Rex Stout: Too Many Clients

He considered it for three seconds. “I think not. Better not, I think.”

“Then I can’t snap a picture of him. I can only give you a description.”

“That will suffice.”

“Okay.” I dropped the notebook on my desk. “Your address on Sixty-eighth Street, that’s not an apartment building, is it?”

“No, it’s a house. My house.”

“Then I shouldn’t enter it and I shouldn’t get too near it. If it’s an operative he would probably recognize me. This is how it will be. At seven o’clock on the dot you will leave the house, walk to Second Avenue — don’t cross it — and turn left. About thirty paces from the corner is a lunchroom, and in front—”

“How do you happen to know that?”

“There aren’t many blocks in Manhattan I don’t know. In front of the lunchroom, either at the curb or double-parked, a blue and yellow taxi will be standing with the driver in it and the flag down. The driver will have a big square face and big ears. You will say to him, ‘You need a shave,’ and he will say, ‘My face is tender.’ To make sure, when you get in look at his name on the card. It will be Albert Goller.” I spelled it. “Do you want to write it down?”

“No.”

“Then don’t forget it. Give him the address on West Eighty-second Street and sit back and relax. That’s all for you. Whatever the driver does, he’ll know what he’s doing. Don’t keep looking back; that might make it a little harder.”

He was smiling. “It didn’t take you long to set the stage, did it?”

“I haven’t got long.” I glanced up at the clock on the wall. “It’s nearly five.” I stood up. “I’ll be seeing you, but you won’t be seeing me.”

“Wonderful,” he said, leaving the chair. “Measure your mind’s height by the shade it casts. I knew you would be the man for it.” He moved and offered a hand. “Don’t bother to show me out, I know the way.”

I went along, as always for some years, ever since the day a visitor left the door unlatched, sneaked back in, and hid behind the couch in the front room, and during the night went through everything in the office he could open. At the door I asked him what the name of the hackie would be, and he told me. Returning, I went on past the door of the office to the kitchen, got a glass from the shelf and a carton of milk from the refrigerator. Fritz, at the center table mincing shallots, gave me a look and spoke.

“That is an insult. I pull your nose. My shad roe aux fines herbes is a dish for a king.”

“Yeah, but I’m not a king.” I poured milk. “Also I’m leaving soon on an errand and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Ah? A personal errand.”

“No.” I took a sip. “I’ll not only answer your question, I’ll ask it for you. Having noticed that we haven’t had a client worth a damn for nearly six weeks, you want to know if we have one now, and I don’t blame you. It’s possible but not likely. It looks like more peanuts.” I took a sip. “You may have to invent a dish for a king made of peanut butter.”

“Not impossible, Archie. The problem would be to crack the oil. Not vinegar; it would take too much. Perhaps lime juice, with or without a drop or two of onion juice. I’ll try it tomorrow.”

I told him to let me know how he made out, took the milk to the office, got at the phone at my desk, dialed the number of the Gazette , and got Lon Cohen. He said he was too busy to spare time for anything but a front-page lead or an invitation to a poker game. I said I was out of both items at the moment but would put them on back order, and meanwhile I would hold the line while he went to the morgue to see if they had anything on Thomas G. Yeager, executive vice-president of Continental Plastic Products, residing at 340 East 68th Street. He said he knew the name, they probably had a file on him, and he would send for it and call back. In ten minutes he did so. Continental Plastic Products was one of the big ones; its main plant was in Cleveland, and its sales and executive offices were in the Empire State Building. Thomas G. Yeager had been its executive vice-president for five years and was in the saddle. He was married and had a daughter, Anne, unmarried, and a son, Thomas G. Junior, married. He was a member of...

I told Lon that was all I needed, thanked him, hung up, and buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone. After a wait Wolfe’s voice came, gruff of course.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt. A man named Yeager came. He wants to know if he is being tailed and by whom. He expects to be soaked and doesn’t mind because no one but me is good enough. I have checked on him and he can stand it, and I might as well earn a couple of weeks’ pay. I’ll be gone when you come down. His name and address are in my notebook. I’ll be back before bedtime.”

“And tomorrow? How long will it last?”

“It won’t. If it does we’ll get Saul or Fred. I’ll explain later. It’s just a chore.”

“Very well.” He hung up, and I took the phone and dialed a number that would get me Al Goller.

Two hours later, at twenty minutes past seven, I was sitting in a taxi parked on 67th Street between Second and Third Avenues, twisted around for a view through the rear window. If Yeager had left his house at 7:00 sharp, he should have been in Al Goller’s cab by 7:04, and Al should have turned the corner onto 67th Street by 7:06. But it was 7:20, and no sign of him.

It was useless trying to guess what the hitch was, so I did. By 7:30 I had a collection of a dozen guesses, both plain and fancy. At 7:35 I was too annoyed to bother to guess. At 7:40 I told Mike Collins, the hackie, who was no stranger, “Nuts. I’ll take a look,” got out, and walked to the corner. Al was still there in his cab in front of the lunchroom. When the light showed green I crossed the avenue, went on to the cab, and asked Al, “Where is he?”

He yawned. “All I know is where he isn’t.”

“I’ll ring him. If he comes while I’m inside, have trouble starting your engine until I come out and go. Give me time to get back to Mike.”

He nodded and started another yawn, and I went into the lunchroom, found the phone booth in the rear, and dialed CH5-3232. After four rings I had a male voice in my ear. “Mrs. Yeager’s residence.”

“May I speak with Mr. Yeager?”

“He’s not available at the moment. Who is this, please?”

I hung up. Not only did I know the voice of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Homicide West, but also it was I who some years back had informed him that when one answers the phone at the home of the John Does one says not “Mr. Doe’s residence” but “Mrs. Doe’s residence.” So I hung up, departed, signed to Al Goller to stay put, walked to the corner of 68th Street and turned right, and proceeded far enough to see that the dick behind the wheel of the PD car double-parked in front of Number 340 was the one who usually drove Stebbins. Whirling, I went back the way I had come, to the lunchroom and the phone booth, dialed the number of the Gazette , asked for Lon Cohen, and got him. My intention was to ask him if he had heard of any interesting murders recently, but I didn’t get to.

His voice came. “Archie?”

“Right. Have you—”

“How the hell did you know Thomas G. Yeager was going to be murdered when you called me three hours ago?”

“I didn’t. I don’t. I merely—”

“Balls. But I appreciate it. Thanks for a page-one box. NERO WOLFE SCOOPS THE COPS AGAIN. I’m writing it now: ‘Nero Wolfe, private eye extraordinary, was plunging into the Yeager murder case more than two hours before the body was discovered in an excavation on West Eighty-second Street. At five-five P.M. his lackey, Archie Goodwin, phoned the Gazette office to get—’ ”