car. Trading waves with the driver, Jimmy Burke, I headed east. There was no reason to suppose that Cramer had a tail posted on me, but I wasn’t taking the thinnest chance of leading a city employee to 82nd Street. Getting a taxi on Ninth Avenue, I told the driver I would give directions as we went along. We turned right on 34th Street, right again on Eleventh Avenue, right again on 56th Street, and left on Tenth Avenue. By then I knew I was clear, but I kept an eye to the rear all the way to 82nd and Broadway. From there I walked.

The hole was being filled in. There was no uniform around, and no one in sight who might be representing Homicide West or the DA’s bureau. Turning in at the basement entrance of 156, using Meg Duncan’s key, and going down the hall, I had no feeling of eyes on me, but as I approached the end Cesar Perez appeared at the kitchen door.