The League of Frightened Men

Chapter 18

At two o’clock that night — Sunday morning — I sat at my desk, in the office, and yawned. Wolfe, behind his own desk, was looking at a schedule I had typed out for him, keeping a carbon for myself, during one of the intervals in my report when he had called time out to do a little arranging in his mind. The schedule looked like this:

I looked at my carbon and yawned. Fritz had kept some squirrel stew hot for me, and it had long since been put away, with a couple of rye highballs because the black sauce Fritz used for squirrel made milk taste like stale olive juice. After I had imparted a few of the prominent details without saying how I had got hold of them, Wolfe had explained to Hibbard that it is the same with detectives as with magicians, their primary and constant concern is to preserve the air of mystery which is attached to their profession, and Hibbard had gone up to bed. The development that had arrived over the telephone while he was taking his bath had changed his world. He had eaten no dinner to speak of, though the need to chaperon the gold leaf on his teeth had departed. He had insisted on phoning fifty or sixty people, beginning with his niece, and had been restrained only by some tall talk about his word of honor. In fact, that question seemed not entirely closed, for Wolfe had had Fritz cut the wire of the telephone which was in Hibbard’s room. Now he was up there, maybe asleep, maybe doping out a psychological detour around words of honor. I had gone on and given Wolfe the story, every crumb I had, and there had been discussions.

I threw the carbon onto the desk and did some more yawning. Finally Wolfe said:

“You understand, Archie. I think it would be possible for us to go ahead without assuming the drudgery of discovering the murderer of Dr. Burton. I would indeed regard that as obvious, if only men could be depended upon to base their decisions on reason. Alas, there are only three or four of us in the world, and even we will bear watching. And our weak spot is that we are committed not to refer our success to a fact, we must refer it to the vote of our group of clients. We must not only make things happen, we must make our clients vote that they have happened. That arrangement was unavoidable. It makes it necessary for us to learn who killed Dr. Burton, so that if the vote cannot be sufficiently swayed by reason it can be bullied by melodrama. You see that.”

I said, “I’m sleepy. When I have to wait until nearly midnight for my dinner and then it’s squirrel stew...”

Wolfe nodded. “Yes, I know. Under those circumstances I would be no better than a maniac.—Another thing. The worst aspect of this Burton development, from our standpoint, is what it does to the person of Mr. Chapin. He cannot come here to get his box — or for anything else. It will be necessary to make arrangements through Mr. Morley, and go to see him. What jail will they keep him in?”

“I suppose, Centre Street. There are three or four places they could stick him, but the Tombs is the most likely.”

Wolfe sighed. “That abominable clatter. It’s more than two miles, nearer three I suppose. The last time I left this house was early in September, for the privilege of dining at the same table with Albert Einstein, and coming home it rained. You remember that.”

“Yeah. Will I ever forget it. There was such a downpour the pavements were damp.”

“You deride me. Confound it... ah well. I will not make a virtue of necessity, but neither will I whimper under its lash. Since there is no such thing as bail for a man charged with murder, and since I must have a conversation with Mr. Chapin, there is no escaping an expedition to Centre Street. Not, however, until we know who killed Dr. Burton.”

“And not forgetting that before the night’s out the cripple may empty the bag for Cramer by confessing that he did it.”

“Archie.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at me. “If you persist... but no. King Canute tried that. I only say again, nonsense. Have I not made it clear to you? It is the fashion to say anything is possible. The truth is, very few things are possible, pitiably few. That Mr. Chapin killed Dr. Burton is not among them. We are engaged on a project. It is futile to ask you to exclude from your brain all the fallacies which creep, familiar worms, through its chambers, but I do expect you not to let them interfere with our necessary operations. It is late, past two o’clock, time for bed. I have outlined your activities for tomorrow — today. I have explained what may be done, and what may not. Good night, sleep well.”

I stood up and yawned. I was too sleepy to be sore, so it was automatic that I said, “Okay, boss.” I went upstairs to bed.

Sunday morning I slept late. I had been given three chores for that day, and the first one on the list probably wouldn’t be practical at any early hour, so twice when I woke up to glance at the clock I burrowed in again. I finally tumbled out around nine-thirty and got the body rinsed off and the face scraped. When I found myself whistling as I buttoned my shirt I stopped to seek the source of all the gaiety, and discovered I probably felt satisfied because Paul Chapin was behind bars and couldn’t see the sunshine which I was seeing on the front of the houses across the street. I stopped whistling. That was no way to feel about a guy when I was supposed to be fighting for his freedom.

It was Sunday morning in November, and I knew what had happened when I had called down to Fritz that I was out of the bathtub: he had lined a casserole with butter, put in it six tablespoons of cream, three fresh eggs, four Lambert sausages, salt, pepper, paprika and chives, and conveyed it to the oven. But before I went to the kitchen I stopped in the office. Andrew Hibbard was there with the morning paper. He said that he hadn’t been able to sleep much, that he had had breakfast, and that he wished to God he had some of his own clothes. I told him that Wolfe was up on the top floor with the orchids and that he would be welcome up there if he cared to see them. He decided to go. I went to the phone and called up Centre Street and was told that Inspector Cramer hadn’t shown up yet and they weren’t sure when he would. So I went to the kitchen and took my time with the casserole and accessories. Of course the murder of Dr. Burton was front page in both papers. I read the pieces through and enjoyed them very much.

Then I went to the garage and got the roadster and moseyed downtown.

Cramer was in his office when I got there, and didn’t keep me waiting. He was smoking a big cigar and looked contented. I sat down and listened to him discussing with a couple of dicks the best way to persuade some Harlem citizen to quit his anatomy experiments on the skulls of drugstore cashiers, and when they went I looked at him and grinned. He didn’t grin back. He whirled his chair around to face me and asked me what I wanted. I told him I didn’t want anything, I just wanted to thank him for letting me squat on the sidelines up at Doc Burton’s last night.

He said, “Yeah. You were gone when I came out. Did it bore you?”

“It did. I couldn’t find any clue.”

“No.” But still he didn’t grin. “This case is one of those mean babies where nothing seems to fit. All we’ve got is the murderer and the gun and two witnesses. Now what do you want?”

I told him, “I want lots of things. You’ve got it, inspector. Okay. You can afford to be generous, and George Pratt ought to hand you two grand, half of what you saved him. I’d like to know if you found any fingerprints on the gun. I’d like to know if Chapin has explained why he planned it so amateur, with him a professional. But what I’d really like is to have a little talk with Chapin. If you could arrange that for me—”

Cramer was grinning. He said, “I wouldn’t mind having a talk with Chapin myself.”

“Well, I’d be glad to put in a word for you.”

He pulled on his cigar, and then took it out and got brisk. “I’ll tell you, Goodwin. I’d just as soon sit and chin with you, but the fact is it’s Sunday and I’m busy. So take this down. First, even if I passed you in to Chapin you wouldn’t get anywhere. That cripple is part mule. I spent four hours on him last night, and I swear to God he wouldn’t even tell me how old he is. He is not talking, and he won’t talk to anyone except his wife. He says he don’t want a lawyer, or rather he don’t say anything when we ask him who he wants. His wife has seen him twice, and they won’t say anything that anyone can hear. You know I’ve had a little experience greasing tongues, but he stops them all.”

“Yeah. Did you try pinching him, just between you and me?”

He shook his head. “Haven’t touched him. But to go on. After what Nero Wolfe said on the phone last night — I suppose you heard that talk — I had an idea you’d be wanting to see him. And I’ve decided nothing doing. Even if he was talking a blue streak, not a chance. Considering how we got him, I don’t see why you’re interested anyhow. Hell, can’t Wolfe take the short end once in his life?—Now wait a minute. You don’t need to remind me Wolfe has always been better than square with me and there’s one or two things I owe him. I’ll hand him a favor when I’ve got one the right size. But no matter how tight I’ve got this cripple sewed up, I’m going to play safe with him.”

“Okay. It just means extra trouble. Wolfe will have to arrange it at the D.A.’s office.”

“Let him. If he does, I won’t butt in. As far as I’m concerned, the only two people that get to see Chapin are his wife and his lawyer, and he’s got no lawyer and if you ask me not much wife.—Listen, now that you’ve asked me a favor and I’ve turned you down, how about doing one for me? Tell me what you want to see him for? Huh?”

I grinned. “You’d be surprised. I have to ask him what he wants us to do with what is left of Andrew Hibbard until he gets a chance to tend to it.”

Cramer stared at me. He snorted. “You wouldn’t kid me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Of course if he’s not talking he probably wouldn’t tell me, but I might find a way to turn him on. Look here, inspector, there must be some human quality in you somewhere. Today’s my birthday. Let me see him.”

“Not a chance.”

I got up. “How straight is it that he’s not talking?”

“That’s on the level. We can’t get a peep.”

I told him much obliged for all his many kindnesses, and left.

I got in the roadster and headed north. I wasn’t downcast. I hadn’t made any history, but I hadn’t expected to. Remembering the mask that Paul Chapin had been using for a face as I saw him sitting in the Burton foyer the night before, I wasn’t surprised that Cramer hadn’t found him much of a conversationalist, and I wouldn’t have expected to hear anything even if I had got to see him.

At Fourteenth Street I parked and went to a cigar store and phoned Wolfe. I told him, “Right again. They have to ask his wife whether he prefers white or dark meat, because he won’t even tell them that. He’s not interested in a lawyer. Cramer wouldn’t let me see him.”

Wolfe said, “Excellent. Proceed to Mrs. Burton.”

I went back to the roadster and rolled on uptown.

When they telephoned from the lobby to the Burton apartment to say that Mr. Goodwin was there, I was hoping she hadn’t got a new slant on this and that during the night. As Wolfe had said once, you can depend on a woman for anything except constancy. But she had stayed put; I was nodded to the elevator. Upstairs I was taken into the same room as the night before by a maid I hadn’t seen — the housekeeper, Mrs. Kurtz, I surmised. She looked hostile and determined enough to make me contented that I didn’t need to question her about a key or anything else.

Mrs. Burton sat in a chair by a window. She looked pale. If people had been with her she had sent them away. I told her I wouldn’t sit down, I only had a few questions Nero Wolfe had given me. I read the first one from my pad:

“Did Paul Chapin say anything whatever to you last night besides what you have already told me, and if so, what?”

She said, “No. Nothing.”

“Inspector Cramer showed you the gun that your husband was shot with. How sure are you that it was your husband’s, the one he kept in the drawer of his desk?”

She said, “Quite sure. His initials were on it, it was a gift from a friend.”

“During the fifty minutes that Dora Chapin was in the apartment last evening, was there any time when she went, or could have gone, to the study, and if so was there anyone else in the study at that time?”

She said, “No.” Then the frown came into her eyes. “But wait — yes, there was. Soon after she came I sent her to the study for a book. I suppose there was no one there. My husband was in his room dressing.”

“This next one is the last. Do you know if Mr. Bowen was at any time alone in the study?”

She said, “Yes, he was. My husband came to my room to ask me a question.”

I put the pad in my pocket, and said to her, “You might tell me what the question was.”

“No, Mr. Goodwin. I think not.”

“It might be important. This isn’t for publication.”

Her eyes frowned again, but the hesitation was brief. “Very well. He asked me if I cared enough for Estelle Bowen — Mr. Bowen’s wife — to make a considerable sacrifice for her. I said no.”

“Did he tell you what he meant?”

“No.”

“All right. That’s all. You haven’t slept any.”

“No.”

Ordinarily I’ve got as much to say as there’s time for, but on that occasion no more observations suggested themselves. I told her thank you, and she nodded without moving her head, which sounds unlikely but I swear that’s what she did, and I beat it. As I went out through the foyer I paused for another glance at one or two details, such as the location of the light switch by the double door.

On my way downtown I phoned Wolfe again. I told him what I had gathered from Mrs. Burton, and he told me that he and Andrew Hibbard were playing cribbage.

It was twenty minutes past noon when I got to Perry Street. It was deserted for Sunday. Sidewalks empty, only a couple of cars parked in the whole block, and a taxi in front of the entrance to 203. I let the roadster slide to the curb opposite, and got out. I had noted the number on the taxi’s license plate and had seen the driver on his seat. I stepped across to the sidewalk and went alongside; his head was tilted over against the frame and his eyes were closed. I put a foot on the running-board and leaned in and said:

“Good morning, Mr. Scott.”

He came to with a start and looked at me. He blinked. “Oh,” he said, “it’s little Nero Wolfe.”

I nodded. “Names don’t bother me, but mine happens to be Archie Goodwin. How’s tips?”

“My dear fellow.” He made noises, and spat out to the left, to the pavement. “Tips is copious. When was it I saw you, Wednesday? Only four days ago. You keeping busy?”

“I’m managing.” I leaned in a little further. “Look here, Pitney Scott. I wasn’t looking for you, but I’m glad I found you. When Nero Wolfe heard how you recognized Andrew Hibbard over a week ago, but didn’t claim the five grand reward when it was offered, he said you have an admirable sense of humor. Knowing how easy it is to find excuses for a friendly feeling for five grand, I’d say something different, but Wolfe meant well, he’s just eccentric. Seeing you here, it just occurred to me that you ought to know that your friend Hibbard is at present a guest up at our house. I took him there yesterday in time for dinner. If it’s all the same to you, he’d like to stay under cover for another couple of days, till we get this whole thing straightened out. If you should happen to turn mercenary, you won’t lose anything by keeping your sense of humor.”

He grunted. “So. You got Andy. And you only need a couple of days to straighten it all out. I thought all detectives were dumb.”

“Sure, we are. I’m so dumb I don’t even know whether it was you that took Dora Chapin up to Ninetieth Street last evening and brought her back again. I was just going to ask you.”

“All right, ask me. Then I’ll say it wasn’t.” He made noises and spat again — another futile attack on the imaginary obstruction in the throat of a man with a constant craving for a drink. He looked at me and went on, “You know, brother — if you will pardon the argot, I’m sore at you for spotting Andy, but I admire you for it too because it was halfway smart. And anyway, Lorrie Burton was a pretty good guy. With him dead, and Mr. Paul Chapin in jail, the fun’s gone. It’s not funny any more, even to me, and Nero Wolfe’s right about my sense of humor. It is admirable. I’m a character. I’m sardonic.” He spat again. “But to hell with it. I didn’t drive Mrs. Chapin to Burton’s last night because she went in her own coupé.”

“Oh. She drives herself.”

“Sure. In the summertime she and her husband go to the country on picnics. Now that was funny, for instance, and I don’t suppose they’ll ever do that again. I don’t know why she’s using me today, unless it’s because she doesn’t want to park it in front of the Tombs — there she comes now.”

I got off the running-board and back a step. Dora Chapin had come out of the 203 entrance and was headed for the taxi. She had on another coat and another furpiece, but the face was the same, and so were the little gray eyes. She was carrying an oblong package about the size of a shoebox, and I supposed that was dainties for her husband’s Sunday dinner. She didn’t seem to have noticed me, let alone recognize me; then she stopped with one foot on the running-board and turned the eyes straight at me, and for the first time I saw an expression in them that I could give a name to, and it wasn’t fondness. You could call it an inviting expression if you went on to describe what she was inviting me to. I stepped into it anyway. I said:

“Mrs. Chapin. Could I ride with you? I’d like to tell you—”

She climbed inside and slammed the door to. Pitney Scott stepped on the starter, put the gear in, and started to roll. I stood and watched the taxi go, not very jubilant, because it was her I had come down there to see.

I walked to the corner and phoned Wolfe I wouldn’t be home to lunch, which I didn’t mind much because the eggs and cream and sausages I had shipped on at ten o’clock were still undecided what to do about it; bought a Times and went to the roadster and made myself comfortable. Unless she had some kind of pull that Inspector Cramer didn’t know about, they wouldn’t let her stay very long at the Tombs.

At that I had to wait close to an hour and a half. It was nearly two o’clock, and I was thinking of hitting up the delicatessen where Fred Durkin had been a tenant for most of the week, when I looked up for the eightieth time at the sound of a car and saw the taxi slowing down. I had decided what to do. With all that animosity in Dora’s eyes I calculated it wouldn’t pay to try to join her downstairs and go up with her; I would wait till she was inside and then persuade Pitney Scott to take me up. With him along she might let me in. But again I didn’t get the break. Instead of stopping at the entrance Scott rolled down a few yards, and then they both got out and both went in. I stared at them and did a little cussing, and decided not to do any more waiting. I got out and entered 203 for the first and last time, and went to the elevator and said fifth floor. The man looked at me with the usual mild and weary suspicion but didn’t bother with questions. I got out at the fifth and rang the bell at 5C.

I can’t very well pretend to be proud of what happened that afternoon at Paul Chapin’s apartment. I pulled a boner, no doubt of that, and it wasn’t my fault that it didn’t have a result that ended a good deal more than the Chapin case, but the opinion you have of it depends entirely on how you use it. I can’t honestly agree that it was quite as dumb as one or two subsequent remarks of Wolfe’s might seem to indicate. Anyway, this is how it happened.

Dora Chapin came to the door and opened it, and I got my foot inside the sill. She asked me what I wanted, and I said I had something to ask Pitney Scott. She said he would be down in half an hour and I could wait downstairs, and started to shut the door, and got it as far as my foot. I said:

“Listen, Mrs. Chapin. I want to ask you something too. You think I’m against your husband, but I’m not, I’m for him. That’s on the level. He hasn’t got many friends left, and anyway it won’t hurt you to listen to me. I’ve got something to say. I could say it to the police instead of you, but take it from me you wouldn’t like that nearly as well. Let me in. Pitney Scott’s here.”

She threw the door wide open and said, “Come in.”

Maybe the shift in her welcome should have made me suspicious, but it didn’t. It merely made me think I had scared her, and also made me add a few chips to the stack I was betting that if her husband hadn’t croaked Dr. Burton, she had. I went in and shut the door behind me, and followed her across the hall, and through a sitting-room and dinning-room and into the kitchen. The rooms were big and well furnished and looked prosperous; and sitting in the kitchen at an enamel-top table was Pitney Scott, consuming a hunk of brown fried chicken. There was a platter of it with four or five pieces left. I said to Dora Chapin:

“Maybe we can go in front and leave Mr. Scott to enjoy himself.”

She nodded at a chair and pointed to the chicken: “There’s plenty.” She turned to Scott: “I’ll fix you a drink.”

He shook his head, and chewed and swallowed. “I’ve been off for ten days now, Mrs. Chapin. It wouldn’t be funny, take my word for it. When the coffee’s ready I’d appreciate that.—Come on — you said Goodwin, didn’t you? — come on and help me. Mrs. Chapin says she has dined.”

I was hungry and the chicken looked good, I admit that, but the psychology of it was that it looked like I ought to join in. Not to mention the salad, which had green peppers in it. I got into the chair and Scott passed the platter. Dora Chapin had gone to the stove to turn the fire down under the percolator. There was still a lot of bandage at the back of her neck, and it looked unattractive where her hair had been shaved off. She was bigger than I had realized in the office that day, fairly hefty. She went into the dining-room for something, and I got more intimate with the chicken after the first couple of bites and started a conversation with Scott. After a while Dora Chapin came back, with coffee cups and a bowl of sugar.

Of course it was in the coffee, she probably put it right in the pot since she didn’t drink any, but I didn’t notice a taste. It was strong but it tasted all right. However, she must have put in all the sleeping tablets and a few other things she could get hold of, for God knows it was potent. I began to feel it when I was reaching to hand Scott a cigarette, and at the same time I saw the look on his face. He was a few seconds ahead of me. Dora Chapin was out of the room again. Scott looked at the door she had gone through, and tried to get up out of his chair, but couldn’t make it. That was the last I really remember, him trying to get out of his chair, but I must have done one or two things after that, because when I came out of it I was in the dining-room, halfway across to the door which led to the sitting-room and the hall.

When I came out of it, it was dark. That was the first thing I knew, and for a while it was all I knew, because I couldn’t move and I was fighting to get my eyes really open. I could see, off to my right, at a great distance it seemed, two large oblongs of dim light, and I concentrated on deciding what they were. It came with a burst that they were windows, and it was dark in the room where I was, and the street was lit. Then I concentrated on what room I was in.

Things came back but all in a jumble. I still didn’t know where I was, though I was splitting my head fighting for it. I rolled over on the floor and my hand landed on something metal, sharp, and I shrunk from it; I pulled myself to my knees and began to crawl. I bumped into a table and a chair or two, and finally into the wall. I crawled around the wall with my shoulder against it, detouring for furniture, stopping every couple of feet to feel it, and at last I felt a door. I tried to stand up, but couldn’t make it, and compromised by feeling above me. I found the switch and pushed on it, and the light went on. I crawled over to where there was some stuff on the floor, stretching the muscles in my brow and temples to keep my eyes open, and saw that the metal thing that had startled me was my ring of keys. My wallet was there too, and my pad and pencil, pocketknife, fountain pen, handkerchief — things from my pockets.

I got hold of a chair and pulled myself to my feet, but I couldn’t navigate. I tried, and fell down. I looked around for a telephone, but there wasn’t any, so I crawled to the sitting-room and found the light switch by the door and turned it on. The phone was on a stand by the further wall. It looked so far away that the desire to lie down and give it up made me want to yell to show I wouldn’t do that, but I couldn’t yell. I finally got to the stand and sat down on the floor against it and reached up for the phone and got the receiver off and shoved it against my ear, and heard a man’s voice, very faint. I said the number of Wolfe’s phone and heard him say he couldn’t hear me, so then I yelled it and that way got enough steam behind it. After a while I heard another voice and I yelled:

“I want Nero Wolfe!”

The other voice mumbled and I said to talk louder, and asked who it was, and got it into my bean that it was Fritz. I told him to get Wolfe on, and he said Wolfe wasn’t there, and I said he was crazy, and he mumbled a lot of stuff and I told him to say it again louder and slower. “I said, Archie, Mr. Wolfe is not here. He went to look for you. Somebody came to get him, and he told me he was going for you. Archie, where are you? Mr. Wolfe said—”

I was having a hard time holding the phone, and it dropped to the floor, the whole works, and my head fell into my hands with my eyes closed, and I suppose what I was doing you would call crying.