The Rubber Band/The Red Box 2-In-1 (10 page)

“Oh. That.” Wolfe’s half-closed eyes took in all three faces. “At twenty-five minutes to six this evening, less than five hours ago, on Thirty-first Street near Tenth Avenue, Harlan Scovil was shot and killed.”

Mike Walsh jerked up straight in his chair. They all gaped at Wolfe. Wolfe said:

“He was walking along the sidewalk, and someone going by in an automobile shot him five times. He was dead when a passerby reached him. The automobile has been found, empty of course, on Ninth Avenue.”

Clara Fox gasped incredulously, “Harlan Scovil!” Hilda Lindquist sat with her fists suddenly clenched and her lower lip pushing her upper lip toward her nose. Mike Walsh was glaring at Wolfe. He exploded suddenly:

“Ye’re a howling idiot!”

Wolfe’s being called an idiot twice in one evening was certainly a record. I made a note to grin when I got time. Clara Fox was saying: “But Mr. Wolfe … it can’t … how can …”

Walsh went on exploding, “So you hear of some shooting,
and you want to smell my gun? Ye’re an idiot! Of all the dirty—” He stopped himself suddenly and leaned on his hands on his knees, and his eyes narrowed. He looked pretty alert and competent for a guy seventy years old. “To hell with that. Where’s Harlan? I want to see him.”

Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Compose yourself, Mr. Walsh. All in time. As you see, Miss Fox, this is quite a complication.”

“It’s terrible. Why … it’s awful. He’s really
killed?
”

Hilda Lindquist spoke suddenly. “I didn’t want to come here. I told you that. I thought it was a wild goose chase. My father made me. I mean, he’s old and sick and he wanted me to come because he thought maybe we could get enough to save the farm.”

Wolfe nodded. “And now, of course …”

Her square chin stuck out. “Now I’m glad I came. I’ve often heard my father talk about Harlan Scovil. He would have been killed anyway, whether I came or not, and now I’m glad I’m here to help. You folks will have to tell me what to do, because I don’t know. But if that marquis thinks he can refuse to talk to us and then shoot us down on the street … we’ll see.”

“I haven’t said the marquis shot him, Miss Lindquist.”

“Who else did?”

I thought from her tone she was going to tell him not to be an idiot, but she let it go at that and looked at him. Wolfe said:

“I can’t tell you. But I have other details for you. This afternoon Harlan Scovil came to this office. He told Mr. Goodwin that he came in advance of the time for the interview to see what kind of a man I was. At twenty-six minutes after five, while he was waiting to see me, he received a telephone call from a man. He left at once. You remember that shortly after you arrived this evening a caller came and you were asked to go to the front room. The caller was a city detective. He informed us of the murder, described the corpse, and said that in his pocket had been found a paper bearing my name and address, and also the names of Clara Fox, Hilda Lindquist, Michael Walsh and the Marquis of Clivers. Scovil had been shot just nine minutes after he received that phone call here and left the house.”

Clara Fox said, “I saw him write those names on the paper. He did it while he was eating lunch with me.”

“Just so. —Mr. Walsh. Did you telephone Scovil here at 5:26?”

“Of course not. How could I? That’s a damn fool question. I didn’t know he was here.”

“I suppose not. But I thought possibly Scovil had arranged to meet you here. When Scovil arrived it happened that there was another man in the office, one of my clients, and Scovil approached him and told him he wasn’t Mike Walsh.”

“Well, was he? I’m Mike Walsh, look at me. The only arrangement I had to meet him was at six o’clock, through Miss Fox. Shut up about it. I asked you where Harlan is. I want to see him.”

“In time, sir. —Miss Fox. Did you telephone Scovil here?”

She shook her head. “No. Oh, no. I thought you said it was a man.”

“So it seemed. Fritz might possibly have been mistaken. Was it you who phoned, Miss Lindquist?”

“No. I haven’t telephoned anyone in New York except Clara.”

“Well.” Wolfe sighed. “You see the little difficulty, of course. Whoever telephoned knew that Scovil was in New York and knew he was at this office. Who knew that except you three?”

Hilda Lindquist said, “The Marquis of Clivers knew it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know it. I see it. Clara had been to see him and he had threatened to have her arrested for annoying him. He had detectives follow her, and they saw her this noon with Harlan Scovil, and they followed Harlan Scovil here and then notified the Marquis of Clivers. Then he telephoned—”

“Possible, Miss Lindquist. I admit it’s possible. If you substitute for the detective a member of the marquis’s entourage, even more possible. But granted that we rather like that idea, do you think the police will? A British peer, in this country on a government mission of the highest importance, murdering Harlan Scovil on Thirty-first Street? I have known quite a few policemen, and I am almost certain that idea wouldn’t appeal to them.”

Mike Walsh said, “To hell with the dumb Irish cops.”

Clara Fox asked, “The detective that was here … the one that told you about … about the shooting. Our names were on that paper. Why didn’t he want to see us?”

“He did. Badly. But I observed that there were no addresses on the paper except my own, so he is probably having difficulty. I decided not to mention that all of you happened to be here at the moment, because I wanted to talk with you and I knew he would monopolize your evening.”

“The detective at my apartment … he may have been there … about this …”

“No. There had hardly been time enough. Besides, there was one at the garage too.”

Clara Fox looked at him, and took a deep breath. “I seem to be in a fix.”

“Two fixes, Miss Fox.” Wolfe rang for beer. “But it is possible that before we are through we may be able to effect a merger.”

I only half heard that funny remark of Wolfe’s. Parts of my brain were skipping around from this to that and finding no place to settle down. As a matter of fact I had been getting more uncomfortable all evening, ever since Slim Foltz had told us the names on that paper and Wolfe had let him go without telling him that the three people he was looking for were sitting in our front room. He was working on a murder, and the fact that the name of a bird like that marquis was on that paper meant that they weren’t going to let anything slide. They would find those three people sooner or later, and when they learned where they had been at the time Slim Foltz called on us, they would be vexed. There were already two or three devoted public servants who thought Wolfe was a little tricky, and it looked as if this was apt to give them entirely too much encouragement. I knew pretty well how Wolfe worked, and when he let Foltz go I had supposed he was going to have a little talk with our trio of visitors and then phone someone like Cramer at Headquarters or Dick Morley of the District Attorney’s office, and arrange for some interviews. But here it was past ten o’clock, and he was just going on with an interesting conversation. I didn’t like it.

I heard his funny remark though, about two fixes and effecting a merger. I got his idea, and that was one of the points my brain skipped to. I saw how there might possibly be a connection between the Rubber Band business and Clara Fox being framed for lifting the thirty grand. She had gone to this British gent and spilled her hand to him, and he had given her the chilly how now and had her put out. But he had been badly annoyed what. You might even say scared if he
hadn’t been a nobleman. And a few days later the frame-up reared its ugly head. It would be interesting to find out if the Marquis of Clivers was acquainted with Mr. Muir, and if so to what extent. Clara Fox had said Muir was a Scotsman, so you couldn’t depend on him any more than you could an Englishman, maybe not as much. As usual, Wolfe was ahead of me, but he hadn’t lost me, I was panting along behind.

Meanwhile I had to listen too, for the conversation hadn’t stopped. At the end of Wolfe’s remark about the merger, Mike Walsh suddenly stood up and announced:

“I’ll be going.”

Wolfe looked at him. “Not just yet, Mr. Walsh. Be seated.”

But he stayed on his feet. “I’ve got to go. I want to see Harlan.”

“Mr. Scovil is dead. I beg you, sir. There are one or two points I must still explain.”

Walsh muttered, “I don’t like this. You see I don’t like it?” He glared at Wolfe, handed me the last half of it, and sat down on the edge of his chair.

Wolfe said, “It’s getting late. We are confronted by three distinct problems, and each one presents difficulties. First, the matter of the money missing from the office of the Seaboard Products Corporation. So far that appears to be the personal problem of Miss Fox, and I shall discuss it with her later. Second, there is your joint project of collecting a sum of money from the Marquis of Clivers. Third, there is your joint peril resulting from the murder of Harlan Scovil.”

“Joint hell.” Walsh’s eyes were narrowed again. “Say we divide the peril up, mister. Along with the money.”

“If you prefer. But let us take the second problem first. I see no reason for abandoning the attack on the Marquis of Clivers because Mr. Scovil has met a violent death. In fact, that should persuade us to prosecute it. My advice would be this—Archie, your notebook. Take a letter to the Marquis of Clivers, to be signed by me. Salute him democratically, ‘Dear Sir:’

Wolfe leaned back. “All right, Miss Lindquist?”

She was frowning at him. “He can’t pay with money for murdering Harlan Scovil.”

“Certainly not. But one thing at a time. I should explain that this claim has no legal standing, since it has expired by time, but the marquis might not care to proceed to that defense in open legal proceedings. We are on the fringe of blackmail, but our hearts are pure. I should also explain that at 6% compound interest money doubles itself in something like twelve years, and that the present value of that claim as I have stated it in the letter is something over a million dollars. A high price for a horse, but we are only using it to carry us to a point of vantage. This has your approval, Miss Fox?”

Clara Fox was looking bad. Sitting there with the fingers of one hand curled tight around the fingers of the other, she wasn’t nearly as cool and sweet as she had been that afternoon when Muir had declared right in front of her that she was a sneak thief.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think we want … no, Mr. Wolfe. I’m just realizing … it’s my fault Mr. Scovil was killed. I started all this. Just for that money … no! Don’t send that letter. Don’t do anything.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe drank some beer, and put the glass down with his usual deliberation. “It would seem that murder is sometimes profitable, after all.”

Her fingers tightened. “Profitable?”

“Obviously. If, as seems likely, Harlan Scovil was killed by someone involved in this Rubber Band business, the
murderer probably had two ends in view: to remove Scovil, and to frighten the rest of you. To scare you off. He appears to have accomplished both purposes. Good for him.”

“We’re not scared off.”

“You’re ready to quit.”

Hilda Lindquist put in, with her chin up, “Not me. Send that letter.”

“Miss Fox?”

She pulled her shoulders in, and out again. “All right. Send it.”

“Mr. Walsh?”

“Deal me out. You said you wanted to explain something.”

“So I did.” Wolfe emptied his glass. “We’ll send the letter, then. The third problem remains. I must call your attention to these facts: First, the police are at this moment searching for all three of you—in your case, Miss Fox, two separate assignments of police. Second, the police are capable of concluding that the murderer of Harlan Scovil is someone who knew him or knew of him, and was in this neighborhood this evening. Third, it is probable that there is no one in New York who ever heard of Harlan Scovil except you three and Clivers; or, if there is such a one, it is not likely that the police will discover him—in fact, the idea will not occur to them until they have exhausted all possibilities in connection with you three. Fourth, when they find you and question you, they will suspect you not only of knowledge of Scovil’s murder, but also of some preposterous plot against Lord Clivers, since his name was on that paper.