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

"Yes, of course. But good heavens, if you know your phone is tapped-isn't that illegal?"

"Sure, that's why it's fun. We'll tell you about it tomorrow-I guess we will."

He said he would save his curiosity for tomorrow and would expect us by noon.

There is a TV set and a radio in the office, and when I got back I was expecting to see Wolfe there in his favorite chair, probably with the radio going, but the office was empty, so I proceeded to the rear and down to the basement and found him where I had left him. The television was still on, and Fritz was sitting watching it, yawning. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut, and his lips were going, pushing out and then in, out and in. So he was working, but on what? I stood and looked at him. That's the one thing I never break in on, the lip operation, but that time I had to clamp my jaw to keep my mouth shut because I didn't believe it. There was absolutely nothing he could be hatching. Two full minutes. Three. I decided he was only practicing, it was a dry run, went to a chair, sat, and coughed loud. In a moment he opened his eyes, blinked at me, and straightened up.

I moved my chair closer. "All set," I said. "We're expected by noon, so we should roll by ten-thirty."

"You're not going," he growled. "I telephoned Saul. He'll come at nine."

"Oh. I see. You want me here in case Wragg sends them to confess."

"I want you to find Frank Odell."

"For God's sake. Is that what your lips squeezed out."

"No." He turned his head. "A little louder, Fritz." Back to me: "I said after lunch that you had made it clear that it would be futile to establish that the FBI committed that murder. I retract that. I will not bow to futility. We must arrange a situation in which none of the three alternatives would be futile. They are: one, establish that the FBI committed the murder; two, establish that they didn't; and three, establish neither one, let the murder go. We prefer by far the second alternative, and that is why you are to find Frank Odell, but if we are forced to accept the first or the third we must manage circumstances so that we will nevertheless be in a position to fulfill our obligation to our client."

"You have no obligation except to investigate and use your best efforts."

"Your pronouns again."

"All right, 'we' and 'our.' "

"That's better. Just so, our best efforts. The strongest obligation possible for a man with self-esteem, and we both have our full share of that. One point is vital. No matter which alternative circumstances compel us to accept, Mr Wragg must believe, or at least suspect, that one of his men killed Morris Althaus. I can contrive no maneuver by us that would contribute to that; I was trying to when you returned. Can you?"

"No. He either believes it or he doesn't. Ten to one he does."

"At least we have the odds. Now. I need suggestions regarding the arrangement I intend to make with Mr Hewitt tomorrow. It will take time, and I'm dry. Fritz?"

No response. I turned. He was sound asleep in the chair, probably snoring, but if so the TV covered it. I suggested moving to the office and trying some WQXR music for a change, and Wolfe agreed, so we woke Fritz and thanked him for his hospitality and told him good night. On the way to the office I stopped off for beer for Wolfe and milk for me, and when I joined him he had the radio going and was back of his desk. Since it was going to take time I brought a yellow chair and put it near his. He poured beer, and I took a swallow of milk and said, "I forgot to say that I didn't ask Hewitt about the Ten for Aristology. You wanted to see him anyway and you can ask him tomorrow. And the program?"

He spoke.

It was well after midnight when he went to the elevator and I went to get the sheets and blankets and pillow for my second night on the couch.

8

There were more than a hundred Odells in the phone books of the five boroughs, but no Frank. That established, I sat at my desk at half past nine Friday morning and considered recourses. It wasn't the kind of problem to discuss with Wolfe, and anyway he wasn't available. Saul Panzer had come at nine o'clock on the dot, and instead of going up to the plant rooms Wolfe had come down, put on his heavy overcoat and broad-brimmed beaver hat, and followed Saul out to the curb to climb into the Heron sedan.

Of course he knew that the heater, if turned on full, could make the inside of the Heron like an oven, but he took the heavy coat because he distrusted all machines more complicated than a wheelbarrow. He would have been expecting to be stranded at some wild and lonely spot in the Long Island jungle even if I had been driving.

It took will power to fasten my mind on the Frank Odell caper, which was merely a stab in the dark blindfolded, ordered by Wolfe only because he preferred the second of the three alternatives. Where my mind wanted to be was on Long Island. In all my experience of Wolfe's arrangements of circumstances I had never known him to concoct anything as tricky as the program he was going to rope Lewis Hewitt in for, and I should have been there. Genius is fine for the ignition spark, but to get there someone has to see that the radiator doesn't leak and no tire is flat. I would have insisted on going if it hadn't been for Saul Panzer. Wolfe had said that Saul would sit in, and he is the one man I would turn any problem over to if I broke a leg.

I forced my mind onto Frank Odell. The obvious thing was to ring the New York State Parole Division and ask if they had him listed. But of course not on our phone. If the FBI knew that we were spending time and money on Odell after what Quayle had said about him, they would know it wasn't just prudence, that we thought there was actually a chance that he was involved, and that wouldn't do. I decided to play it absolutely safe. If some G-man reads this and thinks I'm overrating his outfit, he isn't inside far enough to know all the family secrets. I'm not inside at all, but I've been around a lot.

After going to the kitchen to tell Fritz I was leaving and to the hall for my coat and hat, I let myself out, walked to Tenth Avenue and on to the garage, got permission from Tom Halloran to use the phone, dialed the Gazette number, and got Lon Cohen. He was discreet. He didn't ask me how we were making out with Mrs Bruner and the FBI. He did ask if I knew where he could get a bottle of brandy.

"I might send you one someday," I said, "if you earn it. You can start now. About two years ago a man named Frank Odell was sent up for fraud. If he behaved himself and got a reduction he may be out and on the parole list. I've gone in for social work and I want to find him, quick, and rehabilitate him. You can get me, the sooner the better, at this number." I gave it to him. "I'm keeping my social work secret, so please don't mention it."

He said an hour should do it, and I went out to the floor to give motor vehicles a look. Wolfe buys a new one every year, thinking that reduces the risk of a collapse, which it doesn't, and he leaves the choice to me. I have been tempted to get a Rolls, but it would be a shame to ditch it after only a year. That day there was nothing on the floor I would have traded the Heron for. Tom and I were discussing the dashboard of a 45 Lincoln when the phone rang and I went. It was Lon, and he had it. Frank Odell had been released in August and would be on parole until the end of February. He lived at 2553 Lamont Avenue, Bronx, and he had a job at a branch of the Driscoll Renting Agency at 4618 Grand Concourse. Lon said that a good way to start rehabilitating him would be to get him in a poker game, and I said I thought craps would be better.