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

I agreed and thanked him again, and he said to give his regards to Wolfe. When I closed the door after him I didn't bother to slide the bolt since I would soon be leaving. I went to the kitchen and told Fritz he had just given the recipe for escargots bourguignonne to Dr Vollmer, and then to the office and buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone. I refused to believe they could tap a house phone. Wolfe answered, and I told him. He grunted and asked, "Have you any notion?"

"Not the vaguest. Not the FBI. Why would they? It could be that quote some prick may have stirred someone end of quote. Evers or Miss Fenster or even Muller. Any instructions?"

He said pfui and hung up, and I admit I had asked for it.

There would be the problem of spotting a tail and shaking it, and that can take time, so I would have to get help if I wanted to be punctual for the appointment. Also I should be prepared for the remote possibility that Ernst Muller was sensitive about having his arm twisted and was intending to return the compliment, so I got the shoulder holster from the drawer and put it on, and the Marley.38, and loaded it. But another kind of ammunition might be needed, and I opened the safe and got a grand in used tens and twenties from the cash reserve. Of course there were other conceivables, such as that I was going to have my picture taken in a room with a naked female or a corpse or God knew what, but I would have to dive off of that bridge when I came to it.

It was one minute to eleven when I left the house. With no glance around, I walked to the drugstore at the corner of Ninth Avenue, entered, went to the phone booth, and dialed the number of the garage on Tenth Avenue which houses the Heron sedan that Wolfe owns and I drive. Tom Halloran, who had been there for ten years, didn't answer, but after a wait I got him and explained the program, and he said he would be ready in five minutes. Thinking it would be better to give him ten, I looked over the rack of paperbacks awhile before leaving. Heading back on Thirty-fifth Street, I went on past the brownstone, turned right at Tenth Avenue, entered the garage office, went on through, and crossed to a Ford sedan standing there with the engine running. Tom was in front behind the wheel. I climbed in the back, took my hat off and curled up on the floor, clear down, and the car moved.

There may be leg room in that Ford model, but there's not body room for a six-footer who is not an expert contortionist, and I suffered. After five minutes of it I began to suspect that Tom was jerking to stops and around corners just to see how tough I was, but I was stuck, in more ways than one. My ribs were about to give and my legs were going numb when he stopped for the sixth time and his voice came. "All right, pal. All clear."

"Damn it, get a crowbar."

He laughed. I worked my head and shoulders up, got a grip on the rim of the seat back, somehow made it, and put my hat on.

We were at Twenty-third Street and Ninth Avenue. "How sure are you?" I asked him.

"Posilutely. Not a chance."

"Wonderful. But the next time use an ambulance. You'll find a piece of my ear in the corner. Keep it to remember me by."

I got out. He asked if there was anything more, and I said no and I would thank him later, and he rolled.

The Westside Hotel, in the middle of the block, was not exactly a dump, though many people would call it that. Evidently it was still in the black, since it had put on a new front and redone the lobby a couple of years back. Entering and ignoring everybody and everything, including a bald bellhop, I went to the do-it-yourself elevator, pushed the button, and was lifted. As I emerged and went to the nearest door to look at the number I noticed that my hand had slipped inside my coat to touch the Marley, and grinned at myself. If it was J. Edgar Hoover waiting for me, apparently he had better behave or he might get plugged. At Room 214, halfway down the hall on the left, the door was closed. My watch said 11:33. I knocked, and heard footsteps, and the door opened; and I stood and gawked. I was looking at the round red face and burly figure of Inspector Cramer of Homicide South.

"Right on time," he growled. "Come in." He sidestepped, and I crossed the sill.

My eyes have been trained so long to notice things that they took in the room automatically-the double bed, dresser with a mirror, two chairs, table with a desk pad that needed changing, open door to a bathroom-while my mind adjusted to the shock. Then, as I put my coat and hat on the bed, I got another shock: one of the chairs, the one without arms, was near the table, and on the table was a carton of milk and a glass. By God, he had bought it and brought it for his guest. I don't blame you if you don't believe it. I didn't, but there it was.

He went to the other chair, the one with arms, sat, and asked, "Are you loose?"

"Sure. I always obey instructions."

"Sit down."

I went to the other chair. He leveled his gray eyes at me. "Is Wolfe's phone tapped?"

My eyes were meeting his. "Look," I said, "you know damn well how it is. If I had listed a hundred names of people who might be here, yours wouldn't have been on it. Is this carton of milk for me?"

"Yes."

"Then you're off your hinges. You are not the Inspector Cramer I know so well, and I don't know what I'm up against. Why do you want to know if our phone is tapped?"

"Because I don't like to make things more complicated than they are already. I like things simple. I'd like to know if I could just have called you and asked you to come here."

"Oh. Sure you could, but if you had I would have suggested that it might be better if we went for a ride."

He nodded. "All right. I want to know, Goodwin. I know Wolfe has tangled with the FBI, and I want the picture. All of it. If it takes all day."

I shook my head. "That's out of bounds and you know it."

He exploded. "Goddammit, this is out of bounds! My being here! My getting you here! I thought you had some sense! Don't you realize what I'm doing?"

"No. I haven't the slightest idea what you're doing."

"Then I'll tell you. I know you pretty well, Goodwin. I know you and Wolfe cut corners, I ought to, but I also know what your limits are. So here, just you and me, I'll tell you. About two hours ago the Commissioner called me. He had had a call from Jim Perazzo-do you know who Jim Perazzo is?"

"Yeah, I happen to. Licensing Services, State Department, State of New York. Two-seventy Broadway."

"You would. I won't string it out. The FBI wants Perazzo to take Wolfe's license, and yours. Perazzo wants the Commissioner to give him whatever we've got on you. The Commissioner knows that for years I have had-uh-contacts with you, and he wants a full report, in writing. You know what reports are, it depends on who's writing them. Before I write this one I want to know what Wolfe has done or is doing to get the FBI on his neck. I want the whole picture."

When you are shown something that needs a good look it helps to have your hands doing something, like lighting a cigarette, but I don't smoke, or blowing your nose. I picked up the carton of milk, pried the flap open, and poured, carefully. One thing was obvious. He could have either phoned me to come to his office, or have come to Wolfe's house, but he hadn't because he suspected that our line was tapped and the house was watched. Therefore he didn't want the FBI to know that he was making contact, and he had gone to a lot of trouble to make it. He was telling me about the FBI and Perazzo and the Commissioner, which was ridiculous for a police inspector talking to a private detective. Therefore he didn't want us to lose our licenses, and therefore something was biting him, and it was desirable to find out what it was. In such a situation, before spilling it, especially to a cop, I should ring Wolfe and put it up to him, but that was out. My standing instructions were that in any emergency I was to use my intelligence guided by experience.