Rex Stout - Champagne for One

"Pfui."

"Yeah, I know. I don’t want to shove, but we haven’t had a case for two weeks."

He was scowling at me. It wasn’t so much that he would have to leave his chair and walk to the hall and on to the alcove, and stand at the hole-after all, that amount of exercise would be good for his appetite-as it was that the very best that could come of it, getting a client, would also be the worst, since he would have to work. He heaved a sigh, not letting it interfere with the scowl, muttered, "Confound it," put his palms on the desk rim to push his chair back, and got up and went.

The hole was in the wall, at eye level, eight feet to the right of Wolfe’s desk. On the office side it was covered by a picture of a pretty waterfall. On the other side, in a wing of the hall across from the kitchen, it was covered by nothing, and you could not only see through but also hear through. I had once stood there for four solid hours, waiting for someone to appear from the front room to snitch something from my desk. I allowed Wolfe a minute to get himself posted and then went and opened the door to the front room and spoke.

"In here, Laidlaw. It’s more comfortable." I moved one of the yellow chairs around to face my desk.

Chapter Five

Laidlaw sat and looked at me. Three seconds. Six seconds. Evidently he needed priming, so I obliged.

"I thought it was a nice party up to a point, didn’t you? Even with the protocol."

"I can’t remember that far back." He leaned forward. His hair was still perfectly uncombed. "Look, Goodwin. I want to ask you a straight question, and I hope you’ll answer it. I don’t see why you shouldn’t."

"I may not either. What?"

"About what you said last night, that you thought that girl was murdered. You said it not only to us, but to the police and the District Attorney. I can tell you confidentially that I have a friend, it doesn’t matter who or where, who has given me a little information. I understand that they would be about ready to call it suicide and close the investigation if it weren’t for you, so your reason for thinking it was murder must be a pretty good one. That’s my question. What is it?"

"Your friend didn’t tell you that?"

"No. Either he wouldn’t, or he couldn’t because he doesn’t know. He says he doesn’t know."

I crossed my legs. "Well, I can’t very well say that. So I’ll say that I have told only the police and the D.A.’s office and Mr Wolfe, and for the present that’s enough."

"You won’t tell me?"

"At the moment, no. Rules of etiquette."

"Don’t you think the people who are involved just because they were there-don’t you think they have a right to know?"

"Yes, I do. I think they have a right to demand that the police tell them exactly why they are going ahead with a homicide investigation when everything seems to point to suicide. But they have no right to demand that I tell them."

"I see." He considered that. "But the police refuse to tell us."

"Yeah, I know. I’ve had experiences with them. I’ve just had one with Inspector Cramer."

He regarded me. Four seconds. "You’re in the detective business, Goodwin. People hire you to get information for them, and they pay for it. That’s all I want, information, an answer to my question. I’ll give you five thousand dollars for it. I have it in my pocket in cash. Of course, I would expect a definitive answer."

"You would deserve one, for five grand," I was finding that meeting his eyes halfway, not letting them come on through me, took a little effort. "Five grand in cash would suit me fine, since the salary Mr Wolfe pays me is far from extravagant. But I’ll have to say no even if you double it. This is how it is. When the police make up their minds about it one way or the other, that I’m right or I’m wrong, no matter which, I’ll feel free to tell you or anybody else. But if I go spreading it around before then they will say I am interfering with an official investigation, and they will interfere with me. If I lost my licence as a private detective your five grand wouldn’t last long."

"Ten would last longer."

"Not much."

"I own a publishing business. I’d give you a job."

"You’d soon fire me. I’m not a very good speller."

His eyes were certainly straight and steady. "Will you tell me this? How good is your reason for thinking it was murder? Is it good enough to keep them on it the whole way, in spite of the influence of a woman in Mrs Robilotti’s position?"

I nodded. "Yes, I’ll answer that. It was good enough to bring Inspector Cramer here when he hadn’t had much sleep. In my opinion it is good enough to keep them from crossing it off as suicide until they have dug as deep as they can go."

"I see." He rubbed his palms together. Then he rubbed them on the chair arms. He had transferred his gaze to a spot on the rug, which was a relief. It was a full minute before he came back to me. "You say you have told only the police, the District Attorney, and Nero Wolfe. I want to have a talk with Wolfe."

I raised my brows. "I don’t know."

"You don’t know what?"

"Whether…" I let it trail, screwing my lips. "He doesn’t like to mix in when I’m involved personally. Also he’s pretty busy. But I’ll see." I arose. "With him you never can tell." I moved.

As I turned left in the hall Wolfe appeared at the corner of the wing. He stood there until I had passed and pushed the swing door, and then followed me into the kitchen. When the door had swung shut I spoke.

"I must apologize for that crack about salary. I forgot you were listening."

He grunted. "Your memory is excellent and you shouldn’t disparage it. What does that man want of me?"

I covered a yawn. "Search me. If I had had some sleep I might risk a guess, but it’s all I can do to get enough oxygen for my lungs so my brain’s doing without. Maybe he wants to publish your autobiography. Or maybe he wants you to make a monkey of me by proving it was suicide."

"I won’t see him. You have supplied a reason: that you are involved personally."

"Yes, sir. I am also involved personally in the income of your detective business. So is Fritz. So is the guy who wrote you that letter from New Guinea, or he’d like to be."

He growled, as a lion might growl when it realizes it must leave its cosy lair to scout around for a meal. I admit that for him a better comparison would be an elephant, but elephants don’t growl. Fritz, at the table shucking clams, started humming a tune, very low, probably pleased at the prospect of a client. Wolfe glared at him, reached for a clam, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. When I pushed the door open and held it, he waited until the clam was down before passing through.

He doesn’t like to shake hands with strangers, and when we entered the office and I pronounced names he merely gave Laidlaw a nod en route to his desk. Before I went to mine I asked Laidlaw to move to the red leather chair so I wouldn’t have him in profile as he faced Wolfe. As I sat, Laidlaw was saying that he supposed Goodwin had told Wolfe who he was, and Wolfe was saying yes, he had.