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

That was no coincidence; it was cause and effect in a hell of a mess. I started to sort it out but soon found that there were so many combinations and possibilities that you could even come up with the notion that Mrs Bruner had shot Althaus, which wouldn't do, since she was the client. The one conclusion was that there was a needle in this haystack, and it had to be found. Wolfe had stolen another base. He had merely asked Yarmack if the articles Althaus had written for Tick-Tock were innocuous, and had merely told me to find Odell because he couldn't think of anything sensible for me, and here was this.

I couldn't have called Wolfe even if he had been at home, and I decided not to ring him at Hewitt's. Not only does a place like that have a dozen or more extensions, but also G-men had probably followed him there, since Saul had been told to ignore tails, and tapping a line in the country was a cinch for them. I happen to know that they once- But I'll skip it.

But I was not going to go home and sit on it until he got back. I found a phone booth, dialed Mrs Bruner's number and got her, and asked if she could meet me at Rusterman's at twelve-thirty for lunch. She said she could. I rang Rusterman's and got Felix and asked if I could have the soundproofed room upstairs, the small one. He said I could. I went out and got a taxi.

Rusterman's has lost some of the standing it had when Marko Vukcic was alive. Wolfe is no longer the trustee, but he still goes there about once a month and Felix comes to the old brownstone now and then for advice. When Wolfe goes, taking Fritz and me, we eat in the small room upstairs, and we always start with the queen of soups, Germiny a l'Oseille. So I knew that room well. Felix was there with me, being sociable, when Mrs Bruner came, only ten minutes late.

She wanted a double dry martini with onion. You never know; I would have guessed hers would be sherry or Dubonnet, and certainly not the onion. When it came she took three healthy sips in a row, looked to see that the waiter had closed the door, and said, "Of course I didn't ask you on the phone. Something has happened?"

I had a martini to keep her company, without the onion. I took a sip and said, "Nothing big. Mr Wolfe has broken two rules today. He skipped his morning session in the plant rooms, and he left the house on business-your business. He is out on Long Island seeing a man. That could develop into something, but don't hold your breath. As for me, I just made a trip to the Bronx to see a man named Frank Odell. He used to work for you-Bruner Realty. Didn't he?"

"Odell?"

"Yes."

She frowned. "I don't- Oh, of course. Odell, that's the little man who had all that trouble. But he-isn't he in prison?"

"He was. He was paroled out a few months ago.

She was still frowning. "But why on earth were you seeing him?"

"It's a long story, Mrs Bruner." I took a sip. "Mr Wolfe decided to try getting a start by checking a little on FBI activities in and around New York. Among other things, we learned that last fall a man named Morris Althaus had been gathering material for a piece on the FBI for a magazine, and seven weeks ago he was murdered. That was worth looking into, and we did some checking on him. We learned that he did a piece called 'The Realty Racket' a couple of years ago, and as a result a man named Frank Odell had got a jail sentence for fraud. Mr Wolfe had me look him up, and I located him and went to see him and learned that he had worked for your firm. So I thought I ought to ask you about it."

She had put the glass on the table. "But what is there to ask me?"

"Just questions. For instance, about Morris Althaus. How well did you know him?"

"I didn't know him at all."

"He came at least once to your house-your office. According to Odell."

She nodded. "That's right, he did. I remembered that when I read about him-the murder." Her chin was up. "I don't like your tone, Mr Goodwin. Are you intimating that I have concealed something?"

"Yes, Mrs Bruner, I am. That you may have. We might as well clear it up before lunch instead of after. You have hired Mr Wolfe to do a job that's as close to impossible as a job can get. The least you can do is tell us everything that could conceivably have a bearing on it. The fact that you had known Morris Althaus, at least you had met him, naturally suggests questions. Did you know he was working at a piece on the FBI? Let me finish. Did you know or suspect that the FBI was involved in his murder? Was that why you sent those books? Was that why you came to Nero Wolfe? Just stay in the buggy. We simply have to know everything you know, that's all."

She did all right. A woman who can toss you a check for a hundred grand without blinking hasn't had much practice listening to reason from a hireling, but she managed it. She didn't count ten, at least not audibly, but she picked up her glass and drank, gave me a straight look, put the glass down, and spoke. "I didn't 'conceal' anything. It just didn't occur to me to mention Morris Althaus. Or perhaps it did occur to me while I was thinking about it, but not while I was talking to Mr Wolfe. Because it was just-I didn't really know anything. I don't know anything now. I had read about the murder and remembered that I had met him, but the only connection it had with the FBI was what Miss Dacos, my secretary, had told me, and that was just a girl talking. She didn't really know anything either. It had nothing to do with my sending the books. I sent them because I had read it, and I thought it was important for important people to read it. Does that answer your questions?"

"Pretty well, but it raises another one. Just keep in mind that I'm working on your job. What had Miss Dacos told you?"

"Nothing but talk. She lived at the same address, she still does. Her-"

"What same address?"

"The same as that man, Morris Althaus. In the Village. Her apartment is on the second floor, below his. She was out that evening, and soon after-"

"The night he was killed?"

"Yes. Stop interrupting me. Soon after she returned to her apartment she heard footsteps outside, people going down the stairs, and she was curious about who it might be. She went to the window and looked out and saw three men leave the house and walk to the corner, and she thought they were FBI men. The only reason she had for thinking they were FBI men was that they looked like it; she said they were 'the type.' As I said, she didn't know anything, and I didn't know there was any connection between Morris Althaus and the FBI. You asked if I knew he was working on a piece on the FBI. No, not until you told me. I resent your suggestion that I concealed something." She looked at her wristwatch. "It's after one o'clock, and I have an appointment at half past two, a committee meeting that I must be on time for."

I pushed a button, two shorts, on a slab on the table, and begged her pardon for asking her to lunch and then starving her.

In a couple of minutes Pierre came with the lobster bisque, and I told him to bring the squabs in ten minutes without waiting for a ring.

There was a little question of etiquette. As a matter of business it would have been proper to tell her that neither Nero Wolfe nor I was ever allowed to pay for anything we or our guests ate at Rusterman's, so it wouldn't be an item on the expense account, but such a remark didn't seem to fit with Squabs a la Moscovite, Mushrooms Polonaise, Salade Beatrice, and Souffle Armenonville. I vetoed it. I didn't resume on Miss Dacos, but our only known common interest was the FBI. I learned that she had received 607 letters thanking her for the book, most of them just a polite sentence or two; 184 disapproving letters, some pretty strong; and 29 anonymous letters and cards calling her names. I was surprised that it was only 29; out of the 10,000 there must have been a couple of hundred members of the John Birch Society and similar outfits.