Rex Stout: Might as Well Be Dead

“I said ‘and speak with him.’” Wolfe turned. “Archie. How long would you need with him to give us a firm conclusion?”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I suppose a guard would be present.”

“I don’t mind guards. Five minutes might do it. Make it ten.”

Wolfe went back to Freyer. “You don’t know Mr. Goodwin, but I do. And he will manage it so that no resentment will bounce to you. He is remarkably adroit at drawing resentment to himself to divert it from me or one of my clients. You can tell the District Attorney that he is investigating some aspect of the case for you; and as for your client, you can safely leave that to Mr. Goodwin.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “It could be done this evening. Now. I invite you to dine with me here. The sooner it’s settled the better, both for you and for me.”

But Freyer wouldn’t buy that. His main objection was that it would be difficult to get access to his convicted client at that time of day even for himself, but also he wanted to think it over. It would have to wait until morning. When Wolfe sees that a point has to be conceded he manages not to be grumpy about it, and the conference ended much more sociably than it had begun. I went to the hall with Freyer and got his coat from the rack and helped him on with it, and let him out.

Back in the office, Wolfe was trying not to look smug. As I took the picture of Paul Herold from his desk to return it to the drawer, he remarked, “I confess his coming was opportune, but after your encounter with him in the courtroom it was to be expected.”

“Uh-huh.” I closed the drawer. “You planned it that way. Your gifts. It might backfire on you if his thinking it over includes a phone call to Omaha or even one to the Missing Persons Bureau. However, I admit you did the best you could, even inviting him to dinner. As you know, I have a date this evening, and now I can keep it.”

So he dined alone, and I was only half an hour late joining the gathering at Lily Rowan’s table at the Flamingo Club. We followed the usual routine, deciding after a couple of hours that the dance floor was too crowded and moving to Lily’s penthouse, where we could do our own crowding. Getting home around three o’clock, I went to the office and switched a light on for a glance at my desk, where Wolfe leaves a note if there is something that needs early-morning attention, found it bare, and mounted the two flights to my room.

For me par in bed is eight full hours, but of course I have to make exceptions, and Wednesday morning I entered the kitchen at nine-thirty, only half awake but with my hair brushed and my clothes on, greeted Fritz with forced cheerfulness, got my orange juice, which I take at room temperature, from the table, and had just swallowed a gulp when the phone rang. I answered it there, and had Albert Freyer’s voice in my ear. He said he had arranged it and I was to meet him in the City Prison visitors’ room at ten-thirty. I said I wanted to be alone with his client, and he said he understood that but he had to be there to identify me and vouch for me.

I hung up and turned to Fritz. “I’m being pushed, damn it. Can I have two cakes in a hurry? Forget the sausage, just the cakes and honey and coffee.”

He protested, but he moved. “It’s a bad way to start a day, Archie, cramming your breakfast down.”

I told him I was well aware of it and buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone to tell Wolfe.

I wasn’t exactly alone. Ten feet to my right a woman sat on a wooden chair just like mine, staring through the holes of the steel lattice at a man on the other side. By bending an ear I could have caught what the man was saying, but I didn’t try because I assumed she was as much in favor of privacy as I was. Ten feet to my left a man on another chair like mine was also staring through the lattice, at a lad who wasn’t as old as Paul Herold had been when the picture was taken. I couldn’t help hearing what he was saying, and apparently he didn’t give a damn. The boy across the lattice from him was looking bored. There were three or four cops around, and the one who had brought me in was standing back near the wall, also looking bored.

During the formalities of getting passed in, which had been handled by Freyer, I had been told that I would be allowed fifteen minutes, and I was about to leave my chair to tell the cop that I hoped he wouldn’t start timing me until the prisoner arrived, when a door opened in the wall on the other side of the lattice and there he was, with a guard behind his elbow. The guard steered him across to a chair opposite me and then backed up to the wall, some five paces. The convict sat on the edge of the chair and blinked through the holes at me.

“I don’t know you,” he said. “Who are you?”

At that moment, with his pale hollow cheeks and his dead eyes and his lips so thin he almost didn’t have any, he looked a lot more than eleven years away from the kid in the flattop.

I hadn’t decided how to open up because I do better if I wait until I have a man’s face to choose words. I had a captive audience, of course, but that wouldn’t help if he clammed up on me. I tried to get his eyes, but the damn lattice was in the way.

“My name is Goodwin,” I told him. “Archie Goodwin. Have you ever heard of a private detective named Nero Wolfe?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him. What do you want?” His voice was hollower than his cheeks and deader than his eyes.

“I work for Mr. Wolfe. Day before yesterday your father, James R. Herold, came to his office and hired him to find you. He said he had learned that you didn’t steal that money eleven years ago, and he wanted to make it square with you. The way things stand that may not mean much to you, but there it is.”

Considering the circumstances, he did pretty well. His jaw sagged for a second, but he jerked it up, and his voice was just the same when he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Peter Hays.”

I nodded at him. “I knew you’d say that, of course. I’m sorry, Mr. Herold, but it won’t work. The trouble is that Mr. Wolfe needs money, and he uses part of it to pay my salary. So we’re going to inform your father that we have found you, and of course he’ll be coming to see you. The reason I’m here, we thought it was only fair to let you know about it before he comes.”

“I haven’t got any father.” His jaw was stiff now, and it affected his voice. “You’re wrong. You’ve made a mistake. If he comes I won’t see him!”

I shook my head. “Let’s keep our voices down. What about the scar on your left leg on the inside of the knee? It’s no go, Mr. Herold. Perhaps you can refuse to see your father — I don’t know how much say they give a man in your situation — but he’ll certainly come when we notify him. By the way, if we had had any doubt at all of your identity you have just settled it, the way you said if he comes you won’t see him. Why should you get excited about it if he’s not your father? If we’ve made a mistake the easiest way to prove it is to let him come and take a look at you. We didn’t engage to persuade you to see him; our job was just to find you, and we’ve done that, and if—”

I stopped because he started to shake. I could have got up and left, since my mission was accomplished, but Freyer wouldn’t like it if I put his client in a state of collapse and just walked out on him, and after all Freyer had got me in. So I stuck. There was a counter on both sides to keep us away from the lattice, and he had his fists on his, rubbing it with little jerks.

“Hang on,” I told him. “I’m going. We thought you ought to know.”

“Wait.” He stopped shaking. “Will you wait?”