Home to Roost

II

Wednesday morning all the air in Manhattan was conditioned — the wrong way. It was no place for penguins. On my way to Foley Square my jacket was beside me on the seat of the taxi, but when I had paid the driver and got out I put it on. Sweat or no sweat, I had to show the world that a private detective can be tough enough to take it.

When, after some waiting, I got admitted to Wengert’s big corner room I found him in his shirt sleeves with his tie and collar loosened. He got up to shake hands and invited me to sit. We exchanged remarks.

“I haven’t seen you,” I told him, “since you got elevated here. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I notice you’ve got brass in your voice, but I guess that can’t be helped. Mr. Wolfe sends his regards.”

“Give him mine.” His voice warmed up a little, just perceptibly. “I’ll never forget how he came through on that mercury thing.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “What can I do for you, Goodwin?”

Back a few years, when we had been in G2 together, it had been Archie, but then he hadn’t had a corner room with five phones on his desk. I crossed my legs to show there was no rush.

“Not a thing,” I told him. “Mr. Wolfe just wants to clear. Yesterday a man and wife named Rackell came to see him. They want him to investigate the death of their nephew, Arthur Rackell. Do you know about it, or do you want to call someone in? Mrs. Rackell has talked with a Mr. Anstrey.”

“I know. Go ahead.”

“Then I won’t have to draw pictures. Our bank says that Rackell rates seven figures west of the decimal point, and we would like to earn a fee by tagging a murderer, but our country right or wrong. We would hate to torpedo the ship of state in this bad weather. The Rackells came to Mr. Wolfe because they think the FBI and the NYPD regard the death of Arthur as a regrettable but minor incident. They say he was killed by a Commie who discovered that he was an FBI plant. Before we proceed on that theory Mr. Wolfe wants to clear with you. Of course you may not want to say, even under the rug to us, that he was yours. May you?”

“It’s hotter than yesterday,” Wengert stated.

“Yeah. Would you care to make any sign at all, for instance a wink?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll try something more general. There has been nothing in the papers about the Commie angle, not a word, so there has been no mention of the FBI. Is the FBI working on the murder, officially or otherwise?”

“Much hotter,” he said.

“It sure is. How about the others, the five dinner guests? Of course they’re our meat. Any suggestions, requests, or orders? Any strings you wouldn’t want us to trip on?”

“The humidity, too.”

“Absolutely. I realize that you would like to tell us to lay off on general principles, but you’re afraid there might be a headline tomorrow, FBI WARNS NERO WOLFE TO KEEP HANDS OFF OF RACKELL MURDER. Besides, if you give us a stop sign you’ll have to say why or we’ll keep going. Just to clean it up, it there any question I might ask that would take your mind off the weather?”

“No.” He stood up. “It was nice to see you for old time’s sake, and you can still give Wolfe my regards, but tell him to go climb a tree. Some nerve. Sending you here with that bull about wanting to clear! Why didn’t he ask me to send him up the files? Come again when I’m not here.”

I was on my way, but before I reached the door I turned. “The radio said this morning it would hit ninety-five,” I told him and went.

There are always taxis at Foley Square. I removed my jacket, climbed into one, and gave an address on West Twentieth Street. When we got there my shirt was stuck to the back of the seat. I pulled loose, paid, got out, put on the jacket, and went into a building. The headquarters of the Homicide Squad, Manhattan West, was much more familiar to me than the United States Courthouse. So were the inmates, one in particular, the one sitting at a dingy little desk in a dingy little room to which I was escorted. They have never let me roam loose in that building since the day I took a snapshot of a piece of paper they were saving, though they couldn’t prove it.

Sergeant Purley Stebbins was big and strong but not handsome. His rusty old swivel chair squeaked and groaned as he leaned back.

“Oh, hell,” I said, sitting, “I forgot. I meant to bring a can of oil for that chair my next trip here.” I cocked my head. “What are you glaring about? Is my face dirty?”

“It don’t have to be dirty.” He went on glaring. “Goddam it, why did they have to pick Nero Wolfe?”

I considered a moment, maybe two seconds. “I am glad to know,” I said pleasantly, “that the cops and the feds are collaborating so closely. Citizens can sleep sound. Wengert must have phoned the minute I left. What did he say?”

“He spoke to the Inspector. What do you want?”

“Maybe I should speak to the Inspector.”

“He’s busy. So the Rackells have hired Wolfe?”

I lifted my nose. “Mr. and Mrs. Rackell have asked Mr. Wolfe to investigate the death of their nephew. Before he starts to whiz through it like a cyclone he wants to know whether he will be cramping the style of those responsible for the national security. I’ve seen Wengert, and the heat has got him. He’s not interested. I am now seeing you because of the Commie angle, which has not appeared in the papers. If it is against the public interest for us to take the job, tell me why. I know you and Cramer think it’s against the public interest for us to eat, let alone detect, but that’s not enough. We would need facts.”

“Uh-huh,” Purley growled. “We give ’em to you and Wolfe decides he can use ’em better than we can. Nuts. I’ll tell you one fact: this one has got stingers. Lay off.”

I nodded sympathetically. “That’s probably good advice. I’ll tell Mr. Wolfe.” I arose. “We would like you to sign a statement covering the substance of this interview. Three copies, one—”

“Go somewhere,” he rasped. “On out. Beat it.”

I thought he was getting careless, but my escort, a paunchy old veteran with a pushed-in nose, was waiting in the hall. As I strode to the front and the entrance he waddled along behind.

It was past eleven by the time I got back to the office, so Wolfe had finished his two hours in the plant rooms and was behind his desk, with beer. It would have been impossible for anything with life in it to look less like a cyclone.

“Well?” he muttered at me.

I sat. “We deposit the check. Wengert sends his regards. Purley doesn’t. They both think you sent me merely to get the dope for free and they sneer at the idea of our caring for the public welfare. Wengert phoned Cramer the minute I left. Not a peep from either one. We only know what we see in the papers.”

He grunted. “Get Mr. Rackell.”

So we had a case.