Rex Stout - The Second Confession

“No! Now listen, Wolfe—”

“No, listen to me. If your dinner is waiting, so is mine. I would prefer that you take him, for two reasons. First, he belongs to you. Second, I would like to clean it up this evening, and in order to do that the matter of Mr. Kane’s statement will have to be disposed of. That will require the presence not only of Mr. Sperling and Mr. Kane, but also of the others who were there the evening Mr. Rony was killed. If you come or send someone, they’ll have to come too. All of them, if possible; under the circumstances I don’t think they’ll be reluctant. Can you have them here by ten o’clock?”

“But my God, this is incredible! I need a minute to think—”

“You’ve had a week to think but preferred to let me do it for you. I have, and acted. Can you have them here by ten o’clock?”

“I don’t know, damn it! You fire this at me point-blank!”

“Would you rather have had me hold it a day or two? I’ll expect you at ten, or as close to that as you can make it. If you don’t bring them along you won’t get in; after all, in this jurisdiction you’re merely visitors. If ends have to be left dangling I’ll let the New York Police have him.”

Wolfe and I hung up. He pushed his chair back and arose.

“You can’t dawdle over your dinner, Archie. If we’re to keep our promise to Mr. Cohen, and we must, you’ll have to go to see him.”

As I understand it, the Commies think that they get too little and capitalists get too much of the good things in life. They sure played hell with that theory that Tuesday evening. A table in the office was loaded with liquids, cheese, nuts, homemade pâté, and crackers, and not a drop or a crumb was taken by any of the thirteen people there, including Wolfe and me. On a table in the front room there was a similar assortment in smaller quantities, and Harvey and Stevens, just two of them, practically cleaned it up. If I had noticed it before the Commies left I would have called it to their attention. I admit they had more time, having arrived first, at ten sharp, and also they had nothing to do most of the evening but sit and wait.

I don’t think I have ever seen the office more crowded, unless it was at the meeting of the League of Frightened Men. Either Archer had thought pressure was called for or Wolfe had been correct in assuming that none of the Stony Acres bunch would be reluctant about coming, for they were all there. I had let them choose seats as they pleased, and the three Sperling women — Mom, Madeline, and Gwenn — were on the big yellow couch in the corner, which meant that my back was to them when I faced Wolfe. Paul and Connie Emerson were on chairs side by side over by the globe, and Jimmy Sperling was seated near them. Webster Kane and Sperling were closer to Wolfe’s desk. District Attorney Archer was in the red leather chair; I had put him there because I thought he rated it. What made it thirteen was the fact that two dicks were present: Ben Dykes, brought by Archer, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide, who had informed me that Westchester had invited him. Purley, my old friend and even older enemy, sat over by the door.

It started off with a bang. When they were all in and greetings, such as they were, had been attended to, and everyone was seated, Wolfe began his preamble. He had got only four words out when Archer blurted, “You said the man that murdered Rony would be here!”

“He is.”

“Where?”

“You brought him.”

After that beginning it was only natural that no one felt like having a slice of cheese or a handful of nuts. I didn’t blame any of them, least of all William Reynolds. Several of them made noises, and Sperling and Paul Emerson both said something, but I didn’t catch either of them because Gwenn’s voice, clear and strong but with a tremble under it, came from behind my back.

“I told my father what I told you that evening!”

Wolfe ignored her. “This will go faster,” he told Archer, “if you let me do it.”

“The perfect mountebank!” Emerson sneered.

Sperling and Archer spoke together. A growl from the side made their heads turn. It was Sergeant Stebbins, raising his voice from his seat near the door. He got all eyes.

“If you take my advice,” he told them, “you’ll let him tell it. I’m from the New York Police, and this is New York. I’ve heard him before. If you pester him he’ll string it out just to show you.”

“I have no desire to string it out,” Wolfe said crossly. His eyes went from left to right and back. “This shouldn’t take long if you’ll let me get on. I wanted you all here because of what I said to you up there in my bedroom eight days ago, the evening Mr. Rony was killed. I thereby assumed an obligation, and I want you to know that I have fulfilled it.”

He took the audience in again. “First I’ll tell you why I assumed that Mr. Rony was killed not accidentally but deliberately. While it was credible that the driver of the car might not have seen him until too late, it was hard to believe that Mr. Rony had not been aware of the car’s approach, even in the twilight, and even if the noise of the brook had covered the noise of the car, which could not have been going fast. Nor was there any mark on the front of the car. If it had hit him when he was upright there would probably, though not certainly, have been a mark or marks.”

“You said all this before,” Archer cut in impatiently.

“Yes, sir. The repetition will take less time if you don’t interrupt. Another point, better than either of those, why was the body dragged more than fifty feet to be concealed behind a shrub? If it had been an accident, and the driver decided not to disclose his part in it, what would he have done? Drag the body off the road, yes, but surely not fifty feet to find a hiding place.”

“You said that before too,” Ben Dykes objected. “And I said the same argument would apply just as well to a murderer.”

“Yes,” Wolfe agreed, “but you were wrong. The murderer had a sound reason for moving the body where it couldn’t be seen from the drive if someone happened to pass.”

“What?”

“To search the body. We are now coming to things I haven’t said before. You preferred not to show me the list of articles found on the body, so I preferred not to tell you that I knew something had been taken from it. The way I knew it was that Mr. Goodwin had himself made an inventory when he found the body.”

“The hell he had!”

“It would have been better,” Archer said in a nasty voice for him, “to tell us that. What had been taken?”

“A membership card, in the name of William Reynolds, in the American Communist party.”

“By God!” Sperling cried, and left his chair. There were exclamations from others. Sperling was following his up, but Archer’s voice cut through.

“How did you know he had one?”

“Mr. Goodwin had seen it, and I had seen a photograph of it.” Wolfe pointed a finger. “Please let me tell this without yanking me around with questions. I have to go back to Saturday evening a week ago. Mr. Goodwin was there ostensibly as a guest, but actually representing me in behalf of my client, Mr. Sperling. He had reasons to believe that Mr. Rony was carefully guarding some small object, not letting it leave his person. There were refreshments in the living room. Mr. Goodwin drugged his own drink and exchanged it for Mr. Rony’s. He drank Mr. Rony’s. But it had been drugged by someone else, as he found to his sorrow.”

“Oh!” A little cry came from behind me, in the voice of the little cabbage. Wolfe frowned past my shoulder.

“Mr. Goodwin had intended to enter Mr. Rony’s room that night to learn what the object was, but didn’t, because he was himself drugged and Mr. Rony was not. Instead of swallowing his drink, Mr. Rony had poured it into the ice bucket. I am still giving reasons why I assumed that he was not killed by accident, and that’s one of them: his drink had been drugged and he either knew it or suspected it. Mr. Goodwin was mortified, and he is not one to take mortification lightly; also he wanted to see the object. The next day, Sunday, he arranged to have Mr. Rony return to New York in his car, and he also arranged for a man and woman — both of them have often worked for me — to waylay them and blackjack Mr. Rony.”