Rex Stout - The Second Confesion

Lunch was served in the big dining-room. Wolfe and I were the only ones with neckties on, though the day was too chilly for extremes like shorts. Sperling had a striped jacket over a light blue silk shirt open at the neck. Jimmy and Paul Emerson were sporting dingy old coat sweaters, one brown and one navy.

Webster Kane varied it with a wool shirt with loud red and yellow checks. Mrs Sperling was in a pink rayon dress and a fluffy pink sweater, unbuttoned; Connie Emerson was in a dotted blue thing that looked like a dressing-gown but maybe I didn't know, Gwenn in a tan shirt and slacks, and Madeline in a soft but smooth wool dress of browns and blacks that looked like a PSI fabric.

So it was anything but a formal gathering, but neither was it free and easy.

They ate all right, but they all seemed to have trouble deciding what would be a good thing to talk about. Wolfe, who can't stand a strained atmosphere at meals, tried this and that with one and another, but the only line that got anywhere at all was a friendly argument with Webster Kane about the mechanism of money and a book by some Englishman which nobody else had ever heard of, except maybe Sperling, who may have known it by heart but wasn't interested.

When that was over and we were on our feet again, there was no loitering around.

The Emersons, with Paul as sour as ever and Connie not up to form in her dressing-gown, if she will excuse me, went in the direction of the living-room, and Webster Kane said he had work to do and went the other way. The destination of the rest of us had apparently been arranged. With Sperling in the lead, we marched along halls and across rooms to arrive at the library, the room with books and a stock ticker where I had wangled the master key and had later phoned Saul Panzer. Wolfe's eyes, of course, immediately swept the scene to appraise the chairs, which Sperling and Jimmy began herding into a group; and, knowing he had had a hard night, I took pity on him, grabbed the best and biggest one, and put it in the position I knew he would like. He gave me a nod of appreciation as he got into it, leaned back and closed his eyes, and sighed.

The others got seated, except Sperling, who stood and demanded, “All right, justify this. You said you could.”

CHAPTER Seven

Wolfe stayed motionless for seconds. He raised his hands to press his fingertips against his eyes, and again was motionless. Finally he let his hands fall to the chair arms, opened the eyes and directed them at Gwenn.

“You look intelligent, Miss Sperling.” “We're all intelligent,” Sperling snapped. “Get on.” Wolfe looked at him. “It's going to be long-winded, but I can't help it. You must have it all. If you try prodding me you'll only lengthen it. Since you head a large enterprise, sir, and therefore are commander-in-chief of a huge army, surely you know when to bullyrag and when to listen. Will you do me a favour?

Sit down. Talking to people who are standing makes my neck stiff.” “I want to say something,” Gwenn declared.

Wolfe nodded at her. “Say it.” She swallowed. “I just want to be sure you know that I know what you're here for. You sent that man'-she flashed a glance at me which gave me a fair idea of how my personal relationship with her stood as of now-”to snoop on Louis Rony, a friend of mine, and that's what this is about.” She swallowed again. “I'll listen because my family-my mother and sister asked me to, but I think you're a cheap filthy little worm, and if I had to earn a living the way you do I'd rather starve!” It was all right, but it would have been better if she had ad libbed it instead of sticking to a script that she had obviously prepared in advance. Calling Wolfe little, which she wouldn't have done if she had worded it while looking at him, weakened it.

Wolfe grunted. “If you had to earn a living the way I do, Miss Sperling, you probably would starve. Thank you for being willing to listen, no matter why.” He glanced around. “Does anyone else have an irrepressible comment?” “Get on,” said Sperling, who was seated.

“Very well, sir. If at first I seem to wander, bear with me. I want to tell you about a man. I know his name but prefer not to pronounce it, so shall call him X. I assure you he is no figment; I only wish he were. I have little concrete knowledge of the immense properties he owns, though I do know that one of them is a high and commanding hill not a hundred miles from here on which, some years ago, he built a large and luxurious mansion. He has varied and extensive sources of income. All of them are illegal and some of them are morally repulsive.

Narcotics, smuggling, industrial and commercial rackets, gambling, waterfront blackguardism, professional larceny, blackmailing, political malfeasance-that by no means exhausts his curriculum, but it sufficiently indicates its character.

He has, up to now, triumphantly kept himself invulnerable by having the perspicacity to see that a criminal practising on a large scale over a wide area and a long period of time can get impunity only by maintaining a gap between his person and his crimes which cannot be bridged; and by having unexcelled talent, a remorseless purpose, and a will that cannot be dented or deflected.

Sperling jerked impatiently in his chair. Wolfe looked at him as a sixth-grade teacher looks at a restless boy, moved his eyes for a roundup of the whole audience, and went on: “If you think I am describing an extraordinary man, I am indeed. How, for instance, does he maintain the gap? There are two ways to catch a criminal: one, connect him with the crime itself; or two, prove that he knowingly took a share of the spoils. Neither is feasible with X. Take for illustration a typical crime-anything from a triviality like pocket picking or bag snatching up to a major raid on the public treasury. The criminal or gang of criminals nearly always takes full responsibility for the operation itself, but in facing the problem of disposal of the loot, which always appears, and of protection against discovery and prosecution, which is seldom entirely absent, he cannot avoid dealing with others. He may need a fence, a lawyer, a witness for an alibi, a channel to police or political influence-no matter what; he will almost inevitably need someone or something. He goes to one he knows, or knows about, one named A. A, finding a little difficulty, consults B, We are already, observe, somewhat removed from the crime, and B now takes us still further away by enlisting the help of C. C, having trouble with a stubborn knot in the thread, communicates with D. Here we near the terminal. D knows X and how to get to him.

“In and around New York there are many thousands of crimes each month, from mean little thefts to the highest reaches of fraud and thuggery. In a great majority of them the difficulties of the criminals are met, or are not met, either by the criminals themselves or by A or B or C. But a large number of them get up to D, and if they reach D they go to X. I don't know how many Ds there are, but certainly not many, for they are selected by X after a long and hard scrutiny and the application of severe tests, since he knows that a D once accepted by him must be backed with a fierce loyalty at almost any cost. I would guess that there are very few of them and, even so, I would also guess that if a D were impelled, no matter how, to resort to treachery, he would find that that too had been foreseen and provision had been made.” Wolfe turned a palm up. “You see where X is. Few criminals, or As or Bs or Cs, even know he exists. Those few do not know his name. If a fraction of them have guessed his name, it remains a guess. Estimates of the total annual dollar volume involved in criminal operations in the metropolitan area vary from three hundred million to half a billion. X has been in this business more than twenty years now, and the share that finds its way tortuously to him must be considerable, after deducting his pay- ments to appointed and elected persons and their staffs. A million a year? Half that? I don't know. I do know that he doesn't pay for everything he gets. Some years ago a man not far from the top of the New York Police Department did many favours for X, but I doubt if he was ever paid a cent. Blackmailing is one of X's favourite fields, and that man was susceptible.” “Inspector Drake,” Jimmy blurted.