Rex Stout - Red Box, The

“Okay.” I got up. “If you're so sore at him that you even resent his quenching his thirst occasionally every few minutes, I can't expect you to listen to reason. I can only repeat, you're all wet. Wolfe himself says that if he had the red box he could finish up the case”-I snapped my fingers-“like that.”

“I don't believe it. Give him my messages, will you?”

“Right. Best regards?”

“Go to hell.”

I didn't let the elevator take me that far, but got off at the main floor. At the triangle I found the roadster and maneuvered it into Centre Street.

Of course Cramer was funny, but I wasn't violently amused. It was no advantage to have him so cockeyed suspicious that he wouldn't even believe a plain statement of fact. The trouble was that he wasn't broad-minded enough to realize that Wolfe and I were inherently as honest as any man should be unless he's a hermit, and that if McNair had in fact given us the red box or told us where it was, our best line would have been to say so, and to declare that its contents were confidential matters which had nothing to do with any murder, and refuse to produce them. Even I could see that, and I wasn't an inspector and never expected to be.

It was after six when I got home. There was a surprise waiting there for me.

Wolfe was in the office, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced at the apex of his frontal buttress; and seated in the dunce's chair, with the remains of a highball in a glass he clutched, was Saul Panzer. They nodded greetings to me and Saul went on talking:

“…the first drawing is held on Tuesday, three days before the race, and that eliminates everyone whose number isn't drawn for one or another of the entries.

The horses. But another drawing is held the next day, Wednesday…”

Saul went on with the sweepstakes lesson. I sat down at my desk and looked up the number of the Frost apartment and dialed it. Helen was home, and I told her

I had seen Gebert and he had been rather exhausted with all the questions they had asked him, but that they had let him go. She said she knew it; he had telephoned a little while ago and her mother had gone to the Chesebrough to see him. She started to thank me, and I told her she'd better save it for an emergency. That chore finished, I swiveled and listened to Saul. It sounded as if he had more than theoretical knowledge of the sweep. When Wolfe had got enough about it to satisfy him he stopped Saul with a nod and turned to me:

“Saul needs twenty dollars. There is only ten in the drawer.”

I nodded. “I'll cash a check in the morning.” I pulled out my wallet. Wolfe never carried any money. I handed four fives to Saul and he folded it carefully and tucked it away.

Wolfe lifted a finger at him: “You understand, of course, that you are not to be seen.”

“Yes, sir.” Saul turned and departed.

I sat down and made the entry in the expense book. Then I whirled my chair again:

“Saul going back to Glennanne?”

“No.” Wolfe sighed. “He has been explaining the machinery of the Irish sweepstakes. If bees handled their affairs like that, no hive would have enough honey to last the winter.”

“But a few bees would be rolling in it.”

“I suppose so. At Glennanne they have upturned every flagstone on the garden paths and made a general upheaval without result. Has Mr. Cramer found the red box?”

“No. He says you've got it.”

“He does. Is he closing the case on that theory?”

“No. He's thinking of sending a man to Europe. Maybe he and Saul could go together.”

“Saul will not go-at least, not at once. I have given him another errand.

Shortly after you left Fred telephoned and I called them in. The state police have Glennanne in charge. Fred and Orrie I dismissed when they arrived. As for

Saul…I took a hint from you. You meant it as sarcasm, I adopted it as sound procedure. Instead of searching the globe for the red box, consider, decide first where it is, then send for it. I have sent Saul.”

I looked at him. I said grimly, “You're not kidding me. Who came and told you?”

“No one has been here.”

“Who telephoned?”

“No one.”

“I see. It's just blah. For a minute I thought you really knew-wait, who did you get a letter from, or a telegram or a cable or in short a communication?”

“No one.”

“And you sent Saul for the red box?”

“I did.”

“When will he be back?”

“I couldn't say. I would guess, tomorrow…possibly the day after…”

“Uh-huh. Okay, if it's only flummery. I might have known. You get me every time.

We don't dare find the red box now anyway; if we did, Cramer would be sure we had it all the time and never speak to us again. He's disgusted and suspicious.

They had Gebert down there, slapping him around and squealing and yelling at him. If you're so sure violence is inferior technique, you should have seen that exhibition; it was wonderful. They say it works sometimes, but even if it does, how could you depend on anything you got that way? Not to mention that after you had done it a few times any decent garbage can would be ashamed to have you found in it. But Cramer did give me one little slice of bacon, the Lord knows why: in the past five years Mrs. Edwin Frost has paid Perren Gebert sixty grand.

One thousand smackers per month. He won't tell them what for. I don't know if they've asked her or not. Does that fit in with the phenomena you've been having a feeling for?”

Wolfe nodded. “Satisfactorily. Of course I had not known what the amount was.”

“Oh. You hadn't. Are you telling me that you knew she is paying him?”

“Not at all. I merely surmised it. Naturally she is paying him; the man has to live or at least he thinks so. Was he bludgeoned into confessing it?”

“No. They screwed it out of his bank.”

“I see. Detective work. Mr. Cramer needs a mirror to make sure he has a nose on his face.”

“I give in.” I compressed my lips and shook my head. “You're the pink of the pinks. You're the without which nothing.” I stood up and shook down my pants legs. “I can think of only one improvement that might be made in this place; we could put an electric chair in the front room and do our own burning. I'm going to tell Fritz that I'll dine in the kitchen, because I'll have to be leaving around eight-thirty to represent you at the funeral services.”

“That's a pity.” He meant it. “Need you actually go?”

“I will go. It'll look better. Somebody around here ought to do something.”

Chapter Fifteen

At that hour, 8:50 p.m., parking spaces were few and far between on 73rd Street.

I finally found one about half a block east of the address of the Belford

Memorial Chapel, and backed into it. I thought there was something familiar about the license number of the car just ahead, and sure enough, after I got out and took a look, I saw that it was Perren Gebert's convertible. It was spic and span, having had a cleaning since its venture into the wilds of Putnam County. I handed it to Gebert for a strong rebound, since he had evidently recovered enough in three hours to put in an appearance at a social function.