Rex Stout - A Family Affair

"With his wife?"

"She died eight years ago. With his daughter and his father. His father had a little bistro in Paris, but he sold it and came over to live with Pierre when he was seventy years old. He's nearly eighty now."

Wolfe closed his eyes, opened them, looked at me and then at the wall, but there was no clock. He got the tips of his vest between thumb and finger, both hands, and pulled down. He didn't know he did that, and I never mentioned it. It was a sign that his insides had decided that it was time to eat. He looked at me. "Questions? About betting?"

"Not about the betting. One question."

I looked at Philip. "The number on Fifty-fourth Street?"

He nodded. "Three-eighteen. Between Ninth Avenue and Tenth."

"There will probably be more questions," Wolfe said, "but they can wait. You have been helpful, Philip, and I am obliged. You will be here for dinner?"

"Yes, sir, of course. Until ten o'clock."

"Mr. Goodwin may come. Felix knows about lunch for us. Please tell him we are ready."

"Yes, sir."

Philip was up. "You will tell me what you find out."

He looked at me and back at Wolfe. "I want to know. I want to know everything about it."

Well, well. You might have thought he was Inspector Cramer. Wolfe merely said, "So do I. Tell Felix to send our lunch."

And Philip turned and walked out without saying yes, sir, and I said, "The question is, was it you or me? He probably thinks me."

Whenever he eats at Rusterman's, Wolfe has a problem. There's a conflict. On the one hand, Fritz is the best cook in the world, and on the other hand, loyalty to the memory of Marko Vukcic won't admit that there is anything wrong with anything served at that restaurant. So he passed the buck to me. When about a third of his portion of the baked scallops was down, he looked at me and said, "Well?"

"It'll do," I said. "Maybe a little too much nutmeg, of course that's a matter of taste, and I suspect the lemon juice came out of a bottle. The fritters were probably perfect, but they came in piles and Fritz brings them just three at a time, two to you and one to me. That can't be helped."

"I shouldn't have asked you," he said. "Flummery. Your palate is incapable of judging the lemon juice in a cooked dish."

Of course he was under a strain. Business is never to be mentioned at the table, but since there was no client and no prospect of a fee, this was all in the family and therefore wasn't business, and it was certainly on his mind. Also the waiter wasn't Pierre, whom he would never have again. He was some kind of Hungarian or Pole named Ernest, and he was inclined to tilt things. However, he ate, including the almond parfait, which I had suggested, and had a second cup of coffee. As for conversation, that was no problem. Watergate. He probably knew more about every angle of Watergate than any dozen of his fellow citizens, for instance the first names of Haldeman's grandparents.

He had intended to have another talk with Felix, but as we pushed our chairs back and rose he said, "Can you have the car brought to the side entrance?"

"Now?"

"Yes. We're going to see Pierre's father."

I stared at him. " 'We'?"

"Yes. If you brought him to the office we would be interrupted. Since Mr. Cramer and the District Attorney have been unable to find us, there may already be a warrant."

"I could bring him here."

"At nearly eighty, he may not be able to walk. Also tile daughter may be there."

"Parking in the fifties is impossible. There may be three or four flights and no elevator."

"Well see. Can it be brought to the side entrance?"

I said of course and got his coat and hat. It cer- tainly was all in the family. For a client, no matter how urgent or how big a fee, it had never come to this and never would. He took the elevator in the rear and I took the one in front, since I had to tell Otto where to send the car.

The West Fifties are a mixture of everything from the " " Club to grimy walkups and warehouses, but I knew that block on Fifty-fourth was mostly old brownstones, and there was a parking lot near Tenth Avenue. When we were in and rolling, I suggested going to the garage and leaving the Heron, which Wolfe owns and I drive, and taking a taxi, but he thinks a moving vehicle with anyone but me at the wheel is even a bigger risk and vetoed it. So I crossed to Tenth Avenue and then uptown, and there was space at the parking lot. Only one long block to walk.

Number wasn't too bad. Some of those brownstones had been done over inside, and that one even had wooden paneling in the vestibule, and a house phone. I pushed the fourth button up, which was tagged Ducos, put the receiver to my ear, and in a minute a female voice said, "Who ees eet?"

If it was Pierre's daughter, I thought she should have better manners, but probably she had been given a busy day by a string of city employees and journalists. It was ten minutes past three.

"Nero Wolfe," I told her. "W-О-L-F-E. To see Mr. Ducos. He will probably know the name. And Good-win, Archie Goodwin. We knew Pierre for years."

"Parlez-vous franfais?"

she said.

I knew that much, barely. "Mr. Wolfe does," I said. "Hold it."

I turned. "She said parly voo fransay. Here."

He took the receiver, and I moved to make room. He didn't have to stoop quite as much as me to get his mouth at the right level. Since what he said was for me only noise, I spent the couple of minutes enjoying the idea of a homicide dick pushing that button and hearing parly voo fransay, and hop- ing it was Lieutenant Rowcliff. Also a couple of journalists I had met, especially Bill Wengert of the Times. When Wolfe hung up the receiver, I put a hand on the inside door and, when the click sounded, pushed it open. And there was a do it-yourself elevator with the door standing open.

If you speak French and would prefer to have a verbatim report of Wolfe's conversation with Leon Ducos, Pierre's father, I'm sorry I can't deliver. All I got was an idea of how it was going from their tones and looks. I'll report what I saw. First, at the door of the apartment it wasn't Pierre's sister. She had said good-by to fifty and maybe even sixty. She was short and dumpy, with a round face and a double chin, and she sported a little white apron, and a little white cap thing on top of her gray hair. Probably she spoke English, at least some, but she didn't look it. She took Wolfe's coat and hat and ushered us to the front room. Ducos was there in a wheelchair by a window. The best way to describe him is just to say that he was shriveled but still tough. He probably weighed thirty pounds less than he had at fifty, but what was left of him was intact, and when I took his offered hand I felt his grip. During the hour and twenty minutes we were there he didn't say a word that I understood. Probably he spoke no English at all, and that was why she had asked if I spoke French.

In twenty minutes, even less, their tone and manner had made it plain that no blood would be shed, and I left my chair, looked around, and crossed to a cabinet with a glass door and shelves in the far comer. Most of the shelves had things like little ivory and china figures and sea shells and a wooden apple, but on one there was a collection of inscribed trophies, silver cups and a medal that might have been gold, and a couple of ribbons. The only word on them that I knew was a name, Leon Ducos. Evidently his bistro had done something that people liked. I sent my eyes around, detecting. You do that in the home of a man who has just been murdered, and, as usual, nothing suggested anything. A framed photograph on a table was probably of Pierre's mother.