Rex Stout - The Second Confession

He shook hands with Wolfe and turned on me.

“You crook, you told me if I didn’t stop — oh, here it is. Hello, Fritz. You’re the only one here I can trust.” He lifted the highball from the tray, nodded at Wolfe, swallowed a third of it, and sat in the red leather chair.

“I brought the stationery,” he announced. “Three sheets. You can have it and welcome if you’ll give me a first on how someone named Sperling willfully and deliberately did one Louis Rony to death.”

“That,” Wolfe said, “is precisely what I have to offer.”

Lon’s head jerked up. “Someone named Sperling?” he snapped.

“No. I shouldn’t have said ‘precisely.’ The name will have to wait. But the rest of it, yes.”

“Damn it, it’s midnight! You can’t expect—”

“Not tonight. Nor tomorrow. But if and when I have it, you’ll get it first.”

Lon looked at him. He had entered the room loose and carefree and thirsty, but now he was back at work again. An exclusive on the murder of Louis Rony was nothing to relax about.

“For that,” he said, “you’d want more than three letterheads, even with envelopes. What if I throw in postage stamps?”

Wolfe nodded. “That would be generous. But I have something else to offer. How would you like to have, for your paper only, a series of articles, authenticated for you, describing secret meetings of the group that controls the American Communist party, giving the details of discussions and decisions?”

Lon cocked his head to one side. “All you need,” he declared, “is long white whiskers and a red suit.”

“No, I’m too fat. Would that interest you?”

“It ought to. Who would do the authenticating?”

“I would.”

“You mean with your by-line?”

“Good heavens, no. The articles would be anonymous. But I would give my warranty, in writing if desired, that the source of information is competent and reliable.”

“Who would have to be paid and how much?”

“No one. Nothing.”

“Hell, you don’t even need whiskers. What would the details be like?”

Wolfe turned. “Let him read it, Archie.”

I took Lon the original copy of what I had typed, and he put his glass down on the table at his elbow, to have two hands. There were seven pages. He started reading fast, then went slower, and when he reached the end returned to the first page and reread it. Meanwhile I refilled his glass and, knowing that Fritz was busy, went to the kitchen for beer for Wolfe. Also I thought I could stand a highball myself, and supplied one.

Lon put the sheets on the table, saw that his glass had been attended to, and helped himself.

“It’s hot,” he admitted.

“Fit to print, I think,” Wolfe said modestly.

“Sure it is. How about libel?”

“There is none. There will be none. No names or addresses are used.”

“Yeah, I know, but an action might be brought anyhow. Your source would have to be available for testimony.”

“No, sir.” Wolfe was emphatic. “My source is covered and will stay covered. You may have my warranty, and a bond for libel damages if you want it, but that’s all.”

“Well—” Lon drank. “I love it. But I’ve got bosses, and on a thing like this they would have to decide. Tomorrow is Friday, and they — good God, what’s this? Don’t tell me — Archie, come and look!”

I had to go anyway, to remove the papers so Fritz could put the tray on the table. It was really a handsome platter. The steak was thick and brown with charcoal braid, the grilled slices of sweet potato and sautéed mushrooms were just right, the watercress was high at one end out of danger, and the overall smell made me wish I had asked Fritz to make a carbon.

“Now I know,” Lon said, “it’s all a dream. Archie, I would have sworn you phoned me to come down here. Okay, I’ll dream on.” He sliced through the steak, letting the juice come, cut off a bite, and opened wide for it. Next came a bite of sweet potato, followed by a mushroom. I watched him the way I have seen dogs watch when they’re allowed near the table. It was too much. I went to the kitchen, came back with two slices of bread on a plate, and thrust it at him.

“Come on, brother, divvy. You can’t eat three pounds of steak.”

“It’s under two pounds.”

“Like hell it is. Fix me up.”

After all he was a guest, so he had to give in.

When he left a while later the platter was clean except for the bone, the level in the bottle of Scotch was down another three inches, the letterheads and envelopes were in my desk drawer, and the arrangement was all set, pending an okay by the Gazette high brass. Since the weekend was nearly on us, getting the okay might hold it up, but Lon thought there was a fair chance for Saturday and a good one for Sunday. The big drawback, in his opinion, was the fact that Wolfe would give no guarantee of the life of the series. He gave a firm promise for two articles, and said a third was likely, but that was as far as he would commit himself. Lon tried to get him to sign up for a minimum of six, but nothing doing.

Alone with Wolfe again, I gave him a look.

“Quit staring,” he said gruffly.

“I beg your pardon. I was figuring something. Two pieces of two thousand words each, four thousand words. Fifteen thousand — that comes to three seventy-five a word. And he doesn’t even write the pieces. If you’re going to ghost—”

“It’s bedtime.”

“Yes, sir. Besides writing the second piece, what comes next?”

“Nothing. We sit and wait. Confound it, if this doesn’t work...”

He told me good night and marched out to the elevator.

The next day, Friday, two more articles got dictated, typed, and revised. The second one was delivered to Lon Cohen and the third one was locked in our safe. They carried the story through Election Day up to the end of the year, and while they had no names or addresses they had about everything else. I even got interested in them myself, and was wondering what was going to come next.

Lon’s bosses were glad to get them on Wolfe’s terms, including the surety protection against libel suits, but decided not to start them until Sunday. They gave them a three-column play on the front page:

There was a preface in italics:

The Gazette presents herewith the first of a series of articles showing how American Communists help Russia fight the cold war and get ready for the hot one if and when it comes. This is the real thing. For obvious reasons the name of the author of the articles cannot be given, but the Gazette has a satisfactory guaranty of their authenticity. We hope to continue the series up to the most recent activities of the Reds, including their secret meetings before, during, and after the famous trial in New York. The second article will appear tomorrow. Don’t miss it!

Then it started off just as Wolfe had dictated it.

I am perfectly willing to hold out on you so as to tell it in a way that will give Wolfe’s stratagem the best possible build-up, as you may know by this time, but I am now giving you everything I myself had at the time. That goes for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday up to 8:30 P.M. You know all that I knew, or you will when I add that the third article was revised Sunday and delivered to Lon Monday noon for Tuesday’s paper, that Weinbach’s final report on the stone verified the first one, that nothing else was accomplished or even attempted, and that during those four days Wolfe was touchier than I had ever known him to be for so long a period. I had no idea what he expected to gain by becoming a ghost writer for Mr. Jones and telling the Commies’ family secrets.