Please Pass the Guilt

19

The vice-president and his secretary came on the dot at half past two. Precisely.

We were well-filled. Inside our bellies were three bottles of Dom Perignon champagne, braised sweetbreads with chicken quenelles (small portions because of the unexpected guests), crab meat omelets (added attraction), celery and mushroom salad, and four kinds of cheese. Inside our skulls were the details of where it stood according to Wolfe and the program for the next hour or two. For where it stood I would have given good odds, say ten to one, and so would the other three. For the program, no bet. It was a typical Wolfe concoction. It assumed — he assumed — that if an unexpected snag interfered, he would be able to handle it no matter what it was, and your ego has to be riding high to assume that.

To prepare for it only two props were needed. One was the Copes tape in the playback on my desk. For the other all four of us went to the basement. I could have done it alone, but they wanted to help. In a corner of the big storage room there were two thick, old mattresses, no springs in them, which I had used a few times for targets to get bullets for comparison purposes. We decided the best place for them was under the pool table in the adjoining room, where it had been installed when Wolfe had decided that he needed some violent exercise. Doubled, the mattresses were a tight fit under it.

The three were to be in the front room, but when the doorbell rang Saul went to receive the guests and show them in. They didn’t have their war paint on. Browning was not a dragon snorting fire, and Helen Lugos was not set to use her claws on someone who had called her a liar. He sat in the red leather chair and said he had an appointment at a quarter past three, and she sat in a yellow one and said nothing.

“This will take a while,” Wolfe told Browning. “Perhaps an hour.”

“I can’t stay an hour.”

“We’ll see. I’ll make it as brief as possible. First you must hear a recording of a conversation I had recently with a member of your staff, Dennis Copes. Here. He came last Thursday evening. — Archie?”

I flipped the switch, and for the fifth time I heard Copes speak highly of that ad. Another time or two and I would begin to think I had picked the wrong line of work, that by now I could have been a vice-president myself, at one of the big agencies. As I had with Cramer and Rowcliff, I watched their faces. Their reaction was very different from the cops’. They looked at Wolfe hardly at all. Mostly they looked at each other, him with a frown that developed into what you might call a gawk, and her first with her eyes wide and then with her lips parted. Twice she started to say something but realized she had to hold it. When it came to the end and I turned it off, they both started to speak at once, he to her and she to him, but Wolfe stopped them. “Don’t,” he said, loud enough and decisive enough to stop anybody. “Don’t waste your breath and your time and mine, I know he lied. It was all a fabrication. That has been established, with the help of Inspector Cramer. He heard the recording this morning. I should tell you, and I do, that this conversation is not being recorded. I give you that assurance on my word of honor, and those who know me would tell you that I would not tarnish that fine old pledge.”

Browning demanded, “If you know he lied why bother us with it? Why do you waste our time?”

“I don’t. You had to hear part of it, and to appreciate that part you needed to hear the whole. I have—”

“What part?”

“You said your time is limited.”

“It is.”

“Then don’t interrupt. I have a good deal to say and I am not garrulous. The kernel of Mr. Copes’s fabrication was of course the quotation — what he said he heard Kenneth Meer say.” To Helen Lugos: “You say he didn’t say that? That that conversation didn’t occur?”

“I certainly do. It didn’t.”

“I believe you. But his invention of it told me something that he did not intend and was not aware of. It told me who put the bomb in the drawer, and I’m going to tell you how and why. As I said, I’ll make it brief as possible, but you should know that Kenneth Meer is responsible for my concern in this affair. On May twenty-sixth, a Monday, he went to a clinic, gave a false name, and told a doctor that he needed help; that he got blood on his hands recurrently, frequently, not visible to anyone else. He refused—”

Browning demanded, “A clinic? What clinic?”

“Don’t interrupt! To include all details would take all day. I assure you that anything I do include can be verified. He refused to give any information about himself. A friend of that doctor, another doctor, consulted me, and Kenneth Meer, still using an alias, came to see me. He still refused to supply any information about himself, but by a ruse, Mr. Goodwin and I learned who he was, and of course we had seen his name in the published reports of the death of Peter Odell. That led to my being consulted by Mrs. Odell and her hiring me. Naturally—”

“So that’s how—”

“Don’t interrupt! Naturally I considered the possibility that Meer had supplied the bomb and was racked by his sense of guilt. But surely not intending it for you, and information given me by Mrs. Odell made it extremely unlikely that he could have known that Peter Odell intended to go to your room and open that drawer. I will not elaborate on that. I have included that detail, how I first saw Kenneth Meer, only to explain why he has been of special interest throughout. There has always been for me that special reason to suspect him, but there was no plausible basis for a charge. Or rather, there was, but I hadn’t the wit to see it. I admit I should have. Mr. Copes revealed it to me.”

He turned a palm up. “If you undertake to invent something you heard another man say and you’re not a fool, you make it conform to his character, his knowledge, and his style. And Copes had Kenneth Meer saying to Miss Lugos, ‘I want to be damn sure you don’t open the drawer to take a look at the usual time.’ Would he have had him say that to her, especially the ‘usual time,’ unless he knew, or thought he knew, that Miss Lugos was in the habit of looking in the drawer every day, and that Meer knew it? When he wanted to make the invented quotation not only conceivable but as credible as possible? He would not. He would have included that ‘usual’ only if it conformed to his knowledge of the facts. Of course if he knew that Miss Lugos had told the police — and Mr. Goodwin — that she had not habitually opened the drawer every day, it was a blunder to include the ‘usual.’ It was a blunder even if he didn’t know that, because it wasn’t necessary, but he included it because he thought it increased the credibility of his lie.”

Wolfe looked at Helen Lugos. “So when you told Mr. Goodwin that you did not look in the drawer every day, you lied. And you knew that the bomb, put in the drawer by Kenneth Meer, was intended for you. You had known that from the day it happened. You probably knew it, at least surmised it, the moment you entered the wrecked room.”

Browning was on his feet. “Come, Helen,” he said. “This is absurd. We’re going.”

“No,” Wolfe said. He turned to me, lifted a hand, and wiggled a finger. I went and opened the connecting door to the front room and stuck my head in and said, “Help.” Saul and Fred headed for the other door, to the hall, and Orrie came and joined me. Helen Lugos was up and moving, with Browning behind her, but before they reached the door to the hall Saul and Fred were there, and Helen Lugos stopped. Saul swung the door around, closed it, and he and Fred stood with their backs to it.

“You are not going, Mr. Browning,” Wolfe said. “Come and sit down.”

Browning turned. “This is absurd. Absolutely ridiculous.”

“It is not. I have more to say and I mean you to hear it. You might as well sit.”

“No. You’ll regret this.”

“I doubt it.” Wolfe turned. “Your notebook, Archie.”

I went to my desk, sat, got notebook and pen, and crossed my legs. A replay, though not quite instant.

Wolfe leaned back. “A suggested draft for an article in tomorrow’s Gazette. ‘Yesterday afternoon Nero Wolfe, comma, the private investigator, comma, told a Gazette reporter that he has learned who was responsible for the death by violence of Peter Odell, comma, a vice-president of the Continental Air Network, comma, on May twentieth. Period. Mr. Odell was killed by the explosion of a bomb in the office of Amory Browning, comma, also a vice-president of the Continental Air Network. Paragraph.

“‘Mr. Wolfe said, comma, quote, “I have established to my satisfaction that the bomb was put in a drawer of Mr. Browning’s desk by Kenneth Meer, comma, Mr. Browning’s assistant, dash, the drawer in which Mr. Browning kept a supply of bourbon whisky. Period. Mr. Meer knew that Miss Helen Lugos, comma, Mr. Browning’s secretary, comma, was in the habit of opening the drawer every afternoon to see that the whisky was there, comma, and he placed the bomb so it would explode when the drawer was opened. Period. However, comma, Mr. Odell entered the room shortly after three o’clock and opened the drawer, comma, it is not known why. Paragraph.

“‘Quote. “In these circumstances, comma, established to my satisfaction, comma, it is not only reasonable, comma, it is unavoidable, comma, to suppose that Miss Lugos has been aware that the bomb must have been put in the drawer by Mr. Meer, comma, and the supposition is supported by the fact that she has consistently denied that she habitually opened the drawer every day to check on the whisky. Period. Also it is reasonable to suppose that Mr. Browning was aware of that too, comma, or at least suspected it. Period. Kenneth Meer knew of the intimate personal relationship that existed between Mr. Browning and Miss Lugos, comma, and was tormented by the knowledge. Period. He was torn by two intense and conflicting desires. Colon. His ardent wish to advance through his association with Mr. Browning, comma, and his concupiscence. Period. It may be assumed—”’”

“This is worse than ridiculous.” Browning was standing at the end of Wolfe’s desk. “It’s idiotic. No newspaper would print it. Any of it.”

“Oh, yes. The Gazette would, with a guaranty from Mrs. Odell to cover all expenses. Yes, indeed. You’re up a stump, Mr. Browning, and so is Miss Lugos. Not only the publicity; you would have to sue for libel, or persuade the District Attorney to charge us with criminal libel. That would be obligatory, and both of you would have to submit to questioning under oath. That would be idiotic, for a man in your position.”

For the second time that day something happened that was hard to believe. Browning stood with his eyes glued to Wolfe, but probably not really seeing him, his shoulders set, and his chin back. Twenty seconds, half a minute, I don’t know; and then he turned right around and looked at Helen Lugos, who had stayed over by the door, an arm’s reach from Saul and Orrie. And she said, “Ask him what he wants.” It was a suggestion, not a command, but even so, from a secretary to a vice-president soon to be a president? Women’s Lib, or what?

Whatever it was, it worked fine. He turned back to Wolfe and asked, “What do you want?”

“I like eyes at a level,” Wolfe said. “Please sit down.”

Helen Lugos came back to the yellow chair, and sat. At least she left the red leather chair for him, and he took it, or some of it — about the front eight inches of the seat, barely enough to keep his rump on — and asked again, “What do you want?”

“From you, not much,” Wolfe said. “I am not Jupiter Fidius. I want only to do the job I was hired to do. I think I know the present state of Kenneth Meer’s mind. His mood, his spirit. I think he’s pregnable. I want to get him on the telephone, tell him you and Miss Lugos are here, and ask him to join us for a discussion. If he refuses or demurs, I want you to speak to him and tell him to come. I don’t know how things stand between you and him; of course during these six weeks you would have liked to turn him out, but didn’t dare. Will he come if you tell him to?”

“Yes. Then what?”

“We’ll see. One possibility, he may acknowledge that he put the bomb in the drawer, but claim that it was intended for Peter Odell — that he knew that Odell intended to come and open the drawer. There are other possibilities, and it may be that his real motive need not be divulged. That would please you and Miss Lugos, and I have no animus against you, but I make no commitment. This is your one chance to get out of it with minor bruises. I know too much now that the police should know.”

Would he ask her for another suggestion? No. He looked at her, but only for a second, and then said, “All right. If you think — all right.”

Wolfe turned to me: “Get him.”

That was one of the possible snags. What if he wasn’t there? What if he had got a toothache or twisted an ankle and left for the day? But he hadn’t. I got him and Wolfe got on. I stayed on.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Meer. I’m calling from my office, at the suggestion of Mr. Browning. He and Miss Lugos are here. We have talked at some length, and have come to a point where we need your help. Can you come at once?”

“Why — they’re there?”

“Yes. Since half past two.”

“Mr. Browning told you to call me?”

“Yes. He’s right here. Do you want to speak to him?”

“I don’t — no. No. All right. I’ll leave in five minutes.”

He hung up. Wolfe told Browning, “He’ll leave in five minutes. You and Miss Lugos may wish to speak privately. This room is sound-proofed.” He stood. “Would you like something to drink?”

Browning looked at her and she shook her head, and he said, “No.” Saul and Fred left by the hall door, closing it after them, and Wolfe and Orrie and I left by the door to the front room. In a moment Saul and Fred joined us. Wolfe said, “I’m going to the kitchen. I’m thirsty. Any questions? Any comments?”

Orrie said, “It’s all set. It’s up to him.”

Wolfe went by the hall door. Fred said, “If anyone wants a bet, I’m giving two to one that he’ll have it.”

Saul said, “I’d rather have your end.”

I said, “I don’t want either end.”

They debated it. At a time like that, it only makes it longer to keep looking at your watch, but that’s what I did. 3:22, 3:24, 3:27. At that time of day there should be taxis headed downtown on Ninth Avenue in the Fifties, and it was only nineteen blocks. At half past three I went to the hall, leaving the door open, and stood with my nose against the oneway glass of the front door. Me and my watch. 3:32, 3:34, 3:36. He had been run over by a truck or something. He was on his way to the airport. At 3:37 a taxi rolled up in front and stopped alongside the parked cars, and the door opened, and he climbed out, and he had the brief case. I called through the open door to the front room, “Okay, he has it!” and they came. Orrie went down the hall to the door to the office and stood. Fred stood at my left by the rack; he would be behind the door when I opened it. Saul stood in the doorway to the front room. Kenneth Meer mounted the stoop with the brief case tucked under his left arm. He pushed the button, and I counted a slow ten and opened the door, and he stepped in. With the brief case under his arm, that hand was pressed against his left hip, and his right hand was hanging loose. I don’t think I have ever made a faster or surer move. Facing him, I got his two wrists, and I got them good, and Saul, from behind him, got the brief case. His mouth popped open but no sound came, and he went stiff top to bottom, absolutely stiff. Then he tried to turn around, but I had his wrists, and only his head could turn. Saul had backed away, holding the brief case against his belly with both hands. I said, “Go ahead and don’t drop it,” and he started down the hall to the rear, where the stair to the basement was, and at the door to the office Orrie joined him. I let go of Meer’s wrists, and he stood, still stiff, and stared down the hall at Saul going. He still hadn’t made a sound. Then suddenly he started to slump. He made it over to the bench, flopped down on it, bent over with his face in his hands, and started to shake all over. Still no sound, absolutely none. I told Fred, “Keep him company,” and headed for the kitchen.

Wolfe was on his stool at the center table with a beer glass in his hand. “You win,” I said. “He had it and we got it.”

“Where is he?”

“In the hall.”

You wouldn’t believe how easy and smooth he can remove his seventh of a ton off of a stool. I followed him down the hall. Meer was still huddled on the bench and still shaking. Wolfe stood and looked down at him for a good ten seconds, told Fred, “Stay here,” went back down the hall and opened the office door and entered, and I followed. Browning, in the red leather chair, asked, “Did he come? The doorbell rang five min—”

“Shut up,” Wolfe snapped, and crossed to his desk and sat and glared at them. “Yes,” he said, “he came. When he came Saturday, day before yesterday, he was in his own car, but he didn’t leave his brief case in it. He kept it with him, and he kept it in his lap as he sat where you are now. When I decided today to ask him to come, later, I thought it likely that he would bring the brief case, and if so there would be a bomb in it, since he would know you two were here. It was only a conjecture, but well-grounded, and it has been verified. He came, and he had the brief case, and it is now in my basement under a pile of mattresses. On your way out, you will pass him in the hall — prostrated, wretched, defeated. Pass him, just pass him. He is no longer yours. I am now—”

“But my god, what—”

“Shut up! I am now going to call Mr. Cramer and ask him to come and bring with him men who know how to deal with bombs. If you don’t want to encounter him, leave at once. Go.”

He turned to me. “Get him, Archie.”

I swiveled and dialed.