Rex Stout - The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

"Yes. Yes, it is. Because there was nothing about the FBI in his apartment."

"Do you know what there might have been? What he had dug up?"

"No. Morris never told me about things like that."

"Does Mr Yarmack know?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"How do you feel about it, Miss Hinckley? Whoever killed Morris Althaus, do you want him caught? Caught and dealt with?"

"Of course I do. Certainly I do."

I turned to Mrs Althaus. "You do too. All right, it's a good bet that he never will be caught unless Nero Wolfe does it. You may know that he doesn't go to see people. You'll have to go to him, to his house-you and Miss Hinckley, and, if possible, Mr Yarmack. Can you be there this evening at nine o'clock?"

"Why…" She had her hands clasped. "I don't… What good would it do? There's nothing I can tell him."

"There might be. I often think there's nothing I can tell him, but I find out I'm wrong. Or if he only decides that none of you can tell him anything, that will help. Will you come?"

"I suppose…" She looked at the girl who had been expecting to be her daughter-in-law.

"Yes," Miss Hinckley said. "I'll go."

I could have hugged her. It would have been relevant to the job. I asked her, "Could you bring Mr Yarmack?"

"I don't know. I'll try."

"Good." I rose. "The address is in the phone book."

To Mrs Althaus: "I should tell you, it's next to certain that the FBI has a watch on the house and you will be seen. If you don't mind, Mr Wolfe doesn't. He's perfectly willing for them to know he is investigating the murder of your son. Nine o'clock?"

She said yes, and I went. In the foyer the maid came and wanted to hold my coat, and not to hurt her feelings I let her. Down in the lobby, from the look the doorman gave me as he opened the door I deduced that the hallman had told him what I was, and to be in character I met the look with a sharp and wary eye. Outside, some snowflakes were doing stunts. In the taxi, headed downtown, again I ignored the rear. I figured that if they were on me, which was highly likely, maybe one cent of each ten grand of Wolfe's income tax, and one mill of each ten grand of mine, would go to pay government employees to keep me company uninvited, which didn't seem right.

Wolfe had just come down from the plant rooms after his four-to-six afternoon session with the orchids and got nicely settled in his chair with The Treasure of Our Tongue. Instead of going on in and crossing to my desk as usual, I stopped at the sill of the office door, and when he looked up I pointed a finger straight down, emphatically, turned, and beat it to the stairs to the basement and on down. Flipping the light switch, I went and perched on the pool table. Two minutes. Three. Four, and there were footsteps. He stood at the door, glared at me, and spoke.

"I won't tolerate this."

I raised an eyebrow. "I could write it."

"Pfui. Two points. One, the risk is extremely slight. Two, we can use it. As you talk you can insert comments or statements at will which I am to disregard, notifying me by raising a finger. I shall do the same. Of course making no reference to Mr Cramer; we can't risk that; and maintaining our conclusion that the FBI killed that man, and we intend to establish it."

"But actually we don't."

"Certainly not." He turned and went.

So I was foxed. His house, his office, and his chair. But I had to admit, as I mounted the steps, that pigheaded as he was, it wasn't a bad idea. If they really had an electronic ear on the office, which I didn't believe, it might even be a damned good idea. When I entered the office he was back at his desk and I went to mine, and as I sat he said, "Well?"

He should have had a finger raised. He never wastes breath by saying "Well?" when I return from an errand; he merely puts the book down, or the beer glass, and is ready for me to speak.

I raised a finger. "Your guess that they might have hit on the FBI theory at the Gazette, and be working on it, wasn't so good." I lowered the finger. "Lon Cohen didn't mention it, so I didn't. They haven't got a theory. He let me go through the files, and we talked, and I got a dozen pages of names and assorted details, some of which might possibly be useful." I raised a finger. "I'll type it up at the usual five dollars a page." I lowered the finger. "Next I phoned Mrs David Althaus from a booth, and she said she would see me, and I went. Park Avenue in the Eighties, tenth-floor apartment, all the trimmings you would expect. Pictures okay. I won't describe her because you'll see her. She quotes Leviticus and Aristotle." Finger raised. "I wanted to quote Plato but couldn't work it in." Finger lowered. "I had asked her on the phone to ask Marian Hinckley to come, and she said she would be there soon. She said she had understood me to say on the phone that her son had been killed by an agent of the FBI and was that correct. From there on you had better have it verbatim."

I gave it to him, straight through, knowing that I had said nothing we wouldn't be willing for the FBI to hear. Leaning back with his eyes closed, he wouldn't have been able to see a raised finger, so I couldn't make any insertions. When I finished he grunted, opened his eyes, and said, "It's bad enough when you know there's a needle in the haystack. When you don't even-"

The doorbell rang. Going to the hall for a look, I saw a G-man on the stoop. Not that I recognized him, but it must be-the right age, the broad shoulders, the manly mug with a firm jaw, the neat dark gray coat. I went and opened the door the two inches allowed by the chain bolt and said, "Yes, sir?"

He blurted through the crack, "My name's Quayle and I want to see Nero Wolfe!"

"Spell it, please?"

"Timothy Quayle! Q,U,A,Y,L,E!"

"Mr Wolfe is engaged. I'll see."

I went to the office door. "One of the names in my notebook. Timothy Quayle. Senior editor at Tick-Tock magazine. The hero type. He slugged a reporter who was annoying Marian Hinckley. She must have phoned him about you soon after I left."

"No," he growled.

"It's half an hour till dinner. Are you in the middle of a chapter?"

He glowered at me. "Bring him."

I returned to the front, slid the bolt, and swung the door open, and he entered. As I was shutting the door he told me I was Archie Goodwin, and I conceded it, took care of his coat and hat, and led him to the office. Three steps in he stopped to glance around, aimed the glance at Wolfe, and demanded, "Did you get my name?"

Wolfe nodded. "Mr Quayle."

He advanced to the desk. "I am a friend of Miss Marian Hinckley. I want to know what kind of a game you're playing. I want an explanation."

"Bah," Wolfe said.

"Don't bah me! What are you up to?"

"This is ridiculous," Wolfe said. "I like eyes at a level. If you can only blather at me, Mr Goodwin will put you out. If you will take that chair, change your tone, and give me an acceptable reason why I should account to you, I may listen."

Quayle opened his mouth and shut it again. He turned his head to look at me, there on my feet, apparently to see if I was man enough. I would have liked it just as well if he had decided I wasn't, for after that night and day I would have welcomed an excuse to twist another arm. But he vetoed it, went to the red leather chair and sat, and scowled at Wolfe. "I know about you," he said. Not so blathery, but not at all sociable. "I know how you operate. If you want to hook Mrs Althaus for some change, that's her lookout, but you're not going to drag Miss Hinckley in. I don't intend-"