Rex Stout: Triple Jeopardy

Wolfe nodded. "Anyhow, he told you his secret, and you promised to keep it, becoming a confederate. Privately admiring him, with others you had to pretend to maintain your condemnation. You told your husband and no one else. That was about a week ago, you say?"

"Yes."

"And Saturday evening, three days ago, your nephew was murdered. Now to that. You have added little to what the papers have carried, but let's see. He left the apartment, your home, and took a taxi to Chezar's restaurant, where he had a dinner engagement. He had invited three women and two men to dine with him, and they were all there when he arrived, in the bar. When your nephew came they went with him to the table he had reserved and had cocktails. He took a small metal box from�"

"Gold."

"Gold is a metal, madam. He took it from a pocket, his side coat pocket, put it on the table, and left it there while he conferred with the waiter. There was conversation. When plates and rolls and butter were brought, the pillbox got pushed around. It was on the table altogether some ten or twelve minutes. When hors d'oeuvres were served, your nephew started to eat, remembered the pillbox, found it behind the basket of rolls, got from it a vitamin capsule, swallowed the capsule with a sip of water, and began on his hors d'oeuvres. Six or seven minutes later he suddenly cried out, 6

sprang to his feet, overturning his chair, made convulsive gestures, became rigid, collapsed and crumpled to the floor, and died. A doctor arrived shortly, but he was already dead. It has been found that two other capsules in the metal box, similar in appearance to the one he took, contained what they were supposed to and were harmless; but your nephew had swallowed potassium cyanide. He was murdered by replacing a vitamin capsule with a capsule filled with poison."

"Certainly. That's what-"

"I'll go on, please. You were and are convinced that the substitution was made by one of his dinner companions who is a Communist and who learned that your nephew was acting for the FBI, and you so informed Inspector Cramer of the police. You were not satisfied with his acceptance of that information, especially in a subsequent talk with him yesterday morning, Monday, and went yourself to the office of the FBI, saw a Mr. Anstrey, and found him noncommittal. He took the position that a homicide in Manhattan is the business of the New York police. Exasperated, you went to Inspector Cramer's office, were unable to see him, talked with a sergeant named Stebbins, came away further exasperated, regarded with favor your husband's suggestion, made this morning, that I be consulted, and here you are. Have I left out anything important?"

"One little point." Rackell cleared his throat. "Our telling Inspector Cramer about Arthur's joining the Communist party for the FBI--that was in confidence. Of course this talk with you is confidential too, naturally, since we're your clients."

Wolfe shook his head. "Not yet. You want to hire me to investigate the death of your nephew?"

"Yes. Certainly."

"Then you should know that while no one excels me in discretion I will not work under restrictions."

"That's fair enough."

"Good. I'll let you know tomorrow, probably by noon." Wolfe reached to push the paperweight aside and pick up the

7

check. "Shall I keep this meanwhile and return it if I can't take the job?"

Rackell frowned, perplexed. His wife snapped, "Why on earth couldn't you take it?"

"I don't know, madam. I hope to. I need the money. But I'll have to look into it a little--discreetly, of course. I'll let you know tomorrow at the latest." He extended a hand with the check. "Unless you prefer to take this and try elsewhere."

They didn't like it, especially her. She even left the red leather chair to take the check, her lips tight, but after some give-and-take with her husband they decided to let it ride, and she put the check back on the desk. They wanted to give us more details, especially about their nephew's five dinner guests, but Wolfe said that could wait, and they left, none too pleased. As I let them out at the front door Rackell gave me a polite thank-you nod, but she didn't even know I was there.

Returning to the office, I got the check and put it in the safe and then stood to regard Wolfe. His nose was twitching. He looked as if he had an oyster with horseradish on it in his mouth, a combination he detests.

"It can't be helped," I told him. "It takes all kinds to make a clientele. What are we going to look into a little?"

He sighed. "Get Mr. Wengert of the FBI. You want to see him, this evening if possible. I'll talk."

"It's nearly seven o'clock."

"Try."

I went to the phone on my desk, dialed RE 2-3500, talked to a stranger and to a man I had met a couple of times, and reported to Wolfe, "Not available. Tomorrow morning."

"Make an appointment."

I did so and hung up.

Wolfe sat scowling at me. He spoke. "I'll give you instructions after dinner. Have we got the Gazette of the past three days?"

"Sure."

"Let me have them, please. Confound it." He sighed again. "Saturday, and tomorrow's Wednesday. Like a warmed-over 8

meal." He came erect and his face brightened. "I wonder how Fritz is making out with that fish."

He left his chair and headed for the hall and the kitchen.

Wednesday morning all the air in Manhattan was conditioned --the wrong way. It was no place for penguins. On my way to Foley Square my jacket was beside me on the seat of the taxi, but when I had paid the driver and got out I put it on. Sweat or no sweat, I had to show the world that a private detective can be tough enough to take it.

When, after some waiting, I got admitted to Wengert's big corner room I found him in his shirt sleeves with his tie and collar loosened. He got up to shake hands and invited me to sit. We exchanged remarks.

"I haven't seen you," I told him, "since you got elevated here. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. I notice you've got brass in your voice, but I guess that can't be helped. Mr. Wolfe sends his regards."

"Give him mine." His voice warmed up a little, just perceptibly. "I'll never forget how he came through on that mercury thing." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "What can I do for you, Goodwin?"

Back a few years, when we had been in G2 together, it had been Archie, but then he hadn't had a corner room with five phones on his desk. I crossed my legs to show there was no rush.

"Not a thing," I told him. "Mr. Wolfe just wants to clear. Yesterday a man and wife named Rackell came to see him. They want him to investigate the death of their nephew, Arthur Rackell. Do you know about it, or do you want to call someone in? Mrs. Rackell has talked with a Mr. Anstrey."

"I know. Go ahead."

"Then I won't have to draw pictures. Our bank says that

Rackell rates seven figures west of the decimal point, and we would like to earn a fee by tagging a murderer, but our country right or wrong. We would hate to torpedo the ship of state in this bad weather. The Rackells came to Mr. Wolfe because they think the FBI and the NYPD regard the death of Arthur as a regrettable but minor incident. They say he was killed by a Commie who discovered that he was an FBI plant. Before we proceed on that theory Mr. Wolfe wants to clear with you. Of course you may not want to say, even under the rug to us, that he was yours. May you?"

"It's hotter than yesterday," Wengert stated.

"Yeah. Would you care to make any sign at all, for instance a wink?"

"No."

"Then I'll try something more general. There has been nothing in the papers about the Commie angle, not a word, so there has been no mention of the FBI. Is the FBI working on the murder, officially or otherwise?"

"Much hotter," he said.