Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07 (18 page)

“But she went back there.”

“She did not. Where is she?”

“She started for your place about five o’clock.”

“Well, she didn’t get here.”

“That’s funny. What do you suppose happened to her?”

“I have no idea.”

A click in my ear ended it. So much for that. It sounded very much as if Zorka had not returned to Madison Avenue. I wrote three more lines of the report and the doorbell rang and I went up to the front and opened up.

It was Rudolph Faber.

I admit it was Wolfe’s house and I was employed there, and courtesy is courtesy, but he hung up his coat himself. That was the effect that guy had on me. I let him precede me into the office because I didn’t want him behind me, and he required no invitation to take a
chair. I had explained in the hall that Mr. Wolfe was never available in the morning until eleven o’clock, but I seated myself at my desk and rang up the plant rooms, and in a moment Wolfe answered.

I told him, “Mr. Rudolph Faber is here.”

“Indeed. What does he want?”

“To see you. He says he’ll wait.”

“I doubt if I can see him before lunch.”

“I told him so.”

“Well. Let’s see.” A pause. “Come up here. Better still, call on Mr. Green. Before leaving, give him a good book to read, and see what happens.”

“A really good book?”

“The best you can find.”

I hung up and swiveled to face the caller. “Mr. Wolfe needs me upstairs, and he suggested that I should give you a book to amuse yourself with while I’m gone.”

I went to the shelves and got down
United Yugoslavia
and returned and handed it to him. “I think you’ll find it very interesting, especially—”

He stood up and threw the book on the floor and started for the exit.

I trotted around and got between him and the door, faced him, and said urgently, “Pick it up!” I knew at the time that it was childish, but in the first place the impulse to make some kind of alteration on the supercilious look of his face was absolutely irresistible, and in the second place I had been permanently impressed by what I had been reading in the papers about certain things being done by certain people in certain parts of the world. I did give him a second chance by telling him again to pick it up, but he kept right on coming, apparently expecting me to melt into a grease spot. I said calmly, “Look out, here it is,” and put it there. I
didn’t aim for the chin because there wasn’t any and I didn’t want to pay a hospital bill. Instead. I took his left eye with a right hook and most of me behind it.

The door connecting with the front room opened a crack and Fred Durkin stuck his head in.

“Hey, need any help?”

“Come on in. What do you think?”

He walked over and stood looking down at Faber. “I’ll be darned. How many times did you hit him?”

“Once.”

“I’ll be darned. And you with a name like Goodwin. Sometimes I’m inclined to think—was your mother ever in Ireland?”

“Go suck an orange. Stand back and give him room.”

Faber got up by degrees. First on his hands, then on his hands and knees, and then slow but sure on up. He turned slowly, and looked at me, and I looked away on account of the expression in his eyes. It embarrassed me so much it damn near scared me, to see such an expression in the eyes of a man who had merely been knocked down. Naturally, it had been my intention to request him to pick the book up when he got upright again, but I didn’t do it. When he got under headway towards the door I stepped aside and let him go, and asked Fred to go to the hall and let him out. I picked up the book and put it away and sat down and rubbed my knuckles and worked my fingers open and shut a few times, and then phoned Wolfe a communiqué. All he did was grunt.

I worked my fingers limber enough so I could resume at the typewriter, but that report was hoeing a hard row. In addition to my deep-seated reluctance to spoiling white paper just to furnish a cop with
reading matter, there were constant interruptions. A phone call from Miltan the épée champion. All he wanted was information and I had none to give him. One from a guy in town from St. Louis who wanted to discuss orchids with Wolfe, and an appointment was made for next day. One from Orrie Cather for Wolfe and, a little later, one from Saul Panzer, both of which I was invited to keep out of.

Towards eleven o’clock there was a phone call from the Emperor of Japan. At least it might as well have been. First a woman asked for Mr. Wolfe, and I asked who was it and she said Mr. Barrett and I said put him on and she said hold the wire. I waited a while. Then a man said he wanted Mr. Wolfe, and I said is this Mr. Barrett, and he said authoritatively, no, it isn’t, put Mr. Wolfe on, please, and I asked who it was that wanted to talk to Mr. Wolfe, and he said Mr. Barrett, and I said put him on and he said hold the wire. That kind of a shenanigan. There was more to it than that, but after a terrific and exhausting struggle I finally heard something definite, in a leisurely cultivated male voice:

“This is Barrett. Mr. Wolfe?”

“Donald Barrett?”

“No, no, John P. Barrett.”

“Oh, Donald’s father. Of Barrett & De Russy?”

“That’s right. Mr. Wolfe, could you—”

“Hold it. This is Archie Goodwin, Mr. Wolfe’s confidential assistant.”

“I thought I had Wolfe.”

“Nope. I wore “em out. Mr. Wolfe will be engaged until eleven o’clock. I’ll take any message.”

“Well.” Hesitation. “That will do, I suppose. I would like to have Mr. Wolfe call at my office as soon after eleven as possible.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry. He never makes calls.”

“But this is important. In fact, urgent. It will be well worth his while—”

“No, sir. There’s no use prolonging it. Mr. Wolfe transacts business only at his office. He wouldn’t go across the street to receive the keys to the Bank of England.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Yes, sir. I’ve always said so. But there’s no use discussing it, except as an interesting case of cussedness.”

For ten seconds I heard nothing. Then, “Where is your office?”

“506 West 35th Street.”

“Mr. Wolfe is there throughout the day?”

“And night. Office and home.”

“Well … I’ll see. Thank you.”

Wolfe came down from the plant rooms a few minutes later, and after he had run through the mail, tested his pen, rung for beer, and glanced at the three pages of the report I had managed to finish, I told him about it. He listened impressively and thanked me with a disinterested nod. Thinking a little prodding was in order, I observed that he was in the case anyway, on account of family obligations, spending money right and left, and that it was therefore shortsighted and unintelligent not to permit Miss Tormic to have a co-client, when the co-client was of the nature of John P. Barrett, obviously anxious to join in the fun and ready to ante. I told him about the hundred bucks of Barrett dough which had already passed through our hands and said what a pity it would be to stop there, but before I could really get worked up about it I was interrupted by the arrival of the client herself.
Fritz announced Miss Neya Tormic and escorted her in.

She greeted Wolfe in a hurry and me not at all, and without taking time to sit down demanded of him: “The paper? Have you got the paper?”

She looked drawn and she acted jerky.

Wolfe said, “Yes, it’s here. Please sit down, won’t you?”

“I … the paper!”

“Give it to her, Archie.”

I went to the safe and got it. It was still in the envelope addressed to Saul Panzer. I removed it, tossed the envelope into the wastebasket, and handed the paper to her. She unfolded it and inspected it.

Wolfe said, extending his hand, “Let me see it, please.”

That didn’t appeal to her. She made no move to comply. He frowned at her and repeated his request in a crisper tone, and she handed it over but kept her eyes glued to it. He gave it a glance, folded it up, and asked her:

“Where is Miss Lovchen?”

“I suppose she’s at the studio. She said she was going there.”

“Surely there’ll be no fencing lessons there today.”

“I don’t know. That’s what she said.”

“You saw her this morning?”

“Of course. We live together in a little flat on 38th Street.” She put her hand out. “Give me—”

“Wait a minute. I don’t know why I assumed that Miss Lovchen would accompany you here this morning—it was stupid of me to do so, but I did. Anyway, it was she who left this paper here, and I’d rather return it to her. If she—”

“I’ll take it to her.”

“No, I think not. Here, Archie. Go along with Miss Tormic to Miltan’s and deliver this to Miss Lovchen. I like it better that way—”

“That’s absurd!” the client protested. “What’s the difference whether it’s me or Carla?”

“None, perhaps. But this suits me better. It’s neater.” He handed the thing to me and then regarded her gloomily. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I hope you have some idea of what’s going on. I haven’t. Mr. Faber has come here twice for the purpose of getting hold of that paper.”

“Oh.” She compressed her lips. “He has?”

“Yes. The second time was only a little more than an hour ago, and Mr. Goodwin lost his temper and hit him in the eye. So … I presume you girls realize that possession of that document—”

“We realize it.”

“Very well. Do you still expect to complete your … errand … today?”

“Yes.”

“When and where.”

She shook her head.

He shrugged. “Did you keep your appointment with Mr. Cramer this morning?”

“Yes, but not with Mr. Cramer. A man came and took me down there, and two men talked with me. That’s where I came from, here.”

“You told about finding those things in your pocket and so on.”

“Yes.”

“Did they ask about your political mission—anything of that sort?”

“Why, no, they don’t know anything about that.”

“Were you followed when you left there?”

“I—” She bit it off. In a moment she said, “I don’t
think so.” Her head jerked at me and back at him. “If you’re going to insist—I haven’t much time. I must see Carla anyway, but if he’s going—”

Wolfe nodded. “All right. Pfui. Archie, give that paper to Miss Lovchen in the presence of Miss Tormic.”

I suggested, “Fred’s in the front room—”

“No. You do it.”

“Cramer’s due in half an hour.”

“I know. Hurry back.”

I ushered her out. The roadster was still at the curb in front where I had left it. We climbed in and I warmed up the engine a minute, and rolled. She was completely don’t-touch-me. Whatever her mind was on, it certainly wasn’t on me, and during the short ride to 48th Street I accepted that as the status quo.

Across the street from Miltan’s a little group was collected on the sidewalk, and in front of the entrance a flatfoot was pacing a short beat. He gave us an eye as we went in, but made no attempt to interfere. Inside was no sign of life in the hall or reception room, but a murmur came from the rear and we went back there to the large office. Jeanne Miltan was in a chair at a desk, with two squad dicks, each with a notebook, seated facing her. Her husband, looking haggard and hopeless, was pacing the floor, shaking his head at himself. As we entered one of the dicks looked up and barked:

“What do you want?”

I waved a friendly hand. “Okay, private business.”

Neya intercepted Miltan and asked, “Is Miss Lovchen upstairs?”

He groaned. “No one is upstairs. We are deserted. We are ruined. Mr. Goodwin, can you tell me—”

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you a darned thing. Has Miss Lovchen been here this morning?”

“She came and stayed a while, but she left.”

“How long ago?”

“Oh, my God, I don’t know—half an hour.” He clapped a hand to his head and stared at Neya. “She said to tell you something if you came—”

Jeanne Miltan’s voice sounded: “She went home, Miss Tormic.”

“That’s it,” Miltan agreed. “She said to tell you she went home. That was all. She went home.”

“What do you want with her?” a dick demanded.

“Sell her a chance on a turkey raffle. Come on, Miss Tormic.”

We went back out to the sidewalk. Halting there, I asked her, “You said 38th Street? East or west?”

She smiled at me. “It’s silly for you to go. It’s so silly. Why don’t you just give it to me?”

“I’d love to,” I assured her. I didn’t see any sense in antagonizing her if she was my future wife. “I really would.” We were moving along to the roadster. “But here’s my car and I have to go downtown anyway. Besides, if I don’t follow instructions I’ll get fired. What’s the address?”

“404 East 38th.”

“Okay, that’ll only take—excuse me a minute.” I had caught a glimpse of something comical. “Climb in,” I told her, “I’ll be right back.”

I left her and went down the sidewalk to where a taxi had parked twenty feet behind the roadster. My glimpse had been of the passenger inside ducking out of our sight. As I lifted a foot to the running board the driver said:

“Busy.”

“Yeah, so I see.” I stretched my neck to get a better view of Fred Durkin huddled on the seat. So Wolfe was putting a tail on his own client. “I just wanted to save you some trouble. 404 East 38th Street.”

I returned to the roadster and got in and started off, telling Neya that I had merely exchanged the time of day with a Russian nobleman friend of mine who was driving a taxicab for his health. She said nothing. Apparently she was concentrating again on Balkan history, or whatever kind it was she was making. I retaliated by concentrating on my driving.

There was space for me directly in front of 404. It was an old house, one of a row, that had been done over into inexpensive flats by blocking off the stairs and sticking in some partitions. Eight steps up to the stoop, then a vestibule with mailboxes and bell buttons, then the door into the narrow hall. It wasn’t even necessary for Neya to use her key on the door, because it had stopped an inch short of closing and all I had to do was push it open. I let her go ahead. She led me up two flights of stairs with just enough light to keep you from groping, went to a door towards the front, and opened her bag and started fishing for a key. Then she thought better of that and pushed the button, and I could hear a bell ringing inside. But nothing else was heard, though after an interval she rang the bell again, and then again.