The Second Confession

Chapter 20

The next day, Friday, two more articles got dictated, typed, and revised. The second one was delivered to Lon Cohen and the third one was locked in our safe. They carried the story through Election Day up to the end of the year, and while they had no names or addresses they had about everything else. I even got interested in them myself, and was wondering what was going to come next.

Lon’s bosses were glad to get them on Wolfe’s terms, including the surety protection against libel suits, but decided not to start them until Sunday. They gave them a three-column play on the front page:

There was a preface in italics:

Then it started off just as Wolfe had dictated it.

I am perfectly willing to hold out on you so as to tell it in a way that will give Wolfe’s stratagem the best possible build-up, as you may know by this time, but I am now giving you everything I myself had at the time. That goes for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday up to 8:30 P.M. You know all that I knew, or you will when I add that the third article was revised Sunday and delivered to Lon Monday noon for Tuesday’s paper, that Weinbach’s final report on the stone verified the first one, that nothing else was accomplished or even attempted, and that during those four days Wolfe was touchier than I had ever known him to be for so long a period. I had no idea what he expected to gain by becoming a ghost writer for Mr. Jones and telling the Commies’ family secrets.

I admit I tried to catch up. For instance, when he was up in the plant rooms Friday morning I did a thorough check of the photographs in his desk drawer, but they were all there. Not one gone. I made a couple of other well-intentioned efforts to get a line on his script, and not a glimmer. By Monday I was grabbing the mail each time a delivery came for a quick look, and hoping it was a telegram whenever the doorbell rang, and answering the phone in a hurry, because I had decided that the articles were just a gob of bait on a hook and we were merely sitting on the bank, hoping against hope for a bite. But if the bite was expected in the form of a letter or telegram or phone call, no fish.

Then Monday evening, in the office right after dinner, Wolfe handed me a sheet from his memo pad covered with his handwriting, and asked, “Can you read that, Archie?”

The question was rhetorical, since his writing is almost as easy to read as print. I read it and told him, “Yes, sir, I can make it out.”

“Type it on a Gazette letterhead, including the signature as indicated. Then I want to look at it. Address a Gazette envelope to Mr. Albert Enright, Communist Party of the USA, Thirty-five East Twelfth Street. One carbon, single-space.”

“With a mistake or two, maybe?”

“Not necessarily. You are not the only one in New York who can type well.”

I pulled the machine around, got the paper out and put it in, and hit the keys. When I took it out I read it over:

I got up to hand it to Wolfe and returned to the typewriter to address the envelope. And, though I had done the whole letter without an error, on the envelope I fumbled and spelled Communist “Counimmst,” and had to take another one. It didn’t irritate me because I knew why: I was excited. In a moment I would know which photograph was going to be enclosed in that letter, unless the big bum dealt me out.

He didn’t, but he might as well have. He opened his drawer and dug, held one out to me, and said, “That’s the enclosure. Mail it where it will be collected tonight.”

It was the picture, the best one, of the Communist party membership card of William Reynolds, Number 128–394. I withered him with a look, put the letter and picture in the envelope, sealed it and put a stamp on it, and left the house. In my frame of mind I thought a little air wouldn’t hurt me any, so I walked to the Times Square Station.

I expected nothing more from Wolfe that evening, and that was what I got. We went to bed fairly early. Up in my room undressing, I was still trying to map it, having been unable to sketch one I would settle for. The main stratagem was now plain enough, but what was the follow up? Were we going to start sitting and waiting again? In that case, how was William Reynolds going to be given another name, and when and why and by whom? Under the sheet, I chased it out of my mind in order to get some sleep.

The next day, Tuesday, until noon and a little after, it looked like more sitting and waiting. It wasn’t too dull, on account of the phone. The third article was in that morning’s Gazette, and they were wild for more. My instructions were to stall. Lon called twice before ten o’clock, and after that it was practically chain phoning: city editor, managing editor, executive editor, publisher, everybody. They wanted it so bad that I had a notion to write one myself and peddle it for fifteen thousand bucks flat. By noon there would have been nothing to it.

When the phone rang again a little before lunchtime I took it for granted it was one of them, so instead of using my formula I merely said, “Yep?”

“Is this Nero Wolfe’s office?” It was a voice I had never heard, a sort of an artificial squeak.

“Yes. Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Is Mr. Wolfe there?”

“Yes. He’s engaged. Who is it, please?”

“Just tell him rectangle.”

“Spell it, please?”

“R-e-c-t-a-n-g-l-e, rectangle. Tell him immediately. He’ll want to know.”

The connection went. I hung up and turned to Wolfe.

“Rectangle.”

“What?”

“That’s what he said, or rather squeaked. Just to tell you rectangle.”

“Ah.” Wolfe sat up and his eyes came clear open. “Get the national office of the Communist party, Algonquin four two two one five. I want Mr. Harvey or Mr. Stevens. Either one.”

I swiveled and dialed. In a moment a pleasant feminine voice was in my ear. Its being pleasant was a shock, and also I was a little self-conscious, conversing for the first time with a female Commie, so I said, “My name’s Goodwin, comrade. Is Mr. Harvey there? Mr. Nero Wolfe would like to speak to him.”

“You say Nero Wolfe?”

“Yes. A detective.”

“I’ve heard the name. I’ll see. Hold the wire.”

I waited. Accustomed to holding the wire while a switchboard girl or secretary saw, I leaned back and got comfortable, but it wasn’t long before a man told me he was Harvey. I signaled to Wolfe and stayed on myself.

“How do you do, sir,” Wolfe said politely. “I’m in a hole and you can help me if you want to. Will you call at my office at six o’clock today with one of your associates? Perhaps Mr. Stevens or Mr. Enright, if one of them is available.”

“What makes you think we can help you out of a hole?” Harvey asked, not rudely. He had a middle bass, a little gruff.

“I’m pretty sure you can. At least I would like to ask your advice. It concerns a man whom you know by the name of William Reynolds. He is involved in a case I’m working on, and the matter has become urgent. That’s why I would like to see you as soon as possible. There isn’t much time.”

“What makes you think I know a man named William Reynolds?”

“Oh, come, Mr. Harvey. After you hear what I have to say you may of course deny that you know him if that’s the way you want it. This can’t be done on the telephone, or shouldn’t be.”

“Hold the wire.”

That wait was longer. Wolfe sat patiently with the receiver at his ear, and I did likewise. In three or four minutes he started to frown, and by the time Harvey’s voice came again he was tapping the arm of his chair with a forefinger.

“If we come,” Harvey asked, “who will be there?”

“You will, of course, and I will. And Mr. Goodwin, my assistant.”

“Nobody else?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. We’ll be there at six o’clock.”

I hung up and asked Wolfe, “Does Mr. Jones always talk with that funny squeak? And did ‘rectangle’ mean merely that the letter from a friend had been received? Or something more, such as which commissars had read it?”