Rex Stout - Red Box, The

“I know you are. I don't blame you. This case has been tedious and disagreeable from the beginning. Something seems to have happened to Saul. We have a job ahead of us. It will end, I think, as disagreeably as it began, but we shall do it in style if we can, and with finality-ah! There, I hope, is Saul now.”

The doorbell had rung. But again, as on the evening before, it wasn't Saul. This time it was Inspector Cramer.

Fritz ushered him in and he lumbered across. He looked as if he was about due for dry dock, with puffs under his eyes, his greying hair straggly, and his shoulders not as erect and military as an inspector's ought to be. Wolfe greeted him:

“Good morning, sir. Sit down. Will you have some beer?”

He took the dunce's chair, indulged in a deep breath, took a cigar from his pocket, scowled at it and put it back again. He took another breath and told both of us:

“When I get into such shape that I don't want a cigar I'm in a hell of a fix.”

He looked at me. “What did you do to Frisbie, anyway?”

“Not a thing. Nothing that I remember.”

“Well, he does. I think you're done for. I think he's going to plaster a charge of treason on you.”

I grinned. “That hadn't occurred to me. I guess that's what it was, treason.

What do they do, hang me?”

Cramer shrugged. “I don't know and I don't care. What happens to you is the least of my worries. God, I wish I felt like lighting a cigar.” He took one from his pocket again, looked it over, and this time kept it in his hand. He passed me up. “Excuse me, Wolfe, I guess I didn't mention I don't want any beer. I suppose you think I came here to start a fracas.”

Wolfe murmured, “Well, didn't you?”

“I did not. I came to have a reasonable talk. Can I ask you a couple of straight questions and get a couple of straight replies?”

“You can try. Give me a sample.”

“Okay. If we searched this place would we find McNair's red box?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen it or do you know where it is?*

“No. To both.”

“Did McNair tell you anything here Wednesday before he died that gave you any line on motive for these murders?”

“You have heard every word Mr. McNair said in this office; Archie read it to you from his notes.”

“Yeah. I know. Have you received information as to motive from any other source?”

“Now, really.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “That question is preposterous. Certainly

I have. Haven't I been on die case four days?”

“Who from?”

“Well, for one, from you.”

Cramer stared. He stuck his cigar in his mouth and put his teeth into it without realizing he was doing it. He threw up his hands and dropped them.

“The trouble with you, Wolfe,” he declared, “is that you can't forget for one little moment how terribly smart you are. Hell, I know it. Do you think I ever waste my time making calls like this on Del Pritchard or Sandy Mollew? When did

I tell you what?”

Wolfe shook his head. “No, Mr. Cramer. Now-as the children say-now you're getting warm. And I'm not quite ready. Suppose we take turns at this; I have my curiosities, too. The story in the morning paper was incomplete. What sort of contraption was it that spilled the poison on Mr. Gebert?”

Cramer grunted. “You want to know?”

“I am curious, and we might as well pass the time.”

“Oh, we might.” The inspector removed his cigar and looked at its end with surprise at finding it unlit, touched a match to it, and puffed. “It was like this. Take a piece of ordinary adhesive tape an inch wide and ten inches long.

Paste the ends of the tape to the cloth of the top of Gebert's car, above the driver's seat, about five inches apart, so that the tape swings loose like a hammock. Take an ordinary beetleware sauce dish, like they sell in the five and ten, and set it in that little hammock, and you'll have to balance it carefully, because a slight jar will upset it. Before you set the dish in the hammock, pour into it a couple of ounces of nitrobenzene- or, if you'd rather, you can call it essence of mirbane, or imitation oil of bitter almonds, because it's all the same thing. Also pour in with it an ounce or so of plain water, so that the nitrobenzene will settle to the bottom and the layer of water on top will keep the oil from evaporating and making a smell. If you will make the experiment of getting into a car the way a man ordinarily does, you will find that your eyes are naturally directed toward the seat and the floor, and there isn't one chance in a thousand that you would see anything pasted to the roof, especially at night, and furthermore you will find that your head will go in within an inch of the roof and you're sure to bump the sauce dish. And even if you don't, it will fall and spill on you the first hole you hit or the first corner you turn. How do you like that for a practical joke?”

Wolfe nodded. “From the pragmatic standpoint, close to perfect. Simple, effective, and cheap. If you had had the poison in your possession for some time, as provision against an emergency, your entire outlay would not be more than fifteen cents-tape, an ounce of water, and sauce dish. From the newspaper account I suspected the nitrobenzene. It would do that.”

Cramer nodded emphatically. “I'll say it would. Last year a worker in a dye factory spilled a couple of ounces on his pants, not directly on his skin, and he was dead in an hour. The man I had tailing Gebert handled him when he ran up to him after he fell, and got a little on his hands and some strong fumes, and he's in a hospital now with a blue face and purple lips and purple fingernails.

The doctor says he'll pull through. Lew Frost got a little of it too, but not bad. Gebert must have turned his head when he felt it spilling and smelled it, because he got a little on his face and maybe even a couple of drops in his eyes. You should have seen him an hour after it happened.”

“I think not.” Wolfe was pouring beer. 'Tor me to look at him could have done him no good, and certainly me none.” He drank, and felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and had none, and I got him one from the drawer. He leaned back and looked sympathetically at the inspector. “I trust, Mr. Cramer, that the routine progresses satisfactorily.”

“Smart again. Huh?” Cramer puffed. “I'll call the turn again in a minute. But

I'll try to satisfy you. The routine progresses exactly as it should, but it don't get anywhere. That ought to make you smack your lips. You tipped me off

Wednesday to stick to the Frost family-all right, any of them could have done it. If it was either of the young ones they did it together, because they went together to the chapel. They would have had barely enough time to do the taping and pouring, because they got there only a minute or two after Gebert did. It could have been done in two minutes; I've tested it The uncle and the mother went separately, and either of them would have had plenty of time. They've accounted for it, of course, but not in a way you can check it up to the minute.

On opportunity none of them is absolutely Out.”