Too Many Clients

17

At 9:04 Saturday morning I buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone, and when Wolfe answered I told him, "It's here. I've opened it. Do I phone Cramer?"

"No. Any news?"

"No."

At 9:52 Saturday morning I buzzed the plant rooms again and told Wolfe, "Lon Cohen just phoned. About an hour ago a maid in Benedict Aiken's home found his body on the floor of his bedroom. Shot through the roof of the mouth. The gun was there on the floor. No further details at present. Do I phone Cramer?"

"Yes. Eleven o'clock."

"Certainly. If I also phoned Lon he would appreciate it. Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

"No. The substance, not the text."

"Right."

At 11:08 Saturday morning Inspector Cramer, seated in the red leather chair, looked up from the paper he held in his hand and growled at Wolfe, "You wrote this."

Wolfe, at his desk, shook his head. "Not my hand.''

"Nuts. You know damn well. This word 'malefaction.' Other words. It sounds like you. You did it deliberately. You let it sound like you so I would know you wrote it. Thumbing your nose at me, telling me to kiss your ass. Oh, I know it will check with his handwriting. I wouldn't be surprised if he wrote it right here, sitting in this chair."

"Mr. Cramer." Wolfe turned a hand over. "If I granted your inference I would challenge your interpretation. I would suggest that I let it sound like me out of regard for your sensibility and respect for your talents; that I wanted to make it plain that I knew you wouldn't be gulled."

"Yeah. You can have that." He looked at the paper. "It says 'it has been made clear to me by Nero Wolfe that there is no hope of preventing disclosure.' So you had evidence. You must have had damned good evidence. What?"

Wolfe nodded. "It was impossible to prevent that question. If Mr. Aiken were still alive I would of course have to answer it. You would need the evidence and I would have to surrender it. But he's dead. I'm not a lawyer, but I have consulted one. I am not obliged to reveal evidence that is not needed and could not be used in the public interest."

"It's in the public interest to know where and when the murder was committed."

"No, sir. In the police interest, not in the public interest. It's a nice point. If you want to test it you'll have to charge me, serve a warrant on me, persuade the District Attorney to prosecute, and let a judge and jury decide. With Mr. Aiken dead and his confession in hand, I doubt if you'd get a verdict."

" So do I." Cramer folded the paper and put it in the envelope, and stuck the envelope in a pocket. "Your goddam brass." He got up. "We'll see." He turned and marched out.

At 3:47 Saturday afternoon three men and a woman were in the office with Wolfe and me. The men, in yellow chairs, were members of the board of directors of Continental Plastic Products. The woman, in the red leather chair, was Mrs. Thomas G. Yeager. In their hands were sheets of paper, copies I had typed of the document we had received in the mail that morning. Wolfe was speaking.

"No. I will not. In the terms of my engagement it was neither specified nor implied that I would report the particulars of my performance. It would serve no end to display to you the evidence with which I confronted Mr. Aiken, or to tell you how I got it. As for the result, that was determined by the situation, not by me; I merely arranged the style of the denouement. If it had been left to the police, they would certainly have discovered that room, given time; once learning about the room, they would have learned everything; and Mr. Aiken, your president, would have been, instead of the object of a brief sensation, the center of a prolonged hullabaloo. As for my fee, do you question my evaluation of my services at fifty thousand dollars?"

"No," a director said, "I don't." Another said, "We haven't questioned that." The third one grunted.

"I owe you a fee too," Mrs. Yeager said.

Wolfe shook his head. "I have your dollar; I'll keep that. I told you I don't expect a payment from two different clients for the same services." He looked up at the clock; he had his date with the orchids at four. He pushed back his chair and rose. "You may keep those copies of Mr. Aiken's statement. They're cheap at the price."

At 5:14 Saturday afternoon I was sitting in the kitchen in the basement of the house at 156 West 82nd Street. Cesar Perez was slumped in a chair. His wife was sitting straight, her shoulders back. "I'm sorry," I said, "but it can't be helped. The man who killed Maria is dead, but the police don't know it. If they did they would also know about this house and about your taking Yeager's body out of it and dumping it in the hole. So they'll be bothering you some more, but probably not for long. I'd like to go to the funeral tomorrow, but I'd better not. There will probably be a policeman there. They attend the funerals of people who have been murdered when they haven't caught the murderer. I think I've told you everything you'd want to know, but do you want to ask anything?"

He shook his head. She said, "We said we would pay you one hundred dollars."

"Forget it. We had too many clients anyway. I'll keep the dollar, and I'll also keep the keys, if you don't mind, as a souvenir. You'd better have a new lock put on the door." I left the chair and stepped to the table to get a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "This is the only thing I took from the room, a woman's umbrella. I'll return it to its owner." I shook hands, with her and then with him, and blew.

I didn't go to Eden Street. I had no overwhelming desire to see the Houghs again, or Meg Duncan offstage. On Monday I sent the umbrella and the cigarette case by messenger.

I should add a note, in case anyone reading this report takes a notion to go and take a look at the bower. You won't find it on 82nd Street. Nor will you find any of the people where I have put them. The particulars of the performance were exactly as I have reported them, but for obvious reasons I have changed names and addresses and a few other details - for instance, the title of the play Meg Duncan was starring in. It's still on and she's as good as ever; I went one night last week just to see.

If Cramer reads this and drops in to inquire, I'll tell him I made it up, including this note.