Rex Stout - Too Many Clients

“Why would she? Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, but she could.” Stebbins turned. “All right, Goodwin, I’ll ride you downtown. You can tell the inspector about it.”

“About what? What is there to tell?”

He stuck his chin out. “Look, you. Monday afternoon you began checking on a man that was already dead, two hours before the body was found. When the inspector goes to see Wolfe he finds the widow there, and he gets the usual crap. The widow has hired Wolfe to find out who killed her husband, which may not be against the law but it’s against the policy of the New York Police Department. And I come here investigating not that murder but another one, and by God here you are, you and the widow, here in the house where that girl lived, talking with her mother. So you’re coming downtown or you’re under arrest as a material witness.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. I said or.”

“It’s nice to have a choice.” I got a quarter from my pocket, flipped it in the air, caught it, and looked at it. “I win. Let’s go.”

It suited me fine to get him away from Mrs. Perez and out of that house. As I mounted the three steps to the sidewalk I was thinking how different it would be if he had come thirty seconds sooner or we had left the bower thirty seconds later. As I climbed in the PD car I yawned, thoroughly. Having had less than three hours’ sleep, I had been needing a good healthy yawn all day but had been too busy.

Six hours later, at one-thirty in the morning, I was sitting in the kitchen, putting away black bread (made by Fritz), smoked sturgeon, Brie cheese, and milk, and reading the early edition of Friday’s Times , which I had picked up on my way home from the District Attorney’s office.

I was about pooped. The day had been fairly active, and the evening, an hour with Cramer and four hours with a couple of assistant DAs, had been really tough. It’s a strain to answer a thousand questions put by experts when you know that: a) you have to keep a wall between two sets of facts, the ones they already know and the ones you hope to God they never will know; b) you’re making a record that may hook you on a charge you can’t possibly dodge; and c) one little slip could spill the soup. Of all the sessions I have had at Homicide West and the DA’s office, that was the worst. There had been only two letups, when they called time out for ten minutes for me to eat an inedible ham sandwich and a pint of Grade F milk, and when I announced, around ten o’clock, that they could either let me make a phone call or lock me up for the night.

Anyone who thinks the phone booths in that building are not tapped has a right to his opinion, but so have I. Therefore when I got Wolfe and told him where I was we kept it on a high plane. I reported the encounter with Stebbins and said that as usual Cramer and the DA thought I was withholding information they had a right to, which, as he knew, was absurd. He said that he already knew of the encounter with Stebbins, that Mrs. Yeager had phoned and he had requested her to come to the office, and they had discussed the matter. He asked if it would be advisable for Fritz to keep the casseroled kidneys warm, and I said no, I was on a diet. They finally turned me loose at a quarter to one, and when I got home the house was dark and there was no note on my desk.

When I had taken on a satisfactory amount of the bread and sturgeon and cheese, and learned from the Times that the District Attorney hoped he would soon be able to report progress in the Yeager murder investigation, I dragged myself up the two flights to my room. I had promised my dentist years ago that I would brush my teeth every night, but that night I skipped it.

Since I had done all my errands and there had been no note on my desk, and I was behind on sleep, I didn’t turn the radio alarm on, and when I pried my eyes open enough to see the clock it said 9:38. Wolfe would have finished breakfast and gone up to the orchids. I thought another ten minutes wouldn’t hurt, but I hate to dash around in the morning fog, so I turned on my will power and rolled out. At 10:17 I entered the kitchen, told Fritz good morning, and got my orange juice. At 10:56 I finished my second cup of coffee, thanked Fritz for the bacon and apricot omelet, went to the office, and started opening the mail. The sound came of the elevator and Wolfe entered, said good morning, went to his desk, and asked if there was any word from Hewitt about the Lycaste delicatissima. True to form. Granting that he knew they hadn’t tossed me in the can as a material witness, since I was there, and that I had nothing urgent to report, since I wouldn’t have waited until eleven o’clock, he might at least have asked how long they had kept me. Slitting envelopes, I said there was nothing from Hewitt.

“How long did they keep you?” he asked.

“Only three hours more after I phoned. I got home a little after one.”

“It must have been rather difficult.”

“There were spots. I refused to sign a statement.”

“That was wise. Satisfactory. Mrs. Yeager told me of your impromptu explanation to Mr. Stebbins. She was impressed. Satisfactory.”

Two satisfactories in one speech was a record. “Oh,” I said, “just my usual discretion and sagacity. It was either that or shoot him.” I took the mail to him. “Anything on the program?”

“No. We are suspended.” He pushed the buzzer button, one long and one short, for beer, and got at the mail. In a moment Fritz came with a bottle and a glass. I sat and yawned, and got my notebook out. There would be letters. The phone rang. It was Lon Cohen, wanting to know if I had spent a pleasant evening at the DA’s office and how had I got bail in the middle of the night. I told him bail wasn’t permitted on a murder one charge; I had jumped out a window and was now a fugitive. When I hung up Wolfe was ready to dictate, but as I picked up my notebook and swiveled, the phone rang again. It was Saul Panzer. He wanted Wolfe. Wolfe didn’t give me the off signal, so I stayed on.

“Good morning, Saul.”

“Good morning, sir. I’ve got it. Tight.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. A little place on Seventy-seventh Street near First Avenue. Three-sixty-two East Seventy-seventh Street. His name is Arthur Wenger.” Saul spelled it. “He picked him from the photograph and he’s positive. He’s not sure of the day, but it was last week, either Tuesday or Wednesday, in the morning. I’m in a booth around the corner.”

“Satisfactory. I want him here as soon as possible.”

“He won’t want to come. He’s alone in the place. Ten dollars would probably do it, but you know how that is. He’ll be asked if he was paid.”

“He won’t be asked — or if he is, I’ll be foundered anyway. Ten dollars, twenty, fifty, no matter. When will you have him here?”

“Half an hour.”

“Satisfactory. I’ll expect you.”

We hung up. Wolfe glanced up at the clock and said, “Get Mr. Aiken.”

I dialed Continental Plastic Products. Mr. Aiken was in conference and couldn’t be disturbed. I got that not only from a female who was polite, but also from a male who thought he shouldn’t have been disturbed. The best I could get was that a message would be conveyed to Mr. Aiken within fifteen minutes, and I made the message brief: “Call Nero Wolfe, urgent.” In nine minutes the phone rang and the polite female asked me to put Mr. Wolfe on. I don’t like that, even with a president, so I told her to put Mr. Aiken on, and she didn’t make an issue of it. In a minute I had him and signed to Wolfe.

“Mr. Aiken? Nero Wolfe. I have a report to make and it’s exigent. Not on the telephone. Can you be here with Miss McGee by a quarter past twelve?”