Rex Stout: The Rubber Band

“Bah.” Clivers snorted. “Even up there. I saved your life. I shot him.”

“Oh, no. Read the newspapers. Mr. Goodwin shot him.”

Clivers looked at me, and suddenly exploded with his three short blasts, haw-haw-haw. “So you did, eh? Goodwin’s your name? Damned fine shooting!” He turned to Wolfe. “All right. Draw up a paper and send to my hotel, and you’ll get a check.” He got up from his chair, glancing down at the mess he had made of the front of his coat. “I’ll have to go there now and change. A fine piece of cloth ruined. I’m sorry not to see more of your orchids. You, Francis! Come on.”

Horrocks was murmuring something in a molasses tone to Clara Fox and she was taking it in and nodding at him. He finished, and got up. “Right-o.” He moved across and stuck out his paw at Wolfe. “You know, I want to say, it was devilish dever, the way you watered Miss Fox yesterday morning and they never suspected. It was the race you put on that stumped them, what?”

“No doubt.” Wolfe got his hand back again. “Since you gentlemen are sailing Saturday, I suppose we shan’t see you again. Bon voyage.”

“Thanks,” Clivers grunted. “At least for myself. My nephew isn’t sailing.

He has spent a fortune on cables and got himself transferred to the Washington embassy. He’s going to carve out a career. He had better, because I’m damned if he’ll get my tide for another two decades. Come on, Francis.”

I glanced at Clara Fox, and my dreams went short on ideals then and there.

If I ever saw a woman look smug and self-satisfied …

At twenty minutes to four, with Wolfe and me alone in the office, the door opened and Fritz came marching in. Clamped under his left arm was the poker-dart board; in his right hand was the box of javelins. He put the box down on Wolfe’s desk, crossed to the far wall and hung up the board, backed off and squinted at it, straightened it up, turned to Wolfe and did his little bow, and departed.

Wolfe emptied his glass of beer, arose from his chair, and began fingering the darts, sorting out the yellow ones.

He looked at me. “I suppose this is foolhardy,” he murmured, “with this bullet wound, to start my blood pumping.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “You ought to be in bed. They may have to amputate.”

“Indeed.” He frowned at me. “Of course, you wouldn’t know much about it. As far as my memory serves, you have never been shot by a high-caliber revolver at dose range.”

“The lord help me.” I threw up my hands. “Is that going to be the tune? Are you actually going to have the nerve to brag about that little scratch? Now, if Hombert’s foot hadn’t jostled his chair and he had hit what he aimed at …”

“But he didn’t.” Wolfe moved to the fifteen-foot mark. He looked me over. “Archie. If you would care to join me at this …”

I shook my head positively. “Nothing doing. You’ll keep beefing about your bullet wound, and anyway I can’t afford it. You’ll probably be luckier than ever.”

He put a dignified stare on me. “A dime a game.”

“No.”

“A nickel.”

“No. Not even for matches.”

He stood silent, and after a minute of that heaved a deep sigh. “Your salary is raised ten dollars a week, beginning last Monday.”

I lifted the brows. “Fifteen.”

“Ten is enough.”

I shook my head. “Fifteen.”

He sighed again. “Confound you! All right. Fifteen.”

I arose and went to the desk to get the red darts.