Rex Stout - Might as Well Be Dead

“Sure.”

He took his fists off the counter, and his head thrust forward. “I can’t see you very well. Listen to me, for God’s sake. For God’s sake don’t tell him. You don’t know what he’s like.”

“Well, I’ve met him.”

“And my mother and sisters, they’ll know. I think they believed I was framed for stealing that money, I think they believed me, but he didn’t, and now I’ve been framed again. For God’s sake don’t tell him. This time it’s all over, I’m going to die, and I might as well be dead now, and it’s not fair for me to have this too. I don’t want them to know. My God, don’t you see how it is?”

“Yeah, I see how it is.” I was wishing I had gone.

“Then promise me you won’t tell him. You look like a decent guy. If I’ve got to die for something I didn’t do, all right, I can’t do anything about that, but not this too. I know I’m not saying this right, I know I’m not myself, but if you only—”

I didn’t know why he stopped, because, listening to him, I didn’t hear the cop approaching from behind. There was a tap on my shoulder, and the cop’s voice.

“Time’s up.”

I arose.

“Promise me!” Paul Herold demanded.

“I can’t,” I told him, and turned and walked out.

Freyer was waiting for me in the visitors’ room. I don’t carry a mirror, so I don’t know how my face looked when I joined him, but when we had left the building and were on the sidewalk, he asked, “It didn’t work?”

“You can’t always tell by my expression,” I said. “Ask the people I play poker with. But if you don’t mind I’ll save it for Mr. Wolfe, since he pays my salary. Coming along?”

Evidently he was. I’ll hand it to him that he could take a hint. In the taxi, when I turned my head to the window to study the scenery as we rolled along, he made no attempt to start a conversation. But he overdid it a little. When we stopped at the curb in front of the old brownstone, he spoke.

“If you want a word with Wolfe first I’ll wait out here.”

I laughed. “No, come on in and I’ll find you some earmuffs.”

I preceded him up the stoop and pushed the button, and Fritz let us in, and we put our hats and coats on the rack and went down the hall to the office. Wolfe, at his desk pouring beer, shot me a glance, greeted Freyer and asked if he would like some beer. The lawyer declined and took the red leather chair without waiting for an invitation.

I stood and told Wolfe, “I saw him and talked with him. Instead of a yes or no, I’d like to give you a verbatim report. Do you want Mr. Freyer to hear it?”

Wolfe lifted his glass from the tray. “Is there any reason why he shouldn’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Then go ahead.”

I didn’t ham it, but I gave them all the words, which was no strain, since the only difference between me and a tape recorder is that a tape recorder can’t lie. I lie to Wolfe only on matters that are none of his business, and this was his business. As I say, I didn’t ham it, but I thought they ought to have a clear picture, so I described Paul Herold’s condition — his stiff jaw, his shaking, his trying to shove his fists through the counter, and the look in his eyes when he said it wasn’t fair for him to have this too. I admit one thing: I made the report standing up so I could put my fists on Wolfe’s desk to show how Paul Herold’s had looked on the counter. When I was through I slid the chair out from my desk and sat.

“If you still want a firm conclusion,” I said, “it is yes.”

Wolfe put his glass down, took in air clear to his belly button, and shut his eyes.

Freyer was shaking his head with his jaw set. “I’ve never had a case like it,” he said, apparently to himself, “and I never want another one.” He looked at Wolfe. “What are you going to do? You can’t just shut your eyes on it.”

“They’re my eyes,” Wolfe muttered, keeping them closed. In a moment he opened them. “Archie. That’s why you wanted Mr. Freyer to hear your report, to make it even more difficult.”

I lifted my shoulders and dropped them. “No argument.”

“Then send Mr. Herold a telegram, saying merely that we have found his son, alive and well, here in New York. That was our job. Presumably he will come.”

Freyer made a noise and came forward in his chair. I looked at Wolfe, swallowed, and spoke.

“You do it. I’ve got a sore finger. Just dial Western Union, WO two-seven-one-one-one.”

He laughed. A stranger would have called it a snort, but I know his different snorts. He laughed some more.

“It’s fairly funny,” I said, “but have you heard the one about the centipede in the shoe store?”

Freyer said positively, “I think we should discuss it.”

Wolfe nodded. “I agree. I was merely forcing Mr. Goodwin to reveal his position.” He looked at me.

“You prefer to wire Mr. Herold that I have decided I don’t like the job?”

“If those are the only alternatives, yes. As he said, he might as well be dead. He’s practically a corpse, and I don’t have to rob corpses to eat and neither do you.”

“Your presentment is faulty,” Wolfe objected. “No robbery is contemplated. However, I am quite willing to consider other alternatives. The decision, of course, is mine. Mr. Herold gave me the job of finding his son, and it is wholly in my discretion whether to inform him that the job is done.”

He stopped to drink some beer. Freyer said, “As the son’s attorney, I have some voice in the matter.”

Wolfe put the glass down and passed his tongue over his lips. “No, sir. Not on this specific question. However, though you have no voice you certainly have an interest, and it deserves to be weighed. We’ll look at it first. Those two alternatives, telling my client that his son is found, or telling him that I withdraw from my job, call them A and B . If A , my surmise is that you would be through. He would come to see his son, and survey the situation, and decide whether to finance an appeal. If he decided no, that would end it. If he decided yes, he would probably also decide that you had mishandled the case and he would hire another lawyer. I base that on the impression I got of him. Archie?”

“Right.” I was emphatic.

Wolfe returned to Freyer. “And if B , you’d be left where you are now. How much would an appeal cost?”

“That depends. A lot of investigation would be required. As a minimum, twenty thousand dollars. To fight it through to the end, using every expedient, a lot more.”

“Your client can’t furnish it?”

“No.”

“Can you?”

“No.”

“Then B is no better for you than A . Now what about me? A should be quite simple and satisfactory. I’ve done a job and I collect my fee. But not only must I pay my bills, I must also sustain my self-esteem. That man, your client, has been wounded in his very bowels, and to add insult to his injury as a mere mercenary would be a wanton act. I can’t afford it. Even if I must gainsay Rochefoucauld, who wrote that we should only affect compassion, and carefully avoid having any.”

He picked up his glass, emptied it, and put it down. “Won’t you have some beer? Or something else?”

“No, thank you. I never drink before cocktail time.”

“Coffee? Milk? Water?”

“No, thanks.”

“Very well. As for B , I can’t afford that either. I’ve done what I was hired to do, and I intend to be paid. And I have another reason for rejecting B . It would preclude my taking any further interest in this affair, and I don’t like that. You said yesterday that you are convinced that your client is innocent. I can’t say that I am likewise convinced, but I strongly suspect that you’re right. With reason.”