Please Pass the Guilt

14

The ad was on page 6 of the Times Tuesday morning and page 9 of the Gazette that afternoon — two columns, bold face, with plenty of space all around — and two more conditions had been added:

The other conditions, with only three words changed, followed.

We had discussed a certain probability and decided nothing could be done about it. Would Homicide South see the ad? Sure. Would they keep an eye, several eyes, on our front door to see who came? Sure again. Then what? They would horn in on our investigation of a murder. They would try to get for nothing what our client had offered $65,000 for. They would probably even put a tap on our phone, and the scientists have done such wonders for mankind that you can no longer tell whether your wire has been tapped or not. I admit science works both ways; we intended to record all conversations with callers, either in person or by phone. Also, with the bank balance fat again, we had reserves ready. Saul and Fred and Orrie were back, and at two P.M. Tuesday they were in the front room playing pinochle.

The very first one was wild. There had been four phone calls, but they had all been obvious screwballs. The first one in the flesh rang the doorbell a little before three o’clock. Through the oneway glass panel in the front door, he looked like a screwball too, but I opened the door and he handed me a card — a small blue card with a name on it in fancy dark blue letters: Nasir ibn Bekr. Okay, a foreign screwball, but I let him in. He was slim and wiry, he came about up to my chin, his hair and face and eyes were all very dark, and his nose would have gone with a man twice his size. On that warm June day his jacket was buttoned and the collar of his blue shirt was limp. When I turned after closing the door, he handed me a piece of paper, the ad clipped from the Times, and said, “I will see Mr. Nero Wolfe.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “He’s busy. You have information?”

“I am not sure. I may have.”

Not a screwball. Screwballs are sure. I asked him to wait, motioning to the bench, took the card to the office and handed it to Wolfe, and was told to bring him, but I didn’t have to. He was there, right behind me. The big Keraghan in the office is thick, but there’s no rug in the hall; he was the silent type. He should be closer to me than the red leather chair, so I blocked it off and motioned to the yellow one near the corner of my desk. Then I went and closed the door to the hall, for a reason. The arrangement was that when I admitted a visitor and intended to show him to the office, I would notify the trio by tapping on the door to the front room. When I had got the visitor to the office, I would close that door so that they would not be seen as they went down the hall to the alcove at the kitchen end, and they would take a look at the visitor through the peephole that was covered on the office side by a trick picture of a waterfall. They would also listen. As I crossed back to my desk, Nasir ibn Bekr said, “Of course this is being recorded,” and I said, “Then I won’t have to take notes.”

Wolfe said, “The conditions in the advertisement are clear?”

He nodded. “Certainly. Perfectly clear. The information I have, it is my personal knowledge, but its worth is for you to determine. I must ask a question. We find nothing in your record to indicate clearly your position regarding the situation in the Near East. Are you anti-Zionist?”

“No.”

He turned to me. “Are you?”

“No. My only objection to Jews is that one of them is as good a poker player as I am. Sometimes a little better.”

He nodded. “They have learned how to use guile. They have had to.” To Wolfe: “Perhaps you know that there are Arab terrorists — mostly Palestinians — active in this country, mostly in Washington and New York.”

“It is said that there are, yes.”

“It is not just said. There are. I am one.” He unbuttoned the top button of his jacket, slipped his hand in, and brought out a small brown envelope. From it he got a folded paper. He rose to hand it to Wolfe, but terrorists are in my department and I moved fast enough to get a hand to it first. As I unfolded it, he sat and said. “That is the names of five men, but I am not sure it is their real names. It is the only names I know for them. We meet every week, once a week, on Sunday afternoon, in an apartment in Jackson Heights. That is the address and telephone number. Armad Qarmat lives there. I do not have addresses for the others. As you see, my name is not there. I have printed them because with names like ours that is better than writing.”

I had given it a look and handed it to Wolfe.

“I see you have television,” Nasir ibn Bekr said. “Perhaps you saw a program on CAN in May, May seventh, ‘Oil and Mecca.’”

Wolfe shook his head. “I turn on the television rarely, only to confirm my opinion of it.” Not having been asked, I didn’t say that I had seen the “Oil and Mecca” program at Lily Rowan’s.

“It was a full hour,” the terrorist said. “It was partly a documentary in pictures of the production of oil in Arab countries, but it was also a commentary. It did not say that the existence and welfare of Israel were of more importance to civilization, and of course to democracy, than the Arabian oil, but it strongly implied that. It was definitely anti-Arabian and pro-Israel. That was a Wednesday. The following Sunday we discussed it, and we wrote a letter to CAN demanding a retraction of the lies it told. The next Sunday Armad said there had been no answer to the letter, and he had learned that the man responsible for the program was a vice-president of CAN named Amory Browning. That was Sunday, May eighteenth. We decided that it was an opportunity to take action against the anti-Arabian propaganda in this country.”

His head turned to me and back to Wolfe. “I should explain that I became a member of the group only a year ago, not quite a year, and I am not yet completely in their confidence. Especially Armad Qarmat has not fully decided about me, and that is why I said I am not sure, I may have information. I do know they had three bombs, I saw them one day. In April. That Sunday, May eighteenth, one of them suggested using one of the bombs at the CAN office, and if possible the office of Amory Browning. There was some discussion, and I saw that Armad Qarmat stopped it on account of me. As I said, he has not fully accepted me. The next Sunday, May twenty-fifth, one of them spoke of the explosion of a bomb in Amory Browning’s office, killing Peter Odell, another vice-president, but Armad Qarmat said that should not be discussed. Since then there have been four meetings, four Sundays, and the bomb has not been mentioned.”

He tilted his head back and took a couple of breaths, then looked at me and back at Wolfe. “There,” he said, “I have told you. This morning I saw your advertisement. Sixty-five thousand dollars is a great deal of money. It will be better if I am frank. At first I thought I would give you more... more detail. More that was said, as I am sure it must have been said, when I was not present. But then I saw it would be better to tell you exactly how it was, and that is what I have done. The advertisement does not say you require proof.”

He slipped his hand inside his jacket, again produced the brown envelope, and took something from it. “In my position,” he said, “I have to consider the possibilities. This is a piece of a dollar bill that I tore in half. If you find that what I have told you is the information you ask for in your advertisement, and if I do not come to claim the sixty-five thousand dollars, it may be because I can’t. If I am dead, I can’t. In that case someone else will come, and if so he will have the other half of the dollar bill. Will that be satisfactory?” He put the piece of the bill on Wolfe’s desk, and I went and got it. It was a ragged tear. I handed it to Wolfe.

He cocked his head at the terrorist. “I suppose,” he said, “you speak Arabic.”

“Of course.”

“Arabic is spoken at your Sunday meetings?”

“Of course.”

“Fortunately. For you. Your attempt at speaking English as it would be spoken by a cultured Palestinian is inept. You shouldn’t try it. What is your real name?”

He didn’t bat an eye. “That wouldn’t help you,” he said. Then he asked a question. To me the words he used were only sounds, but I knew it was a question by the inflection.

“I did,” Wolfe said, “but long ago. Arabic is not one of my languages. I want your name because I may need to ask you something.”

Nasir ibn Bekr shook his head. “I have told you all I know that could help. This is a big risk for me, coming to you at all, and I will not add to it. You are right, Arabic is not my native tongue. My native tongue is Spanish. But my Arabic is good; it must be. I will say this, if something happens, if one of them says something that you should know, I will telephone or come.” He rose and buttoned the top button of his jacket, looked at me and back at Wolfe, and said, “I must thank you.”

“A moment,” Wolfe said. “This house is under surveillance. By the police. Mr. Goodwin will show you out — at the rear. There’s a passage through to Thirty-fourth Street.”

The terrorist shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. Thank you again, but I can’t be followed. No matter who tries, even in Baghdad or Cairo I can get loose.”

He moved, and I went to open the door. It would have been mildly interesting to step out to the stoop and see who came out from where, to tail him, but I didn’t want to give anyone the idea that we gave a damn. As I turned from shutting the front door, I called down the hall, “All clear!” and the trio appeared from the alcove and followed me into the office. They lined up at the end of Wolfe’s desk.

“Comments,” Wolfe said. “Fred?”

“I don’t think so,” Fred said. “How would he get in Browning’s room when no one was there, and why would he pick the bottom drawer?”

“Orrie?”

“The League of Jewish Patriots,” Orrie said.

“No,” Saul said, “he’s not the type. They’re all athletes. Of course he’s a Jew, but not that kind. I agree with Fred. His reasons, and also the timing. The bomb doesn’t have to be connected with the fact that that was the day they were going to decide on the new president, but it’s hard to believe that it wasn’t.”

“But it’s only ten to one,” I said. “Even if it’s twenty to one we have to give it a look.”

“Actually,” Wolfe said, “he is taking no risk. Even if he knows there is only one chance in a thousand, he is giving himself that chance to fill a purse. — Archie. Type this list of names, adding his name, and the address, and give it to Fred. Fred, you will see if it is worth an effort. Enter that apartment only with all possible precaution; it isn’t worth even the slightest hazard. Our usual understanding, of course. Further comments?”

There weren’t any. I swung the typewriter around, Fred sat, and Saul and Orrie went to the front room.

That’s a sample of what the ad brought us. I don’t say typical; it wasn’t. Of course if you advertised in those two papers that you had sixty-five grand to hand out, no matter what for, and your name and address were in the phone book, you would know you would get plenty of calls and callers, and the best we could expect was that just one of them would really have something. If what I was after was merely to fill pages, it would be easy to add a dozen or so with the next couple of days, up to 9:42 P.M. Thursday evening. Some of the items might even add to your knowledge of human nature — for instance, the middle-aged man in a spotless white suit and a bushy wig who had had a dream Tuesday night. He came Wednesday afternoon. In the dream a man had opened the bottom drawer of a desk and fastened, with tape, a small plastic box to the partition above the drawer, about nine inches back from the front. A thin copper wire about a foot long protruded from the end of the box. With the drawer open only a couple of inches he had taped the loose end of the wire to the inside of the front of the drawer, and closed it, and departed. If we would show him photographs of the men who had entered or might have entered Amory Browning’s room that day, he would tell us which one had put the box in the drawer, and he would so testify under oath. That was what made it really good, that he would testify without even being subpoenaed. Or the female star buff who phoned for an appointment and came Thursday morning — a skinny specimen with hollow cheeks and big dreamy eyes. If we would give her the birth dates of all the suspects she would supply information that would almost certainly do the trick.

There were three or four that Saul and Orrie spent some time and effort on. Fred had made no headway with the Arab terrorists.

To show you how low I was by Thursday evening after dinner, I’ll admit what I was doing. First, what I wasn’t doing. I was not at the poker table at Saul’s apartment. I was in no mood for being sociable, and I would probably have drawn to an inside straight. I was at my desk in the office, scowling at the entries in a little looseleaf book which I call The Nero Wolfe Backlog. It contained a list of certain items that were in his safe deposit box at the Continental Trust Company, and I was considering which one or ones should be disposed of at the current market price if I was asked for a suggestion, as I would be soon if we got nothing better than Arab terrorists and dreamers and star buffs. Wolfe was at his desk with a book of stories by Turgenev, and that was bad too. When he’s low he always picks something that he has already read more than once.

When the doorbell rang, I glanced at my wrist watch as I rose, as usual. Sometimes it’s needed for the record. Eighteen minutes to ten. I went to the hall, flipped the switch of the stoop light, took a look, stepped back in the office, and said, “You’ll have to mark your place. It’s Dennis Copes.”

“You haven’t seen Dennis Copes.”

“No, but Saul described him.”

He shut the book without using the bookmark, and of course no dog ear, since it was Turgenev. I went and opened the front door, and the visitor said, “You’re Archie Goodwin,” and stepped right in as if I wasn’t there.

“And you’re—” I said.

“Copes. Dennis Copes. Not as famous as you, but I will be. Is your famous fat boss available?”

I was so damn glad to see him, to see someone who might actually have something to bite on, that I thought that on him the long hair and two-inch sideburns looked just fine. And when, in the office, he marched across and put out a hand, Wolfe took it. He seldom shakes hands with anybody, and never with strangers. He was low. As Copes sat he hitched his pants legs up — the nervous hands Saul had mentioned.

“That was a good ad,” he said. “‘Any person who communicates as a result of this advertisement thereby agrees to the above conditions.’ Very neat. What agency?”

Wolfe frowned. “Agency?”

“Who wrote it?”

“Mr. Goodwin.”

“Oh.” He looked at me: “Nice going Archie.” Back to Wolfe: “That ad would have made a wonderful five-minute spot — you and Mrs. Odell, you right here at your desk and her standing with her hand on your shoulder. You would do most of the talking, with your voice. She would have been glad to pay for prime time — say ten o’clock. A much bigger audience than the ad. Didn’t you consider it?”

“No.”

“Too bad. How many nibbles have you had?”

“None.”

“None? Impossible. All right, you’re not telling and why should you? But you can’t say it’s none of my damn business, because in a way it is. If someone else knows what I know, and if they’ve already told you, I’ve missed the bus. Have you — let’s see, how shall I put it — has anyone told you anything that makes you want to have a talk with Kenneth Meer or Helen Lugos?”

Wolfe eyed him. “Mr. Copes. Mrs. Odell’s advertisement asks for information to me, not from me. I’ll say this: if I had received information that gave me reason to speak with Miss Lugos or Mr. Meer, I would have arranged to see them, and I haven’t.”

Copes nodded. “Fair enough. Now I have to admit something. I have to admit that I should have told the police what I’m going to tell you. I admit I’m not exactly proud of the reason why I didn’t tell them. I admit it wasn’t because of any love I have for Kenneth Meer or Helen Lugos; it was because it would have put me right in the thick of a damn nasty murder mess. All right, I admit that. With you it’s different on two counts. One, you won’t handle it like they would. You’ll have more consideration for — well, for me. Two, if you get what I think you’ll get, I’ll get sixty-five thousand dollars and can I use it!”

The fingertips of his right hand were dancing a jig on the chair arm, and he turned the hand over and curled them. “Part of what I’m going to tell you probably won’t be news to you. You probably know why Odell went to Browning’s room and opened that drawer. Don’t you?”

Wolfe grunted. “Do you?”

“Yes. He was going to put LSD in the whisky bottle so Browning would bobble it at the directors’ meeting or not even be there. You probably know that, from Mrs. Odell. I’m going to tell you how I know it. How I knew it. I knew it the day before, that he was going to. I knew it on Monday, May nineteenth.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. Of course you know there were two doors to Browning’s room — one from the anteroom, Helen Lugos’s room, and one from the hall. And here’s another thing I have to admit, another reason I haven’t told the police: that Monday afternoon I entered Browning’s room by the door from the hall when I knew he wasn’t there. It was right after lunch, and I—”

“Wasn’t that door locked?”

“Not always. When Browning left by that door to go down the hall to the rear, he usually pushed the button on the lock so he could go back in without using his key. I wanted to look at something I knew was on his desk, and I knew he wasn’t there, so I tried that door and it opened. I didn’t make any noise because I didn’t want to be interrupted by Helen Lugos, and the door to her room was half open, and I could hear voices — hers and Kenneth Meer’s. Mostly his. I suppose this is being recorded.”

“Yes.”

“Of course. What isn’t?” He took a notebook from his pocket and opened it. “So I’d better read it. The first thing I heard him say — he said, ‘No, I’m not going to tell you how I found out. That doesn’t matter anyway, I did find out. Odell is going to dope that bottle of whisky with LSD tomorrow afternoon, or he thinks he is, and I want to be damn sure you don’t open the drawer to take a look at the usual time. Don’t open it any time after lunch. Don’t open it at all, don’t go near it, because — well, don’t.’ And she said, ‘But Ken, you’ll have to tell me — Wait. I’d better make sure—’ And there was the sound of her pushing her chair back.”

The fingertips were at it again, this time on his knee. “So I got out quick. She was probably going to come to make sure there was no one in Browning’s room. I hadn’t got to the desk, I was only a couple of steps from the door — I had left it open a crack — and I got out fast. I didn’t go back to my room because there’s another man in it with me and I wanted to be alone, so I went to the men’s room and sat on the john to think it over. Of course what I wanted to do, I wanted to tell Browning. Maybe Meer was going to tell him but from what he said it didn’t sound like it. But I didn’t want to tell Browning I had entered his room by the hall door — of course I didn’t. And I didn’t know what Meer intended to do. I knew he intended to do something since he had told her not to go near the drawer, but what? What would you have thought he intended to do?”

Wolfe shook his head. “I don’t know him. You did.”

“Sure, I knew him, but not well enough for that. For instance, I thought he might wait until about four o’clock Tuesday and then take the bottle from the drawer and put another bottle in its place, and have the whisky analyzed and have the bottle checked for fingerprints. He knew Browning never took a drink until about half past four or a quarter to five, when the program scripts had all been okayed. I considered all the possibilities, what I could do, and the one thing I had to do was make sure that Browning didn’t drink any doped whisky. So I decided to be there in the room with him Tuesday when he okayed the last script — I usually was — and when he got the bottle out, I would say that there was nothing Odell wouldn’t do to get the president’s job, and it might be a good idea to open the other bottle. There was always another bottle there, unopened, often two.”

“You knew that,” Wolfe said.

“Sure, several of us did. Often a couple of us were there when he opened the drawer. One thing I considered: tell Browning that I had heard Meer say that to Helen, but not that I had been in his room. But that would have been very tricky because where was I and where were they? You may know that a lot of people think I want Meer’s job.”

“That has been said, yes.”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. I want to get on, sure, who doesn’t, but it doesn’t have to be his job. Anyway, I had to consider that too. Of course if I had known what Meer was going to do, if I had even suspected it, I would have gone straight to Browning and told him just like it was. I didn’t and of course I regret it.”

“You’re assuming that Meer had decided to put a bomb in the drawer?”

“Certainly. My God, don’t I have to? Didn’t I have to?”

“You made that assumption that day — the next day? When you learned what had happened?”

“I certainly did.”

“Five weeks ago. Five weeks and two days. What have you done to verify it?”

Copes nodded. “It’s easy to ask that. What could I have done? Could I ask people if they had seen Meer with a bomb? Could I ask them if they had seen him go into Browning’s room? Could I ask Helen Lugos anything? Could I hire a detective? Naturally you’re thinking I may have cooked this up. Of course you are. You’d be a damn fool if you didn’t. But there’s one detail, one fact, that you have to consider. As I said, you probably knew that Odell went there to put LSD in the whisky because Mrs. Odell probably told you, but how did I know? One thing, Odell must have had the LSD with him, but there has been no mention of it. It could be that the police are reserving it, or it could be that he had it in his hand when he opened the drawer and no traces of it have been found, but I doubt that because they are very thorough and very expert on that kind of thing. Probably they’re keeping it back. Maybe you know?”

Wolfe skipped it. “That’s a detail, yes. Not conclusive, but indicative. You’re aware, Mr. Copes, that without support your information is worthless. If I challenge Mr. Meer or Miss Lugos by telling them what you have told me and they say you lie, what then? Have you a suggestion?”

“No. The ad didn’t say I have to tell you how to use the information. You’re Nero Wolfe, the great detective; I’m just a guy who happened to hear something. Of course I realize Browning will have to know I entered his room that way, that will have to come out, maybe even on the witness stand. You’ve got it now on tape. If it costs me my job I’ll need that sixty-five thousand. Should I tell Browning myself? Now?”

“No.” Wolfe made it positive. “Tell nobody anything. May I see that notebook?”

“Certainly.” He took it from his pocket and got up to hand it over. It was loose-leaf with little rings. Wolfe gave several pages a look and stopped at one.

“Did you write this that day? Monday?”

“No. I wrote it the next day, Tuesday evening, after the — after what happened. But that’s exactly what he said. I can swear to it.”

“You may have to.” Wolfe handed the notebook back to him. “I can’t tell you how I’ll proceed, Mr. Copes, because I don’t know. If I need you, I’ll know where to find you.” He leaned back, his head against the chair back, and shut his eyes. I honestly don’t know if he realizes that that’s no way to end a conversation. I do.