The League Of Frightened Men Part 10

11.

Sometimes I thought it was a wonder Wolfe and I got on together at all. The differences between us, some of them, showed up plainer at the table than anywhere else. He was a taster and I was a swallower. Not that I didn't know good from bad; after seven years of education from Fritz's cooking I could even tell, usually, superlative from excellent. But the fact remained that what chiefly attracted Wolfe about food in his pharynx was the affair it was having with his taste buds, whereas with me the important point was that it was bound for my belly. To avoid any misunderstanding, I should add that Wolfe was never disconcerted by the problem of what to do with it when he was through tasting it. He could put it away. I have seen him, during a relapse, dispose completely of a ten-pound goose between eight o'clock and midnight, while I was in a corner with ham sandwiches and milk hoping he would choke. At those times he always ate in the kitchen.

It was the same in business, when we were on a case. A thousand times I've wanted to kick him, watching him progress leisurely to the elevator on his way to monkey with the plants upstairs, or read a book tasting each phrase, or discuss with Fritz the best storage place for dry herbs, when I was running around barking my head off and expecting him to tell me where the right hole was. I admit he was a great man. When he called himself a genius he had a right to mean it whether he did or not. I admit that he never lost us a bet by his piddling around. But since I'm only human, I couldn't keep myself from wanting to kick him just because he was a genius. I came awful close to it sometimes, when he said things like, "Patience, Archie; if you eat the apple before it's ripe your only reward is a bellyache."

Well, this Wednesday afternoon, after lunch, I was sore. He went indifferent on me; he even went contrary. He wouldn't cable the guy in Rome to get into converse with Santini; he said it was futile and expected me to take his word for it. He wouldn't help me concoct a loop we could use to drag Leopold Elkus into the office; according to him, that was futile too. He kept trying to read in a book while I was after him. He said there were only two men in the case whom he felt any inclination to talk to: Andrew Hibbard and Paul Chapin; and he wasn't ready yet for Chapin and he didn't know where Hibbard was, or whether he was alive or dead. I knew Saul Panzer was going to the morgue every morning and afternoon to look over the stiffs, but I didn't know what else he was doing. I also knew that Wolfe had talked with Inspector Cramer on the phone that morning, but that was nothing to get excited about; Cramer had shot his bolt a week ago at Paul Chapin and all that was keeping him awake was the routine of breathing. W '

Saul had phoned around noon and Wolfe had talked to him from the kitchen while I was out with Pitney Scott. A litt]^ after two Fred Durkin phoned. He sair that Paul Chapin had been to the barbe, and a drugstore, and that the town die)and the guy in the brown cap and pinlnecktie were still on deck, and he wa? thinking of forming a club. Wolfe went 01, reading. About a quarter to three Orri^ Gather called up and said he had got hol(j of something he wanted to show us and could he come on up with it; he was at th^ Fourteenth Street subway station. I told him yes. Then, just before Orrie arrived, ^ call came that made Wolfe put down his book. It was from Farrell the architect, and Wolfe talked to him. He said he had had a nice lunch with Mr. Oglethorpe, and he had had a tough argument but had finally persuaded him. He was phoning from the publisher's office. Paul Chapin had on several occasions found it convenient to make use of a typewriter there, but there was some disagreement as to which one or ones, so he was going to take samples from a dozen of them.

IWoPfe told him to be sure that the factory number of the machine appeared on each sample.

I said, after we hung up, "Okay, that one's turning brown. But even if you hang the warnings on him, you've just started.

The Harrison demise is out, you'll never tie that up. And I'm telling you that the same goes for Dreyer, unless you get Leopold Elkus down here and perform an operation on him. You've got to find a hole in his story and open it up, or we're licked. What the h.e.l.l are we waiting for?

It's all right for you, you can keep occupied, you've got a book to read what the devil is it, anyhow?"

I got up to take a squint at it, a dark gray cover stamped in gold: The Chasm of the Mind, by Andrew Hibbard. I grunted.

"Huh, maybe that's where he is, maybe * he fell in." I "Long ago." Wolfe sighed. "Poor Hibbard, he couldn't exclude his poetic tendencies even from his t.i.tle. Any more than Chapin can exclude his savagery I from his plots."

I dropped back into my chair. "Listen, boss." There was nothing he hated more I than being called boss. "I'm beginning to ^L catch on. I suppose Dr. Burton has written books too, and Byron, and maybe Dreyer, and of course Mike Ayers. I'll take the roadster and drive out to Pike County for a little duck hunting, and when you get caught up with your reading just wire me care of Cleve Sturgis and I'll mosey back and we'll tackle this murder case. And take it easy, take your time; if you eat the apple after it is too ripe you'll get ptomaine poisoning or erysipelas or something, at least I hope to G.o.d you will." I was glaring at him, with no result except to make me feel like a sap, because he merely shut his eyes so as not to see me. I got up from my chair and glared anyhow. "d.a.m.n it, all I'm asking for is just a little halfway co-operation! One little lousy cablegram to that Roman wop!

I ask you, should I have to work myself into turmoil now what the h.e.l.l do you want?"

The last was for Fritz. He had appeared 1" the door. He was frowning, because he "ever liked to hear me yell at Wolfe, and I I frowned back at him. Then I saw someone standing behind him and I let the frown go and said: "Come on in, Orrie. What's the loot?"

I turned to Wolfe and smoothed my voice out and opened up the respect: "He phoned a while ago and said he had got hold of something he wanted to show us. I told you, but you were engrossed in your book."

Orrie Gather had a bundle about the size of a small suitcase, wrapped in brown paper and tied with heavy string.

I said, "I hope it's books."

He shook his head.."It's not heavy enough for books." He set it down on the desk and looked around, and I shoved up a chair for him.

"What is it?"

"Search me. I brought it here to open it. It may be just a lot of nothing at all, but I had a hunch."

I got out my pocketknife, but Wolfe shook his head. He said to Orrie, "Go on."

Orrie grinned. "Well, as I say, it may be a lot of nothing at all, but I'd got so fed up after a day and a half finding out nothing whatever about that cripple except.1 where he buys his groceries and how often he gets his shoes shined, that when something came along that looked like it might be a little break I guess I got excited. I've just been following your instructions -ff ^Yes. Let us arrive at the package." ^Right. This morning I dropped in at the Greenwich Bookshop. I got talking with the guy, and I said I supposed he had Paul Chapin's books in his circulating library, and he said sure, and I said I might like to get one, and he handed me one and I looked it over -" ^ I couldn't help it; I snorted and stopped him. Orrie looked surprised, and Wolfe moved his eyes at me. I sat down.

"Then I said Chapin must be an interesting guy and had he ever seen him, and he said sure, Chapin lived in that neighborhood and bought books there and came in pretty often. He showed me a Photograph of Chapin, autographed, on the wall with some others. A woman with black hair was sitting at a desk in the back of the shop, and she called out to the guy that that reminded her, Mr. Chapin never had come for the package he had left there a couple of weeks ago, and with Christmas stuff coming in the package was in the way, and hadn't he better phone Mr. Chapin to send for it. The guy said maybe he would a little later, it was too early for Chapin to be up. I deposited my dollar and got my book and went down the street to a lunch counter and sat down with a cup of coffee to think."

Wolfe nodded sympathetically. Orrie looked at him suspiciously and went on: I figured it this way. Two weeks ago was about the time the cops were warming up on Chapin. What if he got hep they would pull a search on him, and he had something in his place he didn't want them to see? There were a lot of things he might do, and one of them was to wrap it up and take it to his friends at the bookshop and ask them to keep it for j him. It would be about as safe there as anywhere. Anyhow, I decided I liked Chapin well enough to do him the favor of taking a look at his package for him. I got an envelope and a piece of paper from a stationery store and went to a real J estate office and b.u.mmed the use of a typewriter. I wrote a nice note to the bookshop. I had used my eyes on Chapin's signature on the autographed photograph and got it pretty good. But then I was afraid to send it, so soon after Fd been there and heard the package mentioned. I decided to wait until afternoon. So a while ago I got a boy and sent him to the bookshop with the note, and I'm telling you it worked and they gave it to him." Orrie nodded his head at the desk. "That's it."

I got up and got out my knife again.

Wolfe said, "No. Untie it." I started to work at the knot, which was a lulu. Orrie wiped his hand across his forehead and said, "By G.o.d, if it's just fishing tackle or electric light bulbs or something, you'll have to give me a drink. This is the only break I've had."

I said, "Among other things, there's Just a chance we might find a set of typewriter type-bars. Or love-letters from Mrs. Loring A. Burton, huh? There's I nothing doing on this knot. He didn't want me to untie it, or anybody else. Even if I do get it, I could never tie it back again the same." I picked up my knife again, and looked at Wolfe. He nodded, and I slashed the string.

I took off the paper, several thicknesses.

It wasn't a suitcase, but it was leather, and not imitation. It was an oblong box made out of light tan calfskin, a special job, beautifully made, with fine lines of tooling around the edges. It was a swell number. Orrie grunted: "Jesus, I may be in for grand larceny."

Wolfe said, "Go on," but he didn't get up so he could see. . "I can't. It's locked." "Well." I went to the safe and got a couple of my bunches of keys, and went back and started trying. The lock was nothing remarkable; in a few minutes I had it. I laid the keys down and lifted the lid. Orrie stood up and looked in with me. We didn't say anything for a second, then we looked at each other. I never saw him look so disgusted. J Wolfe said, "Empty?"

"No, sir. We'll have to give Orrie a ;^ drink. It's not his, it's hers. I mean Dora Chapin's. It's her hand-and-foot box.

Gloves and stockings and maybe other dainties."

"Indeed." To my surprise Wolfe 1 showed interest. His lips pushed out and in. He was even going to get up. He did so, and I shoved the box across.

"Indeed. I suspect yes, it must be.

Archie. Kindly remove them and spread them on the desk. Here, I'll help. No, Orrie, not unless you wash your hands first. Ha, more intimate still! But mostly stockings and gloves. Less roughly, Archie, out of respect for the dignity the race aspires to; what we are displaying on this desk-top is the soul of a *man. Qualities may be deduced for instance, do you notice that the gloves, varying as they do in color and material, are all of a size? Among twenty pairs or more, not one exception? Could you ask more of loyalty and fidelity? 0, that I ^ere a glove upon that hand... But with Romeo it was only rhetoric; for Paul Chapin the glove is the true treasure, with no hope beyond either of sweet or of bitter. Again, let us not be carried away; it is a distortion to regard this or that aspect of a phenomenon to the exclusion of others. In the present case, for example, we cannot afford to forget that these articles are of expensive materials and workmanship, that they must have cost Dr. Burton something around three hundred dollars and that he therefore had a right to expect that they should get more wear. Some of them, indeed, are practically new. To strike a balance -" r y^Orrie was sitting down again staring at him. It was I who cut him off: "Where does Burton come in? I'm asking that in English."

Wolfe fingered the gloves some more, and held up a stocking to look through it at the light. To see him handling female hosiery as if he understood it gave me a new insight into the extent of his pretensions. He held up another one, dropped it back gently to the table, and took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, carefully, fingers and palms. Then he sat down.

'y "Read your Anglo-Saxon poets, Archie.

Romeo himself was English, in spite of geography. I am not trying to befuddle you, I am adhering to a tradition."

"All right. Where does Burton come I in?" . "I have said, he paid the bills. He paid for these articles, his wife wore them, Dora Ritter, later Chapin, appropriated them, and Paul Chapin treasured them."

"How do you know all that?"

"How could I help but know it? Here are these worn things, kept by Paul Chapin in an elegant and locked receptacle, and in a time of crisis removed by him to a place of safety against unfriendly curiosity. You saw the size of Dora Chapin's hands, you see these gloves; they are not hers. You heard Monday evening the story of Chapin's infatuation with the woman who is now Dr. Burton's wife. You know that for years Dora Chapin, then Ritter, was Mrs.

Burton's personal maid, and that she still " attends her, to do something to her hair, ^at ^east once a week. Knowing these things, it would seem to me that only the most desperate stupidity -"

"Yes, sir. Okay on the stupidity. But why does it have to be that Dora took them? Maybe Chapin took them himself."

"He might. But most unlikely. Surely he did not strip the stockings from her legs, and I doubt if he was familiar with her dressing-room. The faithful Dora -"

"Faithful to who? Mrs. Burton, swiping her duds?"

"But, Archie. Having seen Dora, can you not grant her rarity? Anyone can be faithful to an employer; millions are, daily, constantly; it is one of the dullest and most vulgar of loyalties. We need not, even if we could, conjecture as to the first stirring of sympathy in Dora's breast on her perceiving the bitter torment in the romantic cripple's heart. I would like to believe it was a decent and honorable bargain, that Paul Chapin offered to pay her money, and did pay her, to get him a pair of gloves his unattainable beloved had worn, but I fear not. Having seen Dora, I suspect that it was the service of romance to which she dedicated herself; and that has been her faithfulness. It may even account for her continuing to visit Mrs.

Burton when her marriage freed her from the practical necessity; doubtless, fresh specimens are added from time to time.

What a stroke of luck for Chapin! The beloved odor, the intimate textile from the skin of his adored, is delivered to him as it may be required; more, the fingers which an hour ago played in his lady's hair are now pa.s.sing him his dinner coffee. He enjoys, daily, all the more delicate a.s.sociations with the person of his pa.s.sion, and escapes entirely the enforced and common-place contacts which usually render the delights of dubious profit. So much for the advantage, the peculiar thirst called emotional, of the individual; it is true that the race of man cannot be continued in this manner. The biological problem is another matter." Orrie Gather said, "I knew a guy in the army that used to take out a girl's handkerchief and kiss it before he went to sleep. One day a couple of us sneaked it out of his shirt and put something on it, and you should have heard him when he stuck his snout against it that night. He burned it up. Later he laid and cried, he was like that."

I said, "It took brains to think up one as good as that." Wolfe looked at Orrie, shut his eyes for a few seconds, and opened them again. He said: "There are no ubiquitous handkerchiefs in this collection. Mr. Chapin is an epicure. Archie. Repack the box, with feeling, lock it, wrap it up, and find a place for it in the cabinet. Orrie, you may resume; you know your instructions.

You have not brought us the solution of our case, but you have lifted the curtain to another room of the edifice we are exploring. Telephone at five after six as usual." ^ Orrie went down the hall whistling.

'y

12.

I had a nice piece of leather of my own, not as big as Paul Chapin's treasure box, but fancier. Sitting at my desk around five o'clock that Wednesday afternoon, killing time waiting for a visitor who had phoned, I took it out of my inside breast pocket and looked at it; I had only had it a couple of weeks. It was brown, ostrichskin, and was tooled in gold all over the outside. On one side the tooling was fine lines about half an inch apart, with flowers stemming out from them; the flowers were orchids; the workmanship was so good that you could tell Wolfe had given the guy a Cattleya to work from.

The other side was covered with Colt automatics, fifty-two perfect little gold Pistols all aiming at the center. Inside was stamped in gold: A. G. from N. W. Wolfe had given it to me on October 23rd, at the dinnertable, and I didn^t even know he knew when my birthday was. I carried my police and fire cards in it, and my operators license. I might have traded it for New York City if you had thrown in a couple of good suburbs.

When Fritz came and said Inspector Cramer was there I put it back in my pocket.

I let Cramer get eased into a chair and then I went upstairs to the plantrooms.

Wolfe was at the potting-bench with Horstmann, spreading out some osmundine and leaning over to smell it; a dozen or so pots of Odontoglossums, overgrown, were at his elbow. I waited until he looked around, and I felt my throat drying up.

"Well?"

I swallowed. "Cramer's downstairs. The rugged Inspector." ^ "What of it? You heard me speaking to him on the telephone." f'Look here," I said, "I want this distinctly understood. I came up here only for one reason, because I thought maybe r^ you had changed your mind and would like to see him. Yes or no will do it. If you give me a bawling out it will be nothing but pure childishness. You know what I think."

I Wolfe opened his eyes a little wider, winked the left one at me, twice, and , * turned to face the potting-bench again. ^ All I could see was his broad back that might have been something in a Macy Thanksgiving Day parade. He said to Horstmann: o "This will do. Get the charcoal. No _ sphagnum, I think." r I went back down to the office and told Cramer, "Mr. Wolfe can't come down.

He's too infirm." The Inspector laughed. "I didn't expect him to. I've known Nero Wolfe longer than you have, sonny. You don't suppose I thought I was going to tear any secrets M^ out of him? Anything he would tell me he has already told you. Can I light a pipe?"

"Shoot. Wolfe hates it. To h.e.l.l with him." H "What's this, you staging on me?"

Cramer packed his pipe, held a match to it, and puffed. "You don't... need to.

Did Wolfe tell you what... I told him on the phone?" I heard it." I patted my notebook.

"I've got it down."

"The h.e.l.l you have. Okay. I don't want George Pratt riding me, I'm too old to enjoy it. What went on here night before last?"

I grinned. "Just what Wolfe told you.

That's all. He closed a little contract."

"Is it true that he nicked Pratt for four thousand dollars?"

"He didn't nick anybody. He offered something for sale, and they gave him the .order." ^ "Yeah." He puffed. "You know Pratt?

Pratt thinks that it's funny that he has to sh.e.l.l out to a private d.i.c.k when the city maintains such a magnificent force of brave and intelligent men to cope with such problems. He said cope. I was there. He was talking to the Deputy Commissioner."

"Indeed." I bit my lip. I always felt like a sap when I caught myself imitating Wolfe. "Maybe he was referring to the Department of Health. That never occurred to me before, a cop coping."

Cramer grunted. He sat back and looked at the vase of orchids, and pulled at his pipe. Pretty soon he said: (I had a funny experience this afternoon. A woman called up downtown and said she wanted Nero Wolfe arrested because he had tried to cut her throat.

They put her onto me because they knew I had Wolfe in mind about this case. I said I'd send a man up to get the details and she gave me her name and address. You could have flipped me cold with a rubber band when I heard it."

I said, "That's a hot one. I wonder who it could have been."

"Sure you do. I'll bet you're puzzled.

Then a couple of hours later a guy came to see me. By invitation. He was a taxidriver.

He said that no matter how much diversion it offered he didn't care to take the rap for perjury, and that he saw blood on her when she got in his cab on Perry Street. That was one of the things I was wanting to mention to Wolfe on the Phone, but the picture in my mind's eye of him slicing a lady's gullet was so d.a.m.n remarkable that I didn't get it out." He puffed at his pipe, lit a match, and got it going again. He went on, more forceful and rugged. "Look here, Goodwin. What the h.e.l.l's the idea? I've tried that Chapin woman three times, and I couldn't get her to break down enough to tell me what her name was. She put on the clamp and left it. Wolfe gets in the case late Monday night, and here already, Wednesday morning, she's chasing up to his office to show him her operation. What the h.e.l.l is it about him that gets them coming like that?"

I grinned. "It's his sympathetic nature, inspector."

"Yeah. Who carved her neck?"

"Search me. She told you, Wolfe. Pull him in and give him the works."

"Was it Chapin?"

I shook my head. "If I know that secret, it's buried here." I tapped my chest. I i "Much obliged. Now listen to me. I'm being serious. Am I on the level?"

"Absolutely." (I am?"; "You know d.a.m.n well you are." "Okay. Then I'm telling you, I didn't come here to lift the silver. I've been after Chapin more than six weeks, ever since Dreyer was croaked, and what I've got on him is exactly nothing. Maybe he killed Harrison, and I'm d.a.m.n sure he killed Dreyer, and it looks like he got Hibbard, and he's got me feeling like a Staten Island flatfoot. He's as slick as a wet pavement. Right in a courtroom he confesses he committed murder, and the judge fines him fifty bucks for contempt of court! Later I find that he mentioned it beforehand to his publisher, as a publicity stunt! Covered everywhere. Is he slick?"

I nodded. "He's slick."

"Yes. Well, I've tried this and that. For one thing, I've got it figured that his wife hates him and she's afraid of him, and probably she knows enough about it to fill out a hand for us, if we could get her to spill it. So when I heard that she had dashed up here to see Wolfe, I naturally surmised that he had learned things. And I want to say this. You don't need to tell me a d.a.m.n thing if you don't want to.

Pm not trying to horn in. But whatever you got out of that Chapin woman, maybe you can make better use of it if you see whether it fits a few pieces Pve got hold of, and you're welcome -"

"But, inspector. Wait a minute. If you think she came here friendly, to dump the can, how do you account for her calling up to get Wolfe arrested?" "

"Now, sonny." Cramer's sharp eyes twinkled at me. "Didn't I say I've known Nero Wolfe longer than you have? If he wanted me to think she hadn't got confidential with him, that would be .about exactly what he would tell her to do."

I laughed. While I was laughing it occurred to me that it wouldn't do any particular harm if Cramer continued to nurse that notion, so I laughed some more. I said, "He might, he sure might, but he didn't. Why she phoned you to arrest him wait till I get a chance to tell Wolfe about it why, she did that, she's psychopathic. So's her husband. They're both psychopathic.

That's Park Avenue for batty.", Cramer nodded. "I've heard the word.

We've got a department oh, well..."

"And you're d.a.m.n sure he killed Dreyer."

He nodded again. "I think Dreyer was murdered by Paul Chapin and Leopold Elkus."

"You don't say!" I looked at him.

"That might turn out to be right. Elkus, huh?"