Rex Stout - The Second Confession

“I do not. I only want what I asked for. Is there anything on it to show it was used, or might have been used, to slam a man on the head?”

“There is.”

“What!” I hadn’t really expected it. “There is?”

“Yes. Everything is dried up, but there are four specks that are bloodstains, five more that may be bloodstains, one minute piece of skin, and two slightly larger pieces of skin. One of the larger pieces has an entire follicle. This is a preliminary report and none of it can be guaranteed. It will take forty-eight hours to complete all the tests.”

“Go to it, brother! If I was there I’d kiss you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Forget it. I’ll get you a Nobel Prize. Write the report in red ink.”

I hung up and turned to Wolfe. “Okay. He was murdered. Connie did it or knows who did. She knew about the stone. She stalked me. I should have established a personal relationship with her and brought her down here. Do you want her? I’ll bet I can get her.”

“Good heavens, no.” His brows had gone up. “I must say, Archie, satisfactory.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“I won’t. But though you used your time well, to the purpose you were sent for, all you got was corroboration. The stone proves that Mr. Kane’s statement was false, that Mr. Rony was killed deliberately, and that one of those people killed him, but there’s nothing new in that for us.”

“Excuse me,” I said coldly, “for bringing in something that doesn’t help.”

“I don’t say it doesn’t help. If and when this gets to a courtroom, it will unquestionably help there. Tell me again what Mrs. Emerson said.”

I did so, in a restrained manner. Looking back now, I can see that he was right, but at the time I was damn proud of that stone.

Since it gives the place an unpleasant atmosphere for one of us to be carrying a grudge, I thought it would be better if I got even immediately, and I did so by not eating dinner with him, giving as a reason my recent consumption of sandwiches. He loves to talk when he’s eating, business being taboo, so as I sat alone in the office, catching up with the chores, my humor kept getting better, and by the time he rejoined me I was perfectly willing to speak to him — in fact, I had thought up a few comments about the importance of evidence in criminal cases which would have been timely and appropriate.

I had to put off making them because he was still getting himself arranged to his after-dinner position in his chair when the doorbell rang and, Fritz being busy with the dishes, I went to answer it. It was Saul Panzer and Orrie Cather. I ushered them into the office. Orrie got comfortable, with his legs crossed, and took out a pipe and filled it, while Saul sat erect on the front half of the big red leather chair.

“I could have phoned,” Saul said, “but it’s a little complicated and we need instructions. We may have something and we may not.”

“The son or the mother?” Wolfe asked.

“The son. You said to take him first.” Saul took out a notebook and glanced at a page. “He knows a lot of people. How do you want it, dates and details?”

“Sketch it first.”

“Yes, sir.” Saul closed the notebook. “He spends about half his time in New York and the rest all over. Owns his own airplane, a Mecklin, and keeps it in New Jersey. Belongs to only one club, the Harvard. Has been arrested for speeding twice in the past three years, once—”

“Not a biography,” Wolfe protested. “Just items that might help.”

“Yes, sir. You might possibly want this: he has a half interest in a restaurant in Boston called the New Frontier. It was started in nineteen forty-six by a college classmate, and young Sperling furnished the capital, around forty thousand, probably from his father, but that’s not—”

“A night club?”

“No, sir. High-class, specializing in sea food.”

“A failure?”

“No, sir. Successful. Not spectacular, but going ahead and showed a good profit in nineteen forty-eight.”

Wolfe grunted. “Hardly a good basis for blackmail. What else?”

Saul looked at Orrie. “You tell him about the Manhattan Ballet.”

“Well,” Orrie said, “it’s a bunch of dancers that started two years ago. Jimmy Sperling and two other guys put up the dough, and I haven’t found out how much Jimmy’s share was, but I can. They do modern stuff. The first season they quit town after three weeks in a dump on Forty-eighth Street, and tried it in the sticks, but that wasn’t so good either. This last season they opened in November at the Herald Theater and kept going until the end of April. Everybody thinks the three angels got all their ante back and then some, but that will take checking. Anyhow they did all right.”

It was beginning to sound to me as if we were up against a new one. I had heard of threats to tell a rich man how much his son had sunk, but not to tell how much his son was piling up. My opinion of Jimmy needed some shuffling.

“Of course,” Orrie went on, “when you think of ballet you think of girls with legs. This ballet has got ’em all right; that’s been checked. Jimmy is interested in ballet or why would he kick in? He goes twice a week when he’s in New York. He also is personally interested in seeing that the girls get enough to eat. When I got that far I naturally thought I was on the way to something, and maybe I am but not yet. He likes the girls and they like him, but if that has led to anything he wouldn’t want put in the paper it’ll have to wait for another installment because I haven’t caught up to it yet. Shall I keep trying?”

“You might as well.” Wolfe went to Saul. “Is that all you have?”

“No, we’ve got plenty,” Saul told him, “but nothing you might want except maybe the item I wanted to ask about. Last fall he contributed twenty thousand dollars to the CPBM.”

“What’s that?”

“Committee of Progressive Business Men. One of the funny fronts. It was for Henry A. Wallace for President.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe’s eyes, which had been nearly closed, had opened a little. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t tell you much, because it was afternoon when I scared it up. Apparently nobody was supposed to know about the contribution, but several people do, and I think I can get onto them if you say so. That’s what I wanted to ask about. I had a break and got a line on a man in the furniture business who was pro-Wallace at first but later broke loose. He claims to know all about Sperling’s contribution. He says Sperling made it in a personal check for twenty thousand, which he gave to a man called Caldecott one Thursday evening, and the next morning Sperling came to the CPBM office and wanted his check back. He wanted to give it in cash instead of a check. But he was too late because the check had already been deposited. And here’s what I thought made it interesting; this man says that since the first of the year photostats of three different checks — contributions from three other people — have turned up in peculiar circumstances. One of them was his own check, for two thousand dollars, but he wouldn’t give me the names of the other two.”

Wolfe’s brow was wrinkled. “Does he say that the people running the organization had the photostats made for later use — in peculiar circumstances?”

“No, sir. He thinks some clerk did it, either for personal use or as a Republican or Democratic spy. This man says he is now a political hermit. He doesn’t like Wallace, but he doesn’t like Republicans or Democrats either. He says he’s going to vote the Vegetarian ticket next time but go on eating meat. I let him talk. I wanted to get all I could because if there was a photostat of young Sperling’s check—”