Rex Stout - The Rubber Band

“This is bewildering,” Wolfe murmured. “Last night Mr. Cramer told me I should help him to protect a distinguished foreign guest, and now you demand the opposite!”

“All right, have your fun,” Skinner croaked. “But tell us this, at least. Did Clivers say anything to indicate that he had it ready for Mike Walsh?”

Wolfe’s eyelids flickered, and after a moment he turned to me. “Your notebook, Archie. You will find a place where I asked Lord Clivers, ‘Don’t you believe him?’ I was referring to Mr. Walsh. Please read Lord Clivers’ reply.”

I had the notebook and was thumbing it. I looked too far front, and flipped back. Finally I had it, and read it out, “Clivers: «I don’t believe anybody. I know damn well I’m a liar. I’m a diplomat. Look here. You can forget about Walsh. I’ll deal with him myself. I have to keep this thing clear, at least as long as I’m in this country. I’ll deal with Walsh. Scovil is dead. God rest his soul. Let the police do what they can with that. As for the Lindquists…”

Wolfe stopped me with a ringer. “That will do, Archie. Put the notebook away.”

“He will not put it away!” Hombert was beating up the arm of his chair again. “With that in it? We want—”

He stopped to glare at Skinner, who had tapped a toe on his shin. Skinner was ready to melt with sweetness; his tone sounded like Romeo in the balcony scene. “Listen, Wolfe, play with us. Let us have that Your man can type it, or he can dictate from his notes and I’ll bring a man in to take it. Clivers is to sail for Europe Sunday. If we don’t get this thing on ice there’s going to be trouble.”

Wolfe closed his eyes, and after a moment opened them again. They were all gazing at him, Cramer slowly chewing his cigar, Hombert holding in an explosion. Skinner looking innocent and friendly. Wolfe said, “Will you make a bargain with me, Mr. Skinner? Let me ask a few questions. Then, after considering the replies, I shall do what I can for you. I think it is more than likely you will find me helpful.”

Skinner frowned. “What kind of questions?”

“You will hear them.”

A pause. “All right. Shoot.”

Wolfe turned abruptly to the inspector. “Mr. Cramer. You had a man following Mr. Walsh from the time you released him this afternoon, and that man was on post at the entrance of the boarding on Fifty-fifth Street. I’d like to know what it was that caused him to cross the street and enter the enclosure, as reported in the Gazette. Did he hear a shot?”

“No.” Cramer took his cigar from his mouth. “The man’s out in the kitchen. Do you want to hear it from him?”

“I merely want to hear it.”

“Well, I can tell you. Stebbins was away from his post for a few minutes, he’s admitted it. There was a taxi collision at the corner of Madison, and he had to go and look it over, which was bright of him. He says he was away only two minutes, but he may have been gone ten, you know how that is. Anyhow, he finally strolled back, on the south side of Fifty-fifth, and looking across at the entrance of the boarding he saw the door slowly opening, and the face of a man looked out and it wasn’t Walsh. There were pedestrians going by, and the face went back in and the door closed. Stebbins got behind a parked car. In a minute the face looked out again, and there was a man walking by, and the face disappeared again. Stebbins thought it was time to investigate and crossed the street and went in, and it was just lousy luck that that damn newspaper cockroach happened to see him. It was Clivers all right, and Walsh’s body was there on the ground—”

“I know.” Wolfe sighed. “It was lying in front of the telephone. So Mr. Stebbins heard no shot.”

“No. Of course, he was down at the corner and there was a lot of noise.”

“To be sure. Was the weapon on Lord Clivers’ person?”

“No.” Cramer sounded savage. “That’s one of the nice details. We can’t find any gun, except one in Walsh’s pocket that hadn’t been fired. There’s a squad of men still up there, combing it. Also there’s about a thousand hollow steel shafts sticking up from the base construction, and it might have been dropped down one of those.”

“So it might,” Wolfe murmured. “Well … no shot heard, and no gun found.” He looked around at them. “I can’t help observing, gentlemen, that that news relieves me enormously. Moreover, I think you have a right to know that Mr. Goodwin and I heard the shot.”

They stared at him.

Skinner demanded, “You what? What the hell are you talking about?”

Wolfe turned to me. “Tell them, Archie.”

I let them have my open countenance. “This evening,” I said, and corrected it, “—last evening—Mr. Wolfe and I were in this office. At two minutes before seven o’clock the phone rang, and it happened that we both took off our receivers. A voice said, ‘Nero Wolfe!’ It sounded far off but very excited—it sounded—well, unnatural. I said, ‘Yes, talking,’ and the voice said, ‘I’ve got him, come up here. Fifty-fifth Street, this is Mike Walsh, I’ve got him covered, come up.’ The voice was cut off by the sound of an explosion, very loud, as if a gun had been shot close to the telephone. I called Walsh’s name a few times, but there was no answer. We sent a phone call to police headquarters right away.”

I looked around respectfully for approval. Skinner looked concentrated, Hombert looked about ready to bust, and Cramer looked disgusted. The inspector, I could see, didn’t have far to go to get good and sore. He burst out at Wolfe, “What else have you got? First you tell me the man I’ve got the whole force looking for, thinking I’ve got a hot one, is one of your boy scouts acting as advance agent. Now you tell me that the phone call we’re trying to trace about a shot being heard, and you can’t trace a local call anyway with these damn dials, now you tell me you made that too.” He stuck his cigar in his mouth and bit it nearly in two.

“But Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe protested, “is it my fault if destiny likes this address? Did we not notify you at once? Did I not even restrain Mr. Goodwin from hastening to the scene, because I knew you would not want him to intrude?”

Cramer opened his mouth but was speechless. Skinner said, “You heard that shot on the phone at two minutes to seven. That checks. It was five after when Stebbins found Clivers there.” He looked around sort of helpless, like a man who has picked up something he didn’t want. “That seems to clinch it.” He growled at Wolfe, “What makes you so relieved about not finding the gun and Stebbins not hearing the shot, if you heard it yourself?”

“In due time, Mr. Skinner.” Wolfe’s forefinger was gently tapping on the arm of his chair, and I wondered what he was impatient about. “If you don’t mind, let me get on. The paper says that Mr. Stebbins felt Lord Clivers for a weapon. Did he find one?”

“No,” Cramer grunted. “He got talkative enough to tell us that he always carries a pistol, but not with evening dress.”

“But since Lord Clivers had not left the enclosure, and since no weapon can be found, how could he possibly have been the murderer?”

“We’ll find it,” Cramer asserted gloomily. “There’s a million places in there to hide a gun, and we’ll have to get into those shafts somehow. Or he might have thrown it over the fence. We’ll find it. He did it, damn it. You’ve ruined the only outside leads I had.”

Wolfe wagged his head at him. “Cheer up, Mr. Cramer. Tell me this, please. Since Mr. Stebbins followed Mr. Walsh all afternoon, I presume you know their itinerary. What was it?”

Skinner growled, “Don’t start stalling, Wolfe. Let’s get—”

“I’m not stalling, sir. An excellent word, Mr. Cramer?”