Rex Stout - The Second Confession

“Archie.” Wolfe was glowering. “What fatuous flummery is this? I told you to deposit that check, not cash it.” He pointed. “Wrap that up and take it to the bank.”

“Yes, sir. But before I do—” I went to the safe and got the bank book, opened it to the current page, and displayed it to him. “As you see, the check was deposited. This isn’t flummery, it’s merely a coincidence. You heard the doorbell and saw me go to answer it. A boy handed me this package and gave me a receipt to sign — General Messenger Service, Twenty-eight West Forty-seventh Street. I thought it might be a clock bomb and opened it in the hall, away from you. There is nothing on the package or in it to show who sent it. The only clue is the newspaper the carton was lined with — from the second edition of the New York Times. Who do we know that reads the Times and has fifty thousand bucks for a practical joke?” I gestured. “Answer that and we’ve got him.”

Wolfe was still glowering, but at the pile of dough, not at me. He reached for one of the bundles, flipped through it, and put it back. “Put it in the safe. The package too.”

“Shouldn’t we count it first? What if one of the bundles is short a twenty?”

There was no reply. He was leaning back in his chair, pushing his lips out and in, and out and in again. I followed instructions, first returning the stuff to the carton to save space, and then went to the hall for the wrapping paper and cord and put them in the safe also.

I sat at my desk, waited until Wolfe’s lips were quiet again, and asked coldly, “How about a raise? I could use twenty bucks a week more. So far this case has brought us one hundred and five thousand, three hundred and twelve dollars. Deduct expenses and the damage—”

“Where did the three hundred and twelve come from?”

“From Rony’s wallet. Saul’s holding it. I told you.”

“You know, of course, who sent that package.”

“Not exactly. D, C, B, or A, but which? It wouldn’t come straight from X, would it?”

“Straight? No.” Wolfe shook his head. “I like money, but I don’t like that. I only wish you could answer a question.”

“I’ve answered millions. Try me.”

“I’ve already tried you on this one. Who drugged that drink Saturday evening — the one intended for Mr. Rony which you drank?”

“Yeah. That’s the question. I myself asked it all day yesterday, off and on, and again this morning, and I don’t know.”

Wolfe sighed. “That, of course, is what constrains us. That’s what forces us to assume that it was not an accident, but murder. But for that I might be able to persuade myself to call it closed, in spite of my deception of Mr. Archer.” He sighed again. “As it is, we must either validate the assumption or refute it, and heaven knows how I’m going to manage it. The telephone upstairs has been restored. I wanted to test it, and thought I might as well do so with a call to Mr. Lowenfeld of the police laboratory. He was obliging but didn’t help much. He said that if a car is going slightly downhill at twenty-five miles an hour, and its left front hits a man who is standing erect, and its wheels pass over him, it is probable that the impact will leave dents or other visible marks on the front of the car, but not certain. I told him that the problem was to determine whether the man was upright or recumbent when the car hit him, and he said the absence of marks on the front of the car would be suggestive but not conclusive. He also asked why I was still interested in Louis Rony’s death. If policemen were women they couldn’t be more gossipy. By evening the story will be around that I’m about ready to expose that reptile Paul Emerson as a murderer. I only wish it were true.” Wolfe glanced up at the clock. “By the way, I also phoned Doctor Vollmer, and he should be here soon.”

So I was wrong in supposing that nothing had been done toward making good on his promise. “Your trip to the country did you good,” I declared. “You’re full of energy. Did you notice that the Gazette printed Kane’s statement in full?”

“Yes. And I noticed a defect that escaped me when Mr. Sperling read it. His taking my car, the car of a fellow guest whom he had barely met, was handled too casually. Reading it, it’s a false note. I told Mr. Sperling it was well drafted, but that part wasn’t. A better explanation could have been devised and put in a brief sentence. I could have—”

The phone ringing stopped him. I reached for my instrument and told the transmitter, “Nero Wolfe’s office.”

“May I speak to Mr. Wolfe, please?”

There was a faint tingle toward the bottom of my spine. The voice hadn’t changed a particle in thirteen months.

“Your name, please?” I asked, hoping my voice was the same too.

“Tell him a personal matter.”

I covered the transmitter with a palm and told Wolfe, “X.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You heard me. X.”

He reached for his phone. Getting no sign to do otherwise, I stayed on.

“Nero Wolfe speaking.”

“How do you do, Mr. Wolfe. Goodwin told you who I am? Or my voice does?”

“I know the voice.”

“Yes, it’s easily recognized, isn’t it? You ignored the advice I gave you Saturday. You also ignored the demonstration you received Sunday night. May I say that that didn’t surprise me?”

“You may say anything.”

“It didn’t. I hope there will never be occasion for a more pointed demonstration. It’s a more interesting world with you in it. Have you opened the package you received a little while ago?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need to explain why I decided to reimburse you for the damage to your property. Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, come. Surely not. Not you. If the amount you received exceeds the damage, no matter. I intended that it should. The District Attorney has decided that Rony’s death is fully and satisfactorily explained by Kane’s statement, and no charge will be made. You have already indicated that you do not concur in that decision by your inquiry to the New York police laboratory, and anyway of course you wouldn’t. Not you. Rony was an able young man with a future, and he deserves to have his death investigated by the best brain in New York. Yours. I don’t live in New York, as you know. Good-by and good luck.”

The connection went. Wolfe cradled his receiver. I did likewise.

“Jesus,” I said softly. I whistled. “Now there’s a client for you. Money by messenger, snappy phone calls, hopes he’ll never have to demonstrate by croaking you, keep the change, best brain in New York, go to it, click. As I think I said once before, he’s an abrupt bastard.”

Wolfe was sitting with his eyes closed to slits. I asked him, “How do I enter it? Under X, or Z for Zeck?”

“Archie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I told you once to forget that you know that man’s name, and I meant it. The reason is simply that I don’t want to hear his name because he is the only man on earth that I’m afraid of. I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me; I’m afraid of what he may someday force me to do to keep him from hurting me. You heard what I told Mr. Sperling.”

“Okay. But I’m the bookkeeper. What do I put it under, X?”

“Don’t put it. First, go through it. As you do so you might as well count it, but the point is to see if there is anything there besides money. Leave ten thousand dollars in the safe. I’ll need it soon, tomorrow probably, for something that can’t appear in our records. For your information only, it will be for Mr. Jones. Take the remainder to a suburban bank, say somewhere in New Jersey, and put it in a safe deposit box which you will rent under an assumed name. If you need a reference, Mr. Parker will do. After what happened Saturday night — we’ll be prepared for contingencies. If we ever meet him head on and have to cut off from here and from everyone we know, we’ll need supplies. I hope I never touch it. I hope it’s still there when I die, and if so it’s yours.”