Rex Stout - The Rubber Band

“All right, all right,” Cramer agreed impatiently. “We won’t take them, that’s understood. How long will it take you to get them here?”

“One minute perhaps, if they are not in bed. Archie? If you please.”

I arose, grinning at Cramer’s stare, stepped over Skinner’s feet, and went up and knocked at the door of the south room.

“Come in.”

I entered. The two clients were sitting in chairs, looking as if they were too miserable to go to bed. I said, “Egad, you look cheerful. Come on, buck up! Wolfe wants you down in the office. There are some men down there that want to ask you some questions.”

Clara Fox straightened up. “Ask us … now?” Hilda Lindquist tightened her lips and began to nod her head for I told you so.

“Certainly.” I made it matter of fact. “They were bound to, sooner or later. Don’t worry, I’ll be right there, and tell them anything they want to know. There’s three of them. The dressed-up one with the big mouth is Police Commissioner Hombert, the one with the thin nose and ratty eyes is District Attorney Skinner, and the big guy who looks at you frank and friendly but may or may not mean it is Inspector Cramer.”

“My God.” Clara Fox brushed back her hair and stood up.

“All right,” I grinned. “Let’s go.”

I opened the door, and followed them out and down.

The three visitors turned their heads to look at us as we entered the office.

Skinner, seeing Clara Fox, got up first, then Hombert also made it to his feet and began shoving chairs around. I moved some up, while Wolfe pronounced names. He had rung for beer while I was gone, and got it poured. I saw there was no handkerchief in his pocket and went and got him one out of the drawer.

Cramer said, “So you’re Clara Fox. Where were you this morning?”

She glanced at Wolfe. He nodded. She said, “I was here.”

“Here in this house? All morning?”

“Yes, last night and all day.”

Cramer handed Wolfe a glassy stare. “What did you do to Rowcliff, grease him?”

“No, sir.” Wolfe shook his head. “Mr. Rowcliff did his best, but Miss Fox was not easily discoverable. I beg you to attach no blame to your men. It is necessary for you to know that three of us are prepared to state on oath that Miss Fox has been here constantly, to make it at once obvious that she is in no way involved in Mr. Walshs death.”

“I’ll be damned. What about the other one?”

“Miss Lindquist came here at ten o’clock this evening. But she has been secluded in another part of the city. You may as well confine yourself to events previous to half past six yesterday. May I make a suggestion? Begin by asking Miss Fox to tell you the story which she recited to me at that hour yesterday, in the presence of Miss Lindquist and Mr. Walsh.”

“Why … all right.” Cramer looked at Clara Fox. “Go ahead.”

She told the story. At first she was nervous and jerky, and I noticed that when she was inclined to stumble she glanced across at Wolfe as he leaned back, massive and motionless, with his fingers twined on his belly and his eyes nearly shut. She glanced at him and went ahead. They didn’t interrupt her much with questions. She read the letter from her father, and when she finished and Cramer held out his hand for it, she glanced at Wolfe. Wolfe nodded, and she passed it over. Then she went on, with more detail even than she had told us. She spoke of her first letters with Harlan Scovil and Hilda Lindquist and her first meeting with Mike Walsh.

She got to the Marquis of Clivers and Walsh’s recognition of him as he emerged from his hotel fifteen days back. From then on they were after her, not Cramer much, but Skinner and Hombert, and especially Skinner. He began to get slick, and of course what he was after was obvious. He asked her trick questions, such as where had her mother been keeping the letter from her father when she suddenly produced it on her deathbed. His way of being clever was to stay quiet and courteous and go back to one thing and then abruptly forward to another, and then after a little suddenly dart back again. Clara Fox was no longer nervous, and she didn’t get mad. I remembered how the day before she had stood cool and sweet in front of Perry’s desk. All at once Skinner began asking her about the larceny charge. She answered; but after a dozen questions on that Wolfe suddenly sdrred, opened his eyes, and wiggled a finger at the District Attorney.

“Mr. Skinner. Permit me. You’re wasting time. The larceny charge is indeed pertinent to the main issue, but there is very little chance that you’ll ever discover why. The fact is that the line you have taken from the beginning is absurd.”

“Thanks,” Skinner said drily. “If, as you say, it is pertinent, why absurd?”

“Because,” Wolfe retorted, “you’re running around in circles. You have a fixed idea that you’re an instrument of justice, being a prosecuting attorney, and that it is your duty to comer everyone you see. That idea is not only dangerous nonsense, in the present case it is directly contrary to your real interest. Why is this distinguished company”—Wolfe extended a finger and bent a wrist—“present in my house? Because thirty thousand dollars was mislaid and two men were murdered? Not at all. Because Lord Clivers has become unpleasantly involved, the fact has been made public, and you are seriously embarrassed. You have wasted thirty minutes trying to trap Miss Fox into a slip indicating that she and Mr. Walsh and Mr. Scovil and Miss Lindquist hatched a blackmailing plot against Lord Clivers; you have even hinted that the letter written by her father to her mother seventeen years ago, of which Mr. Cramer now has her typewritten copy in his pocket, was invented by her. Is it possible that you don’t realize what your real predicament is?”

“Thanks,” Skinner repeated, more drily still. “I’ll get to you—”

“No doubt. But let me—no, confound it, I’m talking! Let me orient you a little. Here’s your predicament. An eminent personage, an envoy of Great Britain, has been discovered alone with a murdered man and the fact has been made public. Even if you wanted to you can’t keep him in custody because of his diplomatic immunity. Why not, then, to avoid a lot of official and international fuss, just forget it and let him go? Because you don’t dare; if he really did kill Mr. Walsh you are going to have to ask his government to surrender him to you, and fight to get him if necessary, or the newspapers will howl you out of office. You are sitting on dynamite, and so is Mr. Hombert, and you know it. I can imagine with what distaste you contemplate being forced into an effort to convict the Marquis of Clivers of murder. I see the complications; and the devil of it is that at this moment you don’t at all know whether he did it or not. His story that he went to see Mr. Walsh and found him already dead may quite possibly be true.

“So, since an attempt to put Lord Clivers on trial for murder, and convict him, would not only create an international stink but might be disastrous for you personally, what should be your first and immediate concern? It seems obvious. You should swiftly and rigorously explore the possibility that he is not guilty. Is there someone else who wanted Harlan Scovil and Michael Walsh to die, and if so, who, and where is he? I know of only six people living who might help you in pursuing that inquiry. One of them is the murderer, another is an old man on a farm in Nebraska, and the other four are in this room. And, questioning one of them, what do you do? You put on an exhibition of your cunning at cross-examination in an effort to infer that she has tried to blackmail Lord Clivers, though he has had various opportunities to make such an accusation and has not done so. Again, you aim the weapon of your cunning, not at your own ignorance, but direcdy at Miss Fox, when you pounce on the larceny charge, though that accusation has been dismissed by the man who made it.