Rex Stout: The Second Confession

I never got to see the Albert Enright I had typed a letter to, because the associate that Mr. Harvey brought along was Mr. Stevens.

Having seen one or two high-ranking Commies in the flesh, and many published pictures of more than a dozen of them, I didn’t expect our callers to look like wart hogs or puff adders, but even so they surprised me a little, especially Stevens. He was middle-aged, skinny, and pale, with thin brown hair that should have been trimmed a week ago, and he wore rimless spectacles. If I had had a daughter in high school, Stevens was the guy I would have wanted her to ask for directions in a strange neighborhood after dark. I wouldn’t have gone so far with Harvey, who was younger and much huskier, with sharp greenish-brown eyes and a well-assembled face, but I certainly wouldn’t have singled him out as the Menace of the Month.

They didn’t want cocktails or any other liquid, and they didn’t sit back in their chairs and get comfortable. Harvey announced in his gruff bass, but still not rude, that they had an engagement for a quarter to seven.

“I’ll make it as brief as I can,” Wolfe assured them. He reached in the drawer and got one of the pictures and extended his hand. “Will you glance at this?”

They arose, and Harvey took the picture, and they looked at it. I thought that was carrying things a little too far. What was I, a worm? So when Harvey dropped it on the desk I stepped over and got an eye on it, and then handed it to Wolfe. Some day he’ll get so damn frolicsome that I’ll cramp his style sure as hell. I was now caught up.

Harvey and Stevens sat down again, without exchanging a glance. That struck me as being overcautious, but I suppose Commies, especially on the upper levels, get the habit early and it becomes automatic.

Wolfe asked pleasantly, “It’s an interesting face, isn’t it?”

Stevens stayed deadpan and didn’t speak.

“If you like that kind,” Harvey said. “Who is it?”

“That will only prolong it.” Wolfe was a little less pleasant. “If I had any doubt that you knew him, none was left after the mention of his name brought you here. Certainly you didn’t come because you were grieved to learn that I’m in a hole. If you deny that you know that man as William Reynolds you will have had your trip for nothing, and we can’t go on.”

“Let’s put it this way,” Stevens said softly. “Proceed hypothetically. If we say we do know him as William Reynolds, then what?”

Wolfe nodded approvingly. “That will do, I think. Then I talk. I tell you that when I met this man recently, for the first time, his name was not Reynolds. I assume you know his other name too, but since in his association with you and your colleagues he has been Reynolds, we’ll use that. When I met him, a little more than a week ago, I didn’t know he was a Communist; I learned that only yesterday.”

“How?” Harvey snapped.

Wolfe shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that out. In my years of work as a private detective I have formed many connections — the police, the press, all kinds of people. I will say this: I think Reynolds made a mistake. It’s only a conjecture, but a good one I think, that he became frightened. He apprehended a mortal peril — I was responsible for that — and he did something foolish. The peril was a charge of murder. He knew the charge could be brought only if it could be shown that he was a Communist, and he thought I knew it too, and he decided to guard against that by making it appear that while pretending to be a Communist he was actually an enemy of communism and wanted to help destroy it. As I say, that is only a conjecture. But—”

“Wait a minute.” Apparently Stevens never raised his voice, even when he was cutting in. “It hasn’t quite got to where you can prove a man committed murder just by proving he’s a Communist.” Stevens smiled, and, seeing what he regarded as a smile, I decided to have my daughter ask someone else for directions. “Has it?”

“No,” Wolfe conceded. “Rather the contrary. Communists are well advised to disapprove of private murders for private motives. But in this case that’s how it stood. Since we’re proceeding hypothetically, I may include in the hypothesis that you know about the death of a man named Louis Rony, run over by a car on the country estate of James U. Sperling, and that you know that William Reynolds was present. May I not?”

“Go on,” Harvey rumbled.

“So we don’t need to waste time on the facts that have been made public. The situation is this: I know that Mr. Reynolds murdered Mr. Rony. I want to have him arrested and charged. But to get him convicted it is essential to show that he is a member of the Communist party, because only if that is done can his motive be established. You’ll have to accept that statement as I give it; I’m not going to show you all my cards, for if I do so and you choose to support Mr. Reynolds I’ll be in a deeper hole than I am now.”

“We don’t support murderers,” Harvey declared virtuously.

Wolfe nodded. “I thought not. It would be not only blameworthy, but futile, to try to support this one. You understand that what I must prove is not that William Reynolds is a member of the Communist party; that can be done without much difficulty; but that this man who was at the scene of Mr. Rony’s death is that William Reynolds — whatever else he may be. I know of only two ways to accomplish that. One would be to arrest and charge Mr. Reynolds and put him on trial, lay the ground by showing that membership in the Communist party is relevant to his guilt, subpoena you and your associates — fifty of them, a hundred — as witnesses for the State, and put the question to you. ‘Is the defendant, or was he, a member of the Communist party?’ Those of you who know him, and who answer no, will be committing perjury. Will all of you risk it — not most of you, but all of you? Would it be worth such a risk, to protect a man who murdered as a private enterprise? I doubt it. If you do risk it, I think we can catch you up. I shall certainly try, and my heart will be in it.”

“We don’t scare easy,” Harvey stated.

“What’s the other way?” Stevens asked.

“Much simpler for everybody.” Wolfe picked up the photograph. “You write your names across this. I paste it on a sheet of paper. Below it you write, ‘The man in the above photograph, on which we have written our names, is William Reynolds, whom we know to be a member of the Communist Party of the USA.’ You both sign it. That’s all.”

For the first time they swapped glances.

“It’s still a hypothesis,” Stevens said. “As such, we’ll be glad to think it over.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow or next day.”

“I don’t like it.”

“The hell you don’t.” Harvey’s manners were showing. “Do you have to?”

“I suppose not.” Wolfe was regretful. “But I don’t like to leave a man around loose when I know he’s a murderer. If we do it the simple way, and do it now, we’ll have him locked up before midnight. If we postpone it—” Wolfe shrugged. “I don’t know what he’ll be doing — possibly nothing that will block us—”

I had to keep a grin back. He might as well have asked them if they wanted to give Reynolds a day or two to do some more articles for the Gazette , because of course that was where he had them. Knowing that was in their minds, I tried to find some sign of it, any sign at all, in their faces, but they were old hands. They might have been merely a couple of guys looking over a hypothesis and not liking it much.

Stevens spoke, in the same soft voice. “Go ahead and arrest him. If you don’t get it the simple way you can try the other one.”