Rex Stout - Murder by the Book

Wolfe spoke up. "I would like to anticipate any future charge of willful malevolence. I take no pleasure in prolonging suspense, either my own or another's. I'm being completely candid when I say that I still need a fact or two before I can act. To move not fully prepared, to disclose myself prematurely, would be folly, and I'm not a fool."

Kustin got to his feet, stepped to the desk, put his hands on it, and leaned forward at Wolfe. "I'll tell you what I think: I think it's a ten-cent bluff. I don't think you know any more about that manuscript than we do. I think you're exactly where you were when we came here a week ago yesterday." He straightened up. "Come on, fellows. He's a goddam four-flusher." He whirled to me. "You too, Goodwin. I wish I'd gone to California instead of Jim Corrigan. You'd have been called."

He marched out. Phelps and O'Malley were at bis heels. Corrigan, who had said practically nothing, thought he would speak now, took a step toward the desk, but changed his mind and, with a glance at me, headed for the door. Briggs lifted himself out of the red leather chair, blinked at Wolfe, said, "My appraisal of your methods and tactics has certainly been reinforced here today," and turned and went.

I moseyed to the door to the hall, stood on the sill, and watched them wriggling into their coats. I was perfectly willing to go and let them out, but Phelps got the door open before I moved, and held it for them, so I was saved the trouble. He banged it hard enough to leave no doubt of its closing, and I wheeled, returned to my desk, and permitted myself an all-out yawn. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut.

"Will there be more movement?" I inquired. "Or is it time for a contrivance?"

No reply. I yawned again. "Once in a while," I observed, "you go right to the heart of things and tell a plain unvarnished truth. Like when you said that you still need a fact or two before you can act. It might be objected that you need more than one or two, but that isn't so. The one fact that Phelps, the scholar, is a lover of literature and bumped them off because it was a lousy novel and he couldn't bear it, would do the trick."

No word or sign. Suddenly I blew up. I sprang to my feet and roared, "Goddam it, go to work! Think of something! Do something!"

Without opening his eyes, he muttered, "And I said it was satisfactory to have you back."

18

THAT was an afternoon I wouldn't care to live through again, not even if I knew what the evening was going to bring. To begin with, Wolfe was totally unbearable. After lunch he got behind his desk with a book, and after a dozen assorted attempts to get a conversation started I quit. Then Saul Panzer phoned in, and he growled at me to get off the line. I had already suspected that he had Saul on a trail, since a check of the cash box and book had informed me that he had given Saul three hundred bucks, and that confirmed it. I always resent it when he sees fit to give one of the boys a chore that he thinks I don't need to know about, and that time it was more offensive than usual, since I couldn't very well blab anything, sitting there on my tail, yawning.

Worse than him, though, was me. He had told me twice to take a nap, so naturally I wasn't going to. I wanted to be there if the phone rang. I wanted to be there if Mrs. Adams came to confess to the three murders. But I did not want to make out checks or work on the germination records or go through catalogues. My problem was to stay awake without having anything to keep my eyes open, and it was even tougher after Wolfe went up to the plant rooms at four o'clock. For two solid

hours only one notion occurred to me that had any attraction at all, to phone Mrs. Potter in Glendale and tell her I had got home safely, and I vetoed that because it might prove to he habit-forming. But by gum I stayed awake, if you can call it that.

There was another call from Saul just before dinner, and again I was told to get off the line. Wolfe's end of the chat was nothing but grunts. After dinner he told me to go to bed, and God knows I would have liked to, but I got stubborn and went for a walk instead. I dropped in at a movie, found myself getting fascinated with the idea of resting my head on, the soft fat female shoulder next to me, jerked away, and got up and went home. It was a little after ten.

Wolfe was at his desk, going through the stack of germination slips that had accumulated while I was away. I asked him, "Any more movement?"

"No."

I gave up. "I might as well go up and lie down a while." I went and twirled the knob of the safe. "I put the bolt on in front and I'll check the back. Good night."

"Good night."

The phone rang. I stepped to my desk and got it.

"Nero Wolfe's residence, Archie Goodwin speaking."

"I want to speak to Wolfe."

"Who is it please?"

"James A. Corrigan."

I covered the transmitter and told Wolfe, "Corrigan. He sounds hoarse and harassed. Do you care to speak to him?"

Wolfe took his instrument, and I put mine back at my ear.

"This is Nero Wolfe. Mr. Corrigan?"

"Yes. I've mailed you a letter, but you're responsible for this, so I think you ought to hear it. I hope you'll hear it in your dreams the rest of your life. This is it. Are you listening?"

"Yes, but-"

"Here it goes."

It busted my eardrum, or felt like it. It was a combination of a roar and a smack. By reflex my wrist moved the receiver away, then I moved it back. There was a confused clatter and a sort of thump, then nothing. I told the transmitter, "Hello hello!"

Nothing. I cradled it and turned. Wolfe was sitting with the instrument dangling from his hand, scowling at me.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well yourself. How do I know? I suppose he shot himself."

"Where was he?"

I sneered. "Do you think I staged it?"

"There was a radio going."

"I heard it. 'The Life of Riley.' WNBC."

He replaced the phone, slow motion, and regarded me. "This is preposterous. I don't believe it. Get Mr. Cramer."

I swiveled and dialed and got a voice. I asked for Cramer, and he wasn't there. Neither was Stebbins. I got a sergeant named Auerbach, informed Wolfe, and he took it.

"Mr. Auerbach? This is Nero Wolfe. Are you familiar with the Dykes-Wellman-Abrams case?"

"Yes."

"And with the name James A. Corrigan?"

"Yes, I know the name."

"I just had a phone call. The voice said it was James A. Corrigan, but it was husky and agitated and I can't vouch for it. It said-I think you should put this down. Have you pencil and paper?"

"In a second-okay, shoot."

"He said it was Corrigan, and then, quote, 'You're responsible for this, so I think you ought to hear it. I hope you'll hear it in your dreams the rest of your life. This is it. Are you listening? Here it goes.' Unquote. There came immediately the sound of an explosion, resembling a gunshot, and other confused noises, followed by silence except for the sound of a radio, which had been audible throughout. That's all."

"Did he say where he was phoning from?"