Rex Stout - Murder by the Book

"Yes, sir."

"Phone Mr. Wellman and tell him that I propose to send you to see her. Tell him it is either that or abandon the case. If he approves the expenditure, reserve a seat on the next plane and get packed. By then I shall have instructions ready for you. Is there plenty of cash in the safe?"

"Yes."

"Take enough. You are willing to cross the continent in an airplane?"

"I'll risk it."

He shuddered. He regards a twenty-block taxi ride as a reckless gamble.

14

I HADN'T been to the West Coast for several years. I slept most of the night but woke up when the stewardess brought morning coffee and then kept my eyes open for a look down at the country. There is no question that a desert landscape is neater than where things have simply got to grow, and of course they don't have the weed problem, but from up above I saw stretches where even a few good big weeds would have been a help.

My watch said 11:10 as the plane taxied to a stop on the concrete of the Los Angeles airport, and I set it back to ten past eight before I arose and filed out to the gangway and off. It was warm and muggy, with no sign of the sun. By the time I got my suitcase and found a taxi I had to use a handkerchief on my face and neck. Then the breeze through the open window came at me, and, not wanting to get pneumonia in a foreign country, I shut the window. The people didn't look as foreign as some of the architecture and most of the vegetation. Before we got to the hotel it started to rain.

I had a regulation breakfast and then went up and had a regulation bath. My room-it was the Riviera-had too many colors scattered around but was okay. It smelled swampy,

but I couldn't open a window on account of the rain. When I was through bathing and shaving and dressing and unpacking it was after eleven, and I got at the phone and asked Information for the number of Clarence O. Potter, 2819 Whitecrest Avenue, Glendale.

I called the number, and after three whirs a female voice told my ear hello.

I was friendly but not sugary. "May I speak to Mrs. Clarence Potter, please?"

"This is Mrs. Potter." Her voice was high but not squeaky.

"Mrs. Potter, my name is Thompson, George Thompson. I'm from New York, and you never heard of me. I'm here on a business trip, and I would like to see you to discuss an important matter. Any time that will suit you will suit me, but the sooner the better. I'm talking from the Riviera Hotel and I can come out now if that will be convenient."

"Did you say Thompson?"

"That's right, George Thompson."

"But why do you-what's it about?"

"It's a personal matter. I'm not selling anything. It's something I need to know about your deceased brother, Leonard Dykes, and it will be to your advantage if it affects you at all. I'd appreciate it if I could see you today."

"What do you want to know about my brother?"

"It's a little too complicated for the telephone. Why not let me come and tell you about it?"

"Well, I suppose-all right. I'll be home until three o'clock."

"Fine. I'll leave right away."

I did so. All I had to do was grab my hat and raincoat and go. But down in the lobby I was delayed. As I was heading for the front a voice called Mr. Thompson, and with my mind on my errand I nearly muffed it. Then I reined and turned and saw the clerk handing a bellboy a yellow envelope.

"Telegram for you, Mr. Thompson."

I crossed and got it arid tore it open. It said, "confound it did you arrive safely or not." I went out and climbed into a taxi and told the driver we were bound for Glendale but the first stop would be a drugstore. When he pulled up in front of one I went into a phone booth and sent a wire: "Arrived intact am on my way to appointment with subject."

During the thirty-minute drive to Glendale it rained approximately three-quarters of an inch. Whitecrest Avenue was so new it hadn't been paved yet, and Number 2819 was out

almost at the end, with some giant sagebrush just beyond, hanging on the edge of a gully, only I suppose it wasn't sage-brash. There were two saggy palms and another sort of a tree in the front yard. The driver stopped at the edge of the road in front, with the right wheels in four inches of rushing water in the gutter, and announced, "Here we are."

"Yeah," I agreed, "but I'm not a Seabee. If you don't mind turning in?"

He muttered something, backed up for an approach, swung into the ruts of what was intended for a driveway, and came to a stop some twenty paces from the front door of the big pink box with maroon piping. Having already told him he wasn't expected to wait, I paid him, got out, and made a dive for the door, which was protected from the elements by an overhang about the size of a card table. As I pushed the button a three-by-six panel a little below the level of my eyes slid aside, leaving an opening through which a voice came.

"Mr. George Thompson?"

"That's me. Mrs. Potter?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson, but I phoned my husband what you said, and he said I shouldn't let a stranger in, you see it's so remote here, so if you'll just tell me what you want…"

Outside the raincoat the pouring rain was slanting in at me, amused at the card-table cover. Inside the raincoat there was almost as much dampness as outside, from sweat. I wouldn't have called the situation desperate, but it did need attention. I inquired, "Can you see me through that hole?"

"Oh, yes. That's what it's for."

"How do I look?"

There was a noise that could have been a giggle. "You look wet."

"I mean do I look depraved?"

"No. No, you really don't."

Actually I was pleased. I had come three thousand miles to pull a fast one on this Mrs. Potter, and if she had received me with open arms I would have had to swallow scruples. Now, being kept standing out in that cloudburst on a husband's orders, I felt no qualms.

"Look," I offered, "here's a suggestion. I'm a literary agent from New York, and this will take us at least twenty minutes and maybe more. Go to the phone and call up some friend, preferably nearby. Tell her to hold the wire, come and unlock

the door, and run back to the phone. Tell the friend to hang on. I'll enter and sit across the room from you. If I make a move you'll have your friend right there on the phone. How will that do?"

"Well-we just moved here a month ago and my nearest friend is miles away."

"Okay. Have you got a kitchen stool?"

"A kitchen stool? Certainly."

"Go get it to. sit on and we'll talk through the hole."

The noise that could have been a giggle was repeated. Then came the sound of a turned lock, and the door swung open.

"This is silly," she said defiantly. "Come on in."

I crossed the threshold and was in a small foyer. She stood holding the door, looking brave. I took my raincoat off. She closed the door, opened a closet door and got a hanger, draped the dripping coat on it, and hooked it on the corner of the closet door. I hung my hat on the same corner.