Rex Stout - The Final Deduction

“Good for you. But there’s Helen Blount. She knows you came to see Nero Wolfe.”

“She doesn’t know what for. That’s all right, I can trust her, I know I can.” Her eyes went back to Wolfe. “So that’s how I got here. When I leave I have to go to my bank, and then I’ll go back to Seventy-fourth Street.” It was coming out hoarse again, and she cleared her throat and coughed. “It’s my husband,” she said. She got her bag and opened it and took out an envelope. “He didn’t come home Sunday night, and yesterday this came in the mail.”

Her chair was too far away for her to hand it to Wolfe without getting up, and of course he wouldn’t, so I did. It was an ordinary off-white envelope with a typewritten address to Mrs Jimmy Vail, 994 Fifth Avenue, New York City, no zone number, and was post-marked BRYANT STA APR 23 1961 11:30 PM. Sunday, day before yesterday. The flap had been cut clean with a knife or opener, no jagged edges. I handed it to Wolfe, and after a glance at the address and postmark he removed the contents, a folded sheet of cheap bond paper, also off-white, five by eight unfolded, the kind you get in scratch pads. He held it to his left, so I could read it too. We no longer have it, but from some shots I took of it the next day I can have it reproduced for you to look at. It may tell you what it told Wolfe about the person who typed it. Here it is:

We have got your Jimmy safe and sound. We haven’t hurt him any and you can have him back all in one piece for $500,000 if you play it right and keep it strictly between you and us. We mean strictly. If you try any tricks you’ll never see him again. You’ll get a phone call from Mr Knapp and don’t miss it.

Wolfe dropped it on the desk pad and turned to Althea Vail. “I can’t forgo,” he said, “an obvious comment. Surely this is humbug. Kidnaping is a desperate and dangerous operation. It’s hard to believe that a man committed to it, a man who has incurred its mortal risks, could be in a mood to make a pun-that in choosing an alias to use on the phone, for himself in his role as kidnaper, he would select ‘Knapp.’ It must be flummery. If not, if this thing is straight-forward”-he tapped the paper with a finger-“the man who wrote it is most extraordinary. Is your husband a practical joker?”

“No.” Her chin had jerked up. “Are you saying it’s a joke?”

“I suggested the possibility, but I also suggested an alternative, that you have a remarkable man to deal with. Have you heard from Mr Knapp?”

“Yes. He phoned yesterday afternoon, my listed number. I had told my secretary that I expected the call, and she listened on an extension. I thought she might as well because she opens my mail and she had read that thing.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me what to do. I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to do exactly what he said. I don’t need you for that. What I need you for, I want my husband back. Alive. I know they may have killed him already, I know that, but-” Her chin had started to work, and she pressed her lips together to stop it. She went on, “If they have, then I’ll want you to find them if the police and the FBI don’t. But on the phone yesterday that man said he was all right, and I believe him. I must believe him!”

She was on the edge of the chair. “But don’t kidnapers often kill after they get the money? So they can’t be traced or recognized? Don’t they?”

“That has happened.”

“Yes. That’s what I need you for. Doing what he said, getting the money to them, I’ll do that myself, there’s nothing you can do about that. I’ve told my banker I’m coming to get the money this afternoon, and I’ll do-”

“Half a million dollars?”

“Yes. And I’ll do exactly what that man said, but that’s all I can do, and I want him back. I want to be sure I’ll get him back. That’s what I need you for.”

Wolfe grunted. “Madam. You can’t possibly mean that. You are not a nincompoop. How could I conceivably proceed? The only contact with that punster or an accomplice will be your delivery of the money, and you refuse to tell me anything about it. Pfui. You can’t possibly mean it.”

“But I do. I do! That’s why I came to you ! Is there anything you can’t do? Aren’t you a genius? How did you get your reputation?” She took a checkfold from her bag and slipped a pen from a loop. “Will ten thousand do for a retainer?”

She had a touch of genius herself, or it was her lucky day, asking him if there was anything he couldn’t do and waving a check at him. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and cupped the ends of the chair arms with his hands. I expected to see his lips start moving in and out, but they didn’t; evidently this one was too tough for any help from the lip routine. Mrs Vail opened the checkfold on the stand at her elbow, wrote, tore the check from the fold, got up and put it on Wolfe’s desk, and returned to the chair. She started to say something, and I pushed a palm at her. A minute passed, another, and two or three more, before Wolfe opened his eyes, said, “Your notebook, Archie,” and straightened up.

I got my notebook and pen. But instead of starting to dictate he closed his eyes again. In a minute he opened them and turned to Mrs Vail.

“The wording is important,” he said. “It would help to know how he uses words. You will tell me exactly what he said on the phone.”

“No, I won’t.” She was emphatic. “You would try to do something, some kind of trick. You’d have Archie Goodwin do something. I know he’s clever and you may be a genius, but I’m not going to risk that. I told that man I would do exactly what he told me to, and do it alone, and I’m not going to tell you. What wording is important? Wording of what?”

Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “Very well. His voice. Did you recognize it?”

She stared. “Recognize it? Of course not!”

“Had you any thought, any suspicion, that you had ever heard it before?”

“No.”

“Was he verbose, or concise?”

“Concise. He just told me what to do.”

“Rough or smooth?”

She considered. “Neither one. He was just-matter-of-fact.”

“No bluster, no bullying?”

“No. He said this would be my one chance and my husband’s one chance, but he wasn’t bullying. He just said it.”

“His grammar? Did he make sentences?”

She flared. “I wasn’t thinking of grammar! Of course he made sentences!”

“Few people do. I’ll rephrase it: Is he an educated man? ‘Educated’ in the vulgar sense, as it is commonly used.”

She considered again. “I said he wasn’t rough. He wasn’t vulgar. Yes, I suppose he is educated.” She gestured impatiently. “Isn’t this wasting time? You’re not enough of a genius to guess who he is or where he is from how he talked. Are you?”

Wolfe shook his head. “That would be thaumaturgy, not genius. When and where did you last see your husband?”

“Saturday morning, at our house. He left to drive to the country, to our place near Katonah, to see about things. I didn’t go along because I wasn’t feeling well. He phoned Sunday morning and said he might not be back until late evening. When he hadn’t come at midnight I phoned, and the caretaker told me he had left a little after eight o’clock. I wasn’t really worried, not really, because sometimes he takes a notion to drive around at night, just anywhere, but yesterday morning I was worried, but I didn’t want to start calling people, and then the mail came with that thing.”