Rex Stout - Champange for One

Tailing a man solo in Manhattan , even if he isn’t wise, is a joke. If he suddenly decides to flag a taxi—There are a hundred ifs, and they are all on his side. But of course any game is more fun if the odds are against you, and if you win it’s good for the ego. Naturally it’s easier at night, especially if the subject knows you. On that occasion I claim no credit for keeping on Byne, for none of the ifs developed. It was merely a ten-minute walk. He turned left on Arbor, crossed Seventh Avenue , went three blocks west and one uptown, and entered a door where there was a sign on the window: TOM’S JOINT.

That’s the sort of situation where being known to the subject cramps you; I couldn’t go in. All I could do was hunt a post, and I found a perfect one: a narrow passage between two buildings almost directly across the street. I could go in a good ten feet from the building line, where no light came at all, and still see the front of Tom’s Joint. There was even an iron thing to sit on if my feet needed a rest.

They didn’t. I didn’t last long enough. I hadn’t been there more than five minutes when suddenly company came. I was alone, and then I wasn’t. A man had slid in, caught sight of me, and was peering in the darkness. A question that had arisen on various occasions, which of us had better eyesight, was settled when we spoke simultaneously. He said, “Archie” and I said, “Saul”.

“What the hell,” I said.

“Are you on her too?” he asked. “You might have told me.”

“I’m on a man. I’ll be damned. Where is yours?”

“Across the street. Tom’s Joint. She just came.”

“This is fate,” I said.” It is also a break in a thousand. Of course, it could be coincidence. Mr Wolfe says that in a world that operates largely at random, coincidences are to be expected, but not this one. Have you spoken with her? Does she know you?”

“No.”

“My man knows me. His name is Austin Byne. He is six-feet one, hundred and seventy pounds, lanky, loose-jointed, early thirties, brown hair and eyes, skin tight on his bones. Go in and take a look. If you want a bet, one will get you ten that they’re together.”

“I never bet against fate,” he said, and went. The five minutes that he was gone were five hours. I sat down on the iron thing and got up again three times, or maybe four.

He came, and said. “They’re together in a booth in a rear corner. No one is with them. He’s eating oysters.”

“He’ll soon be eating crow. What do you want for Christmas?”

“I have always wanted your autograph.”

“You’ll get it. I’ll tattoo it on you. Now we have a problem. She’s yours and he’s mine. Now they’re together. Who’s in command?”

“That’s easy, Archie. Mr Wolfe.”

“I suppose so, damn it. We could wrap it up by midnight . Take them to a basement, I know one, and peel their hides off. If he’s eating oysters there’s plenty of time to phone. You or me?”

“You. I’ll stick here.”

“Where’s Orrie?”

“Lost. When she came out he was for feet and I was for wheels, and she took a taxi.”

“I saw it pull up. Okay. Sit down and make yourself at home.”

At the bar and grill at the corner the phone booth was occupied and I had to wait, and I was tired of waiting, having done too much of it in the last four days. But in a few minutes the customer emerged, and I entered, pulled the door shut, and dialled the number I knew best. When Fritz answered I told him I wanted to speak to Mr Wolfe.

“But Archie! He’s at dinner!”

“I know. Tell him it’s urgent.” That was another unexpected pleasure, having a good excuse to call Wolfe from the table. He has too many rules. His voice came, or rather his roar.

“Well?”

“I have a report. Saul and I are having an argument. He thought—”

“What the devil are you doing with Saul?”

“I’m telling you. He thought I should phone you. We have a problem of protocol. I tailed Byne to a restaurant, a joint, and Saul tailed Mrs Usher to the same restaurant, and our two subjects are in there together in a booth. Byne is eating oysters. So the question is, who is in charge, Saul or me? The only way to settle it without violence was to call you.”

“At meal time,” he said. I didn’t retort, knowing that his complaint was not that I had presumed to interrupt, but that his two bright ideas had picked that moment to rendezvous.

I said sympathetically, “They should have known better.”

“Is anyone with them?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do they know they have been seen?”

“No.”

“Could you eavesdrop?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it.”

“Very well, bring them. There’s no hurry, since I have just started dinner. Give them no opportunity for a private exchange after they see you. Have you eaten?”

“I’m full of pie and milk. I don’t know about Saul. I’ll ask him.”

“Do so. He could come and eat– No. You may need him.”

I hung up, returned to our field headquarters, and told Saul, “He wants them. Naturally. In an hour will do, since he just started dinner. Do you know what a genius is? A genius is a guy who makes things happen without his having any idea that they are going to happen. It’s quite a trick. Our genius wanted to know if you’ve had anything to eat.”

“He would. Sure. Plenty.”

“Okay. Now the m.o. Do we take them in there or wait till they come out?”

Both procedures had pros and cons, and after discussion it was decided that Saul should go in and see how their meal was coming along, and when he thought they had swallowed enough to hold them through the hours ahead, or when they showed signs of adjourning, he would come out and wigwag me, go back in, and be near their booth when I approached.

They must have been fast eaters, for Saul hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes when he came out, lifted a hand, saw me move, and went back in. I crossed over, entered, took five seconds to adjust to the noise and the smoke screen from the mob, made it to the rear, and there they were. The first Byne knew, someone was crowding him on the narrow seat, and his head jerked around. He started to say something, saw who it was, and goggled at me.

“Hi, Dinky,” I said. “Excuse me for butting in, but I want to introduce a friend. Mr Panzer. Saul, Mrs Usher. Mr Byne. Sit down. Would you mind giving him room, Mrs Usher?”

Byne had started to rise, by reflex, but it can’t be done in a tight little booth without toppling the table. He sank back. His mouth opened, and closed. Liquid spilled on the table top from a glass Elaine Usher was holding, and Saul, squeezed in beside her, reached and took it.

“Let me out,” Byne said. “Let us out or I’ll go out over you. Her name is Upson. Edith Upson.”

I shook my head. “If you start a row you’ll only make it worse. Mr Panzer knows Mrs Usher, though she doesn’t know him. Let’s be calm and consider the situation. There must be—”

“What do you want?”

“I’m trying to tell you. There must be some good reason why you two arranged to meet in this out-of-the-way dump, and Mr Panzer and I are curious to know what it is, and others will be too—the press, the public, the police, the District Attorney, and Nero Wolfe. I wouldn’t expect you to explain it here in this din and smog. Either Mr Panzer can phone inspector Cramer while I sit and chat with you, and he can send a car for you, or we’ll take you to talk it over with Mr Wolfe, whichever you prefer.”

He had recovered some. He had played a lot of poker. He put a hand on my arm. “Look, Archie, there’s nothing to it. It looks funny, sure it does, us here together, but we didn’t arrange it. I met Mrs Usher about a year ago, I went to see her when her daughter went to Grantham House, and when I came in here this evening and saw her, after what’s happened, naturally I spoke to her and we—”