Murder By The Book

15

I PHONED Wolfe at 3:23 from a booth in a dragsters somewhere in Glendale. It is always a pleasure to hear him say "Satisfactory" when I have reported on an errand. This time he did better. When I had given him all of it that he needed, including the letter written by Dykes that I had in my pocket and the one written by Mrs. Potter that I had just put an air-mail stamp on and dropped in the slot at the Glendale Post Office, there was a five-second silence and then an emphatic "Very satisfactory." After another five bucks' worth of discussion of plans for the future, covering contingencies as well as possible, I dove through the rain to my waiting taxi and gave the driver an address in downtown Los Angeles. It rained all the way. At an intersection we missed colliding with a truck by an eighth of an inch, and the driver apologized, saying he wasn't used to driving in the rain. I said he soon would be, and he resented it.

The office of the Southwest Agency was on the ninth floor of a dingy old building with elevators that groaned and creaked. It occupied half the floor. I had been there once before, years back, and, having phoned that morning from the hotel that I would probably be dropping in, I was more or less expected. In a corner room a guy named Ferdinand Dolman, with two chins, and fourteen long brown hairs deployed across a bald top, arose to shake hands and exclaim heartily, "Well, well! Nice to see you again! How's the old fatty?"

Few people know Nero Wolfe well enough to call him the old fatty, and this Dolman was not one of them, but it wasn't worth the trouble to try to teach him manners, so I skipped it. I exchanged words with him enough to make it sociable and then told him what I wanted.

"I've got just the man for you," he declared. "He happens to be here right now, just finished a very difficult job. This is a break for you, it really is." He picked up a phone and told it, "Send Gibson in."

In a minute the door opened and a man entered and approached. I gave him one look, and one was enough. He had a cauliflower ear, and his eyes were trying to penetrate a haze that was too thick for them.

Dolman started to speak, but I beat him to it. "No," I said emphatically, "not the type. Not a chance."

Gibson grinned. Dolman told him he could go, and he did so. When the door had closed behind him I got candid. "You've got a nerve, trotting in that self-made ape. If he just did a difficult job I'd hate to see who does your easy ones. I want a man who is educated or can talk like it, not too young and not too old, sharp and quick, able to take on a bushel of new facts and have them ready for use."

"Jesus." Dolman clasped his hands behind his head. "J. Edgar Hoover maybe?"

"I don't care what his name is, but if you haven't got one like that, say so, and I'll go shopping."

"Certainly we've got one. With over fifty men on the payroll? Certainly we've got one."

"Show him to me."

He finally did, I admit that, but not until after I had hung around for more than five hours and had interviewed a dozen prospects. I also admit I was being finicky, especially since there was a good chance that all he would ever do was collect his twenty a day and expenses, but after getting it set up as I had I didn't want to run a risk of having it bitched up by some little stumble. The one I picked was about my age, named Nathan Harris. His face was all bones and his fingers were all knuckles, and if I knew anything about eyes he would do. I didn't go by ears, like Peggy Potter.

I took him to my room at the Riviera. We ate in the room, and I kept him there, briefing him, until two in the morning. He was to go home and get some luggage and register at the South Seas Hotel under the name of Walter Finch, and get a room that met the specifications I gave him. I let him make notes all he wanted, with the understanding that he was to have it all in his head by the time it might be needed, which could be never. One decision I made was to tell him only what Walter Finch, the literary agent, might be expected to know, not to hold out on him but to keep from cluttering his mind, so when he left he had never heard the names of Joan Wellman or Rachel Abrams, or Corrigan, Phelps, Kustin and Briggs.

Going to bed, I opened the window three inches at the bottom, and in the morning there was a pool that reached to the edge of the rug. I got my wristwatch from the bedstand and saw 9:20, which meant 12:20 in New York. At the Glendale Post Office they had told me that the letter would make a plane which would land at La Guardia at eight in the morning New York time, so it should be delivered at Madison Avenue any time now, possibly right this minute as I stretched and yawned.

One of my worries was Mr. Clarence Potter. Mrs. Potter had assured me that her husband wouldn't try to interfere, whether he approved or not, but it tied a knot in me, especially with an empty stomach, to think of the damage he could do with a telegram to Corrigan, Phelps, Kustin and Briggs. It was too much for me. Before I even shut the window or went to the bathroom I called the Glendale number. Her voice answered.

"Good morning, Mrs. Potter. This is Archie Goodwin. I was just wondering - did you tell your husband about it?"

"Yes, of course. I told you I was going to."

"I know you did. How did he take it? Should I see him?"

"No, I don't think so. He doesn't quite understand it. I explained that you have no copy of the manuscript and there doesn't seem to be one anywhere, but he thinks we should try to find one and perhaps it can be sold to a movie studio. I told him we should wait for an answer to my letter, and he agreed. I'm sure he'll understand when he thinks it over."

"Of course he will. Now about Walter Finch. I've got him, and he's in his room at the South Seas. He's a little taller than average, and you'd probably guess him at thirty-five. He has a bony face, and bony hands with long fingers, and dark brown eyes that you might call black. He looks straight at you when he talks, and his voice is a medium baritone, you'd like it. Do you want to write that down?"

"I don't need to."

"Sure you've got it?"

"Yes."

"I believe you. I'll be in my room at the Riviera all day. Call me any time if anything happens."

"All right, I will."

There's a loyal little woman with twinkles, I thought, hanging up. She knows damn well she's married to a dumbbell, but by gum she'll never say so. I phoned down for breakfast and newspapers, washed and brushed my teeth, and ate in my pajamas. Then I called the South Seas Hotel and asked for Walter Finch. He was there in his room, 1216, and said he was getting along fine with his homework. I told him to stay put until further notice.

When I had showered and shaved and dressed, and finished with the newspapers and looked out at the rain some, I phoned down for magazines. I refused to let myself start listening for the phone to ring because it might be all day and night and into another day before there was a peep, and it wouldn't help to wear my nerves out. However, I did look at my watch fairly often, translating it into New York time, as I gave the magazines a play. Eleven-fifty meant two-fifty. Twelve-twenty-five meant three-twenty-five. Four minutes after one meant four minutes after four. One-forty-five meant a quarter to five, nearing the end of the office day. I tossed a magazine aside and went to a window to admire the rain again, then called room service and ordered lunch.

I was chewing a bite of albacore steak when the phone rang. To show how composed I was, I finished chewing and swallowing before I picked it up. It was Mrs. Potter.

"Mr. Goodwin! I just had a phone call! From Mr. Corrigan!"

I was glad I had finished swallowing. "Fine! What did he say?"

"He wanted to know all about Mr. Finch. I said just what you told me to." She was talking too fast, but I didn't interrupt. "He asked where the manuscript is, and I told him Mr. Finch has it. He asked if I had seen it or read it, and I said no. He told me not to sign any paper or agree to anything until he has seen me. He's taking a plane in New York and he'll get to Los Angeles at eight in the morning and he's coming right here to see me."

It was a funny thing. I was swallowing albacore, although I would have sworn that it was already down. It tasted good.

"Did he sound as if he suspected anything?"

"He did not! I did it perfectly!"

"I'm sure you did. If I was there I'd pat you on the head. I might even go further than that, so it's just as well I'm not there. Do you want me to come out and go over it again? What you'll say to him?"

"I don't think it's necessary. I remember everything."

"Okay. He'll want to get to Finch as soon as possible, but he may ask you a lot of questions. What do you say if he asks to see the letter from your brother in which he mentioned writing a novel?"

"I say I haven't got it. That I didn't keep it."

"Right. He'll probably get to your place around nine o'clock. What time does your husband leave?"

"Twenty minutes past seven."

"Well. It's a million to one that you'll be in no danger, even if he's a killer, since he knows you have never seen the manuscript, but we can't take a chance. I can't be there myself because I have to be in Finch's room before he gets there. Now listen. At eight in the morning a man will come and show you his credentials from the Southwest Agency, a detective agency. Hide him where he can hear what goes on, but be darned sure he's well hid. Keep him -"

"No, that's silly! Nothing's going to happen to me!"

"You bet it isn't. Three murders is enough for one manuscript. He'll be there, and you -"

"My husband can take the morning off and stay home."

"No. I'm sorry, but that's out. Your talk with Corrigan is going to be ticklish to handle, and we don't want anyone joining in, not even your husband. A man will come with credentials, and you'll let him in and hide him and keep him there until an hour after Corrigan has left. Either that or I come myself, and that would ball it up. What hotel is Finch at?"

"The South Seas."

"Describe him."

"He's rather tall, in his thirties, with a bony face and hands and dark eyes, and he looks straight at you when he talks."

"Right. For God's sake don't get careless and describe me. Remember it was Finch who came to see you -"

"Really, Mr. Goodwin! If you have no confidence in me!"

"I have. I sure have."

"Well, you'd better!"

"I had indeed better. I'll be out part of the afternoon. If you need me, leave word. Good luck, Mrs. Potter."

"Good luck to you too."

The albacore had cooled off some, but it was good, and I finished it. I felt wonderful. I called Finch at the South Seas and told him we had had a bite and had a fish on the hook, and it might be the big one, and I would drop in on him at eight in the morning. He said he was all set. I lifted the receiver to put in a call to New York, then replaced it. It was goofy to suppose there could be any risk in George Thompson's calling Nero Wolfe's number, but I'd rather be goofy than sorry. Taking my raincoat and hat, I went down to the lobby, out into the rain, and to a drugstore in the next block. There I made the call from a booth. When I got Wolfe and reported the development, he grunted across the continent, and that was all. He had no additional instructions or suggestions. I got the impression that I had interrupted him at something important like a crossword puzzle.

I only half drowned finding a taxi to take me to the address of the Southwest Agency. With Dolman I didn't have to be as choosy as the day before, since any mug should be able to keep a man from killing a woman right under his nose, but even so I didn't want any part of Gibson or one like him. He produced a fairly good specimen, and I gave him careful and fully detailed instructions and made him repeat them. From there I went to the South Seas Hotel for a surprise call on Finch, thinking it just as well to check him and also to have a look at the room. He was lying on the bed, reading a book entitled Twilight of the Absolute, which seemed a deep dive for a dick, but then, as Finch, he was a literary agent, so I refrained from comment. The room was perfect, of medium size, with the door to the bathroom in the far corner and one to a good big closet off to one side. I didn't stay long because my nerves were jumpy away from the phone in my room at the Riviera. If anything happened I wanted to know it quick. For instance, Clarence Potter would soon be home from work, or was already. What if he didn't understand it some more and decided to take a hand?

But at bedtime the phone hadn't let out a tinkle.