Rex Stout: Might as Well Be Dead

The counselor-at-law hadn’t had a shave, but it must be admitted that the circumstances called for allowances. I suppose he thought he was flattening somebody when, convoyed to the office and introduced, he didn’t extend a hand, but if so he was wrong. Wolfe is not a hand-shaker.

When Freyer had got lowered into the red leather chair Wolfe swiveled to face him and said affably, “Mr. Goodwin has told me about you, and about the adverse verdict on your client. Regrettable.”

“Did he tell you you would hear from me?”

“Yes, he mentioned that.”

“All right, here I am.” Freyer wasn’t appreciating the big, comfortable chair; he was using only the front half of it, his palms on his knees. “Goodwin told me your ad in today’s papers had no connection with my client, Peter Hays. He said you had never heard of him. I didn’t believe him. And less than an hour later he appears in the courtroom where my client was on trial. That certainly calls for an explanation, and I want it. I am convinced that my client is innocent. I am convinced that he is the victim of a diabolical frame-up. I don’t say that your ad was a part of the plot, I admit I don’t see how it could have been since it appeared on the day the case went to the jury, but I intend to—”

“Mr. Freyer.” Wolfe was showing him a palm. “If you please. I can simplify this for you.”

“You can’t simplify it until you explain it to my satisfaction.”

“I know that. That’s why I am prepared to do something I have rarely done, and should never do except under compulsion. It is now compelled by extraordinary circumstances. I’m going to tell you what a client of mine has told me. Of course you’re a member of the New York bar?”

“Certainly.”

“And you are attorney-of-record for Peter Hays?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to tell you something in confidence.”

Freyer’s eyes narrowed. “I will not be bound in confidence in any matter affecting my client’s interests.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. The only bond will be your respect for another man’s privacy. The interests of your client and my client may or may not intersect. If they do we’ll consider the matter; if they don’t, I shall rely on your discretion. This is the genesis of that advertisement.”

He told him. He didn’t report our long session with James R. Herold verbatim, but neither did he skimp it. When he was through, Freyer had a clear and complete picture of where we stood up to four o’clock that afternoon, when Freyer had rung our doorbell. The lawyer was a good listener and had interrupted only a couple of times, once to get a point straight and once to ask to see the picture of Paul Herold.

“Before I go on,” Wolfe said, “I invite verification. Of course Mr. Goodwin’s corroboration would have no validity for you, but you may inspect his transcription of the notes he made, five typewritten pages. Or you can phone Lieutenant Murphy, provided you don’t tell him who you are. On that, of course, I am at your mercy. At this juncture I don’t want him to start investigating a possible connection between your P.H. and my P.H.”

“Verification can wait,” Freyer conceded. “You would be a fool to invent such a tale, and I’m quite aware that you’re not a fool.” He had backed up in the chair and got more comfortable. “Finish it up.”

“There’s not much more. When you told Mr. Goodwin that your client’s background was unknown to you and that he had no family, he decided he had better have a look at Peter Hays, and he went to the courtroom for that purpose. His first glimpse of him, when he was brought into court, left him uncertain; but when, upon hearing the verdict, your client rose and turned to face the crowd, his face had a quite different expression. It had, or Mr. Goodwin thought it had, an almost conclusive resemblance to the picture of the youthful Paul Herold. When you asked to see the picture, I asked you to wait. Now I ask you to look at it. Archie?”

I got one from the drawer and went and handed it to Freyer. He studied it a while, shut his eyes, opened them again, and studied it some more. “It could be,” he conceded. “It could easily be.” He looked at it some more. “Or it couldn’t.” He looked at me. “What was it about his face when he turned to look at the crowd?”

“There was life in it. There was — uh — spirit. As I told Mr. Wolfe, he was telling someone to go to hell, or ready to.”

Freyer shook his head. “I’ve never seen him like that, with any life in him. The first time I saw him he said he might as well be dead. He had nothing but despair, and he never has had.”

“I take it,” Wolfe said, “that as far as you know he could be Paul Herold. You know nothing of his background or connections that precludes it?”

“No.” The lawyer considered it. “No, I don’t. He has refused to disclose his background, and he says he has no living relatives. That was one of the things against him with the District Attorney — not evidential, of course, but you know how that is.”

Wolfe nodded. “Now, do you wish to verify my account?”

“No. I accept it. As I said, you’re not a fool.”

“Then let’s consider the situation. I would like to ask two questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“Is your client in a position to pay adequately for your services?”

“No, he isn’t. Adequately, no. That is no secret. I took the case at the request of a friend — the head of the advertising agency he works for — or worked for. All his associates at the agency like him and speak well of him, and so do others — all his friends and acquaintances I have had contact with. I could have had dozens of character witnesses if that would have helped any. But in addition to the prison bars he has erected his own barrier to shut the world out — even his best friends.”

“Then if he is Paul Herold it seems desirable to establish that fact. My client is a man of substantial means. I am not trying to stir your cupidity, but the laborer is worthy of his hire. If you’re convinced of your client’s innocence you will want to appeal, and that’s expensive. My second question: will you undertake to resolve our doubt? Will you find out, the sooner the better, whether your P.H. is my P.H.?”

“Well.” Freyer put his elbows on the chair arms and flattened his palms together. “I don’t know. He’s a very difficult man. He wouldn’t take the stand. I wanted him to, but he wouldn’t. I don’t know how I’d go about this. He would resent it, I’m sure of that, after the attitude he has taken to my questions about his background, and it might become impossible for me to continue to represent him.” Abruptly he leaned forward and his eyes gleamed. “And I want to represent him! I’m convinced he was framed, and there’s still a chance of proving it!”

“Then if you will permit a suggestion” — Wolfe was practically purring — “do you agree that it’s desirable to learn if he is Paul Herold?”

“Certainly. You say your client is in Omaha?”

“Yes. He returned last night.”

“Wire him to come back. When he comes tell him how it stands, and I’ll arrange somehow for him to see my client.”

Wolfe shook his head. “That won’t do. If I find that it is his son who has been convicted of murder of course I’ll have to tell him, but I will not tell him that it may be his son who has been convicted of murder and ask him to resolve the matter. If it is not his son, what am I? A bungler. But for my suggestion: if you’ll arrange for Mr. Goodwin to see him and speak with him, that will do it.”

“How?” The lawyer frowned. “Goodwin has already seen him.”