Rex Stout - Red Box, The

“No. I don't know.”

“Miss Mitchell has said that you didn't handle the box. You were at the mirror, fixing your hair; you didn't even look at it. Is that correct?”

She was staring at him. “Yes.”

“Miss Mitchell has also said that she replaced the lid on the box and kept it under her arm until she handed it to Mr. McNair. Is that correct?”

“I don't know. I…I didn't notice.”

“No. Naturally, under the circumstances. But after the box was given to Mr.

McNair, from that time until he turned it over to the police, did you see it at all? Did you have an opportunity to inspect it?”

“I didn't see it. No.”

“Just one more, Miss Frost-this finishes the demonstration: you are sure you don't know what was on that lid? It was not a brand you were familiar with?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

Wolfe leaned back and sighed. He picked up the third bottle and filled his glass and watched the foam work. No one spoke; we just looked at him, while he drank.

He put the glass down and wiped his lips, and opened his eyes on his client.

“There you are, Mr. Frost,” he said quietly. “Even in a brief demonstration, where no results were expected, something is upturned. By her own testimony, your cousin never saw the contents of that box after Miss Lauck swiped it. She doesn't know what brand it was, so she could not have been familiar with its contents. And yet, she knew, quite positively, that there were no caramels in it. Therefore: she saw the contents of the box, somewhere, sometime, before Miss

Lauck swiped it. That, sir, is deduction. That is what I meant when I spoke of interviews with all of the persons who were at this place last Monday.”

Lew Frost, glaring at him, blurted, “You call this-what the hell do you call this? My cousin-”

“I told you, deduction.”

The sylph sat, pale, and stared at him. She opened her mouth a couple of times, but closed it without speaking. Thelma Mitchell horned in:

“She didn't say she knew positively there were no caramels in it. She only said-”

Wolfe put up a palm at her. “You being loyal, Miss Mitchell? For shame. The first loyalty here is to the dead. Mr. Frost dragged me here because Molly Lauck died. He hired me to find out how and why. – Well, sir? Didn't you?”

Frost sputtered, “I didn't hire you to play damn fool tricks with a couple of nervous girls. You damn fat imbecile-listenl I already know more about this business than you'd ever find out in a hundred years! If you think I'm paying you-now what? Where you going? What's the game now? You get back in that chair I say-”

Wolfe had arisen, without haste, and moved around the table, going sideways past

Thelma Mitchell's feet, and Frost had jumped up and started the motions of a stiff arm at him.

I got upright and stepped across. “Don't shove, mister.” I would just as soon have plugged him, but he would have had to drop on a lady. “Subside, please.

Come on, back up.”

He gave me a bad eye, but let that do. Wolfe had sidled by, towards the door, and at that moment there was a knock on it and it opened, and the handsome woman in the black dress with white buttons appeared. She moved in.

“Excuse me, please.” She glanced around, composed, and settled on me. “Can you spare Miss Frost? She T'S needed downstairs. And Mr. McNair says you wish to speak with me. I can give you a few minutes now.”

I looked at Wolfe. He bowed to the woman, his head moving two inches. “Thank you, Mrs. Lament. It won't be necessary. We have made excellent progress; more than could reasonably have been expected. – Archie. Did you pay for the beer?

Give Mr. Frost a dollar. That should cover it.”

I took out my wallet and extracted a buck and laid it on the table. A swift glance showed me that Helen Frost looked pale, Thelma Mitchell looked interested, and Llewellyn looked set for murder. Wolfe had left. I did likewise, and joined him outside where he was pushing the button for the elevator.

I said, “That beer couldn't have been more than two bits a throw, seventy-five cents for three.”

He nodded. “Put the difference on his bill.”

Downstairs we marched through the activity without halting. McNair was over at one side talking with a dark medium-sized woman with a straight back and a proud mouth, and I let my head turn for a second look, surmising it was Helen Frost's mother. A goddess I hadn't seen before was parading in a brown topcoat in front of a horsey jane with a dog, and three or four other people were scattered around. Just before we got to the street door it opened and a man entered, a big broad guy with a scar on his cheek. I knew all about that scar. I tossed him a nod.

“Hi, Purley.”

He stopped and stared, not at me, at Wolfe. “In the name of God! Did you shoot him out of a cannon?”

I grinned and went on.

On the way home I made attempts at friendly conversation over my shoulder, but without success. I tried:

“Those models are pretty creatures. Huh?”

No sale. I tried:

“Did you recognize that gentleman we met coming out? Our old friend Purley

Stebbins of the Homicide Squad. One of Cramer's hirelings.”

No response. I started looking ahead for a good hole.

Chapter Three

The first telephone call from Llewellyn Frost came around half-past one, while

Wolfe and I were doing the right thing by some sausage with ten kinds of herbs in it, which he got several times every spring from a Swiss up near Chappaqua who prepared it himself from home-made pigs. Fritz Brenner, the chef and household pride, was instructed to tell Llewellyn that Mr. Wolfe was at table and might not be disturbed. I wanted to go and take it, but Wolfe nailed me down with a finger. The second call came a little after two, while Wolfe was leisurely sipping coffee, and I went to the office for it.

Frost sounded concerned and aggravated. He wanted to know if he could expect to find Wolfe in at two-thirty, and I said yes, he would probably be in forevermore. After we hung up I stayed at my desk and fiddled around with some things, and in a few minutes Wolfe entered, peaceful and benign but ready to resent any attempt at turbulence, as he always was after a proper and unhurried meal.

He sat down at his desk, sighed happily, and looked around at the walls-the bookshelves, maps, Holbeins, more bookshelves, the engraving of

Brilliat-Savarin. After a moment he opened the middle drawer and began taking out beer-bottle caps and piling them on the desk. He remarked:

“A little less tarragon, and add a pinch of chervil. Fritz might try that next time. I must suggest it to him.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, not wanting to argue about that. He knew damn well I loved tarragon. “But if you want to get those caps counted you'd better get a move on.

Our client's on his way down here.”

“Indeed.” He began separating the caps into piles of five. “Confound it, in spite of those three outside bottles, I think I'm already four ahead on the week.”