Rex Stout: The Black Mountain

That was the last we saw of her during the three weeks, but not the last we heard. Word of her came four days later, Friday morning, from an unexpected quarter. Wolfe and I were having a session in the office with Saul and Fred and Orrie, one of a series, trying to think up some more stones to look under, when the doorbell rang and a moment later Fritz entered to announce, “A man to see you, sir. Mr. Stahl of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Wolfe’s brows went up; he glanced at me, I shook my head, and he told Fritz to bring the man in. The hired help, including me, exchanged glances. An FBI man was no rare spectacle for any of us, but Stahl wasn’t just one of the swarm; he had worked up to where he gave more orders than he took, and the word was that by Christmas he would be occupying the big corner room down at 290 Broadway. He didn’t often go out to run errands, so it was quite an event for him to drop in, and we all knew it and appreciated it. When he entered and marched across to Wolfe’s desk and offered a hand, Wolfe even did him the honor of rising to shake, which showed how desperate the situation was.

“It’s been quite a while since I saw you last,” Stahl observed. “Three years?”

Wolfe nodded. “I believe so.” He indicated the red leather chair, which Fred Durkin had vacated. “Be seated.”

“Thank you. May we make this private?”

“If necessary.” Wolfe glanced at the trio, and they got up and filed out and shut the door. Stahl went and sat. Medium-sized and beginning to be a little short on hair, he wasn’t impressive to look at, except his jaw, which came straight down a good two inches and then jutted forward. He was well designed for ramming. He gave me a look, and Wolfe said, “As you know, Mr. Goodwin is privy to all that I hear and see and do.”

Stahl knew no such thing, because it wasn’t true. I’d like to have a nickel — or make it a dime, with the dollar where it is — for every item Wolfe has withheld from me just for the hell of it.

Stahl merely nodded. “In a way,” he said, “you might consider this a personal matter — personal to you. We want to get in touch with your daughter, Mrs. Carla Britton.”

Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “Then do so. Her address is nine-eighty-four Park Avenue. Her phone number is Poplar three-three-oh-four-three.”

“I know. She hasn’t been there since Tuesday, three days ago. She left no word with anyone. Nobody knows where she is. Do you?”

“No, sir.”

Stahl passed a fingertip across the prow of his chin. “One thing I like about you, you prefer things put plain and straight. I’ve never seen the room upstairs, right above yours, that you call the South Room, but I’ve heard about it. You’ve been known to use it for guests, clients and otherwise, from time to time. Do you mind if I go up and take a look at it?”

Wolfe shrugged again. “It will be wasted energy, Mr. Stahl.”

“That’s all right, I have some to spare.”

“Then go ahead. Archie?”

“Yes, sir.” I went and opened the door to the hall and, with Stahl at my heels, went to the stairs and mounted the two flights. At the door to the South Room I stepped aside and told him politely, “You go first. She might shoot.” He opened the door and went in, and I crossed the sill. “It’s nice and sunny,” I said, “and the beds are first-rate.” I pointed. “That door’s the bathroom, and that’s a closet. A girl named Priscilla Eads once rented it for fifty bucks a day, but she’s dead. I’m pretty sure Mr. Wolfe would shade that for a prominent public servant like you...”

I saved it because he was moving. He knew he had drawn a blank, but he went and opened the door to the bathroom and looked in, and on his way back detoured to open the door to the closet for a glance. As he retreated to the hall I told his back, “Sorry you don’t like it. Would you care to take a look at my room just down the hall? Or the plant rooms, just one flight up?” I kept trying to sell him on the way downstairs. “You might like Mr. Wolfe’s own room better — the bed has a black silk coverlet. I’ll be glad to show it to you. Or if you want a bargain there’s a couch in the front room.”

He entered the office, returned to his chair, focused on Wolfe, and inquired, “Where is she?”

Wolfe focused back. “I don’t know.”

“When did you see her last?”

Wolfe straightened in his chair. “Aren’t you being crass, sir? If this inquisition isn’t gratuitous, warrant it.”

“I told you she has been away from her home for three days and we can’t find her.”

“That doesn’t justify your tramping in here and branding me a liar.”

“I didn’t.”

“Certainly you did. When I said I didn’t know where she was you proceeded to search my house for her. When you didn’t find her you demanded to know where she is. Pfui.”

Stahl smiled like a diplomat. “Well, Goodwin evened it up by riding me. I guess I’d better start over. You know we are aware of your qualities and abilities. We know you don’t need to have a thing all spelled out for you. I didn’t think I’d have to tell you that my coming here and asking about Mrs. Britton meant that we are interested in some aspects of the investigation into the murder of Marko Vukcic, that we have reason to think he was engaged in activities that are the proper concern of the federal government, that your daughter was associated with him in those activities, and that her disappearance is therefore a matter for inquiry. I might as well add that as yet we have no evidence that you have been connected with those activities in any way, either loyally with Vukcic or subversively.”

Wolfe snorted. “I have not applied for a certificate of virtue.”

“No. You wouldn’t. I might also add that I have discussed this with Inspector Cramer and he knows I’m here. We learned of Mrs. Britton’s involvement only last night. To put it all on the table, her disappearance suggests two possibilities: one, that she has been dealt with as Vukcic was, by the same person or persons; and two, that she was double-crossing Vukcic, working for the Communists, and was in on the plan to kill him and helped with it, and it was getting too hot for her here. Is that enough to warrant the question, when did you see her last?”

“The answer won’t help you much. In this room four days ago, Monday afternoon, about six-thirty. She was here not more than ten minutes. She gave no hint of an intention to disappear or of any reason for such an intention. Of your two possibilities, I advise you to dismiss the second, but that will not necessarily leave only the first; there are others.”

“Why dismiss the second?”

Wolfe cocked his head. “Mr. Stahl. The miasma of distrust that has poisoned the air we breathe is so pervasive that it reduced you to the fatuity of going up to look in my South Room. I would have liked then to tell you to leave, but I couldn’t afford the gesture because I’m up a stump. I’ve been hunting the murderer of Marko Vukcic for eight days now, and am floundering in a bog, and if there is any chance that you can offer a straw I want it. So I’ll tell you all I know about Mrs. Britton’s connection with this affair.”

He did so in full, making no objection to Stahl’s getting out his notebook and taking notes. At the end he observed, “You asked why I advised you to dismiss the second of your two possibilities, and that’s my answer. You will discount it as your caution may dictate. Now I would appreciate a straw. With your prerogatives and resources, you must have one to toss me.”

I had never heard or seen him being abject before, and in spite of the strain he was under I didn’t care for it. Stahl didn’t either. He smiled, and I would have liked to wipe it off with one hand. He glanced at his wristwatch and rose from the chair. He didn’t even bother to say he was late for an appointment. “This is something new,” he stated. “Nero Wolfe asking for a straw. We’ll think it over. If you hear from your daughter, or of her, we’ll appreciate it if you’ll let us know.”