Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 21 - Triple Jeopardy Read online

  In a definitive series of articles about Rex Stout and his monumental creation, NERO WOLFE, The New Yorker once remarked: “Nero Wolfe, the fat sedentary detective, invented by Rex Stout, is an interesting fellow because the author is an interesting fellow.”

  Nero Wolfe owes his knowledge of practically everything to the amazing background of his creator who has been, among other things: banker, barker, bookworm, bookkeeper, yeoman on the Presidential yacht, boss of three thousand propaganda writers in World War II, gentleman farmer, big businessman, cigar salesman, pueblo guide, hotel manager, architect, cabinet-maker, crow trainer, jumping-pig trainer, mammoth-pumpkin grower, politician, potted-plant wizard, gastronome, president of the Authors’ Guild, usher, ostler, and pamphleteer.

  Rex Stout is also one of the best mystery writers who ever lived, and Nero Wolfe is one of fiction’s truly great detectives. TRIPLE JEOPARDY is up to their standard.

  Books by Rex Stout

  THE SILENT SPEAKER

  TOO MANY WOMEN

  AND BE A VILLAIN

  TROUBLE IN TRIPLICATE

  MURDER BY THE BOOK

  TRIPLE JEOPARDY

  PRISONER’S BASE

  THE GOLDEN SPIDERS

  THREE MEN OUT

  THE BLACK MOUNTAIN

  BEFORE MIDNIGHT

  THREE WITNESSES

  MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD

  THREE FOR THE CHAIR

  IF DEATH EVER SLEPT

  AND FOUR TO GO

  CHAMPAGNE FOR ONE

  PLOT IT YOURSELF

  THE SECOND CONFESSION

  THREE AT WOLFE’S DOOR

  TOO MANY CLIENTS

  IN THE BEST FAMILIES

  THE FINAL DEDUCTION

  Published by Bantam Books

  Contents

  Home to Roost

  The Cop-Killer

  The Squirt and the Monkey

  HOME TO ROOST

  I

  “OUR nephew Arthur was the romantic type,” said Mrs. Benjamin Rackell with the least possible movement of her thin tight lips. “He thought being a Communist was romantic.”

  Nero Wolfe, behind his desk in his outsized chair that thought nothing of his seventh of a ton, scowled at her. I, at my own desk with a notebook and pen, permitted myself a private grin, not unsympathetic. Wolfe was controlling himself under severe provocation. The appointment for Mr. Rackell to call at Wolfe’s office on the ground floor of his old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street, at six p.m., had been made by phone by a secretary in the office of the Rackell Importing Company, and nothing had been said about a wife coming along. And the wife, no treat as a spectacle to begin with, was an interrupter and a cliché tosser, enough to make Wolfe scowl at any man, let alone a woman.

  “But,” he objected, not too caustic, “you say that he was not a Communist, that, on the contrary, he was acting for the FBI when he joined the Communist party.”

  He would have loved to tell her to get lost. But his house had five stories, counting the basement and the plant rooms full of orchids on the roof, and there was Fritz the chef and Theodore the botanist and me, Archie Goodwin, the fairly confidential assistant, with nothing to carry the load but his income as a private detective; and the Rackell check for three thousand bucks, offered as a retainer, was under a paperweight on his desk.

  “That’s just it,” Mrs. Rackell said impatiently. “Isn’t it romantic to work for the FBI? But that wasn’t why he did it; he did it to serve his country, and that’s why they killed him. His being the romantic type had nothing to do with it.”

  Wolfe made a face and undertook to bypass her. His eyes went to Rackell. She would probably have called her husband the stubby type, with his short arms and legs, but he was no runt. His trunk was long and broad and his head long and narrow. His eyes pointed down at the corners, and so did his mouth, making him look mournful.

  Wolfe asked him, “Have you spoken with the FBI, Mr. Rackell?”

  But the wife answered. “No, he hasn’t,” she said. “I went myself yesterday, and I never heard anything to equal it. They wouldn’t tell me a single thing. They wouldn’t even admit Arthur was working for them as a spy for his country! They said it was a matter for the New York police and I should talk to them—as if I hadn’t!”

  “I told you, Pauline,” Rackell said mildly but not timidly, “that the FBI won’t tell people things. And the police won’t either, not when it’s murder, and especially when the Communists come into it. That’s why I insisted on coming to Nero Wolfe to find out what’s going on. If the FBI doesn’t want it known that Arthur was with them, even if it means not getting his murderer, what else can you expect?”

  “I expect justice!” Mrs. Rackell declared, her lips actually moving visibly.

  I gave it a line to itself in the notebook.

  Wolfe was frowning at Rackell. “There seems to be some confusion. I understood that you want a murder investigated. Now you say you came to me to find out what’s going on. If you mean you want me to investigate the police and the FBI, that’s too big a bite.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Rackell protested.

  “No, but clear it up. What do you want?”

  Rackell’s down-pointing eyes looked even mournfuller. “We want facts,” he declared. “I think the police and the FBI are quite capable of sacrificing the rights of a private citizen to what they consider the public interest. Our nephew was murdered, and my wife had a right to ask them what line they’re proceeding on, and they wouldn’t tell her. I don’t intend to just let it go at that. Is this a democracy or isn’t it? I’m not—”

  “No!” the wife snapped. “It’s not a democracy, it’s a republic.”

  “I suggest,” said Wolfe, exasperated, “that I recapitulate to see if I have it straight. I’ll combine what I have read in the papers with what you have told me.” He focused on the wife, probably figuring that she would be less apt to cut in if he held her eye. “Arthur Rackell, your husband’s orphaned nephew, was a fairly efficient employee of his importing business, drawing a good salary, living at your home here in New York, on Sixty-eighth Street. Some three years ago you noted that he was taking a radically leftist position in discussions of political and social questions, and you remonstrated without effect. As time passed he became more leftist and more outspoken, until his opinions and arguments were identical with the Communist line. You, both you and your husband, argued with him and entreated him, but—”

  “I did,” Mrs. Rackell snapped. “My husband didn’t.”

  “Now, Pauline,” Rackell protested. “I argued with him some.” He looked at Wolfe. “I didn’t entreat him because I didn’t think I had a right to. I don’t believe in entreating people about their convictions. I was paying him a salary and I didn’t want him to think he had to—” The importer fluttered a hand. “I liked Arthur, and he was my brother’s son.”

  “In any case,” Wolfe went on brusquely, still at the wife, “he did not change. He stubbornly adhered to the Communist position. He applauded the Communist attack in Korea and denounced the action of the United Nations. You finally found it insufferable and gave him an ultimatum: either he would abandon his outrageous—”

  “Not an ultimatum,” Mrs. Rackell corrected. “My husband refused to permit it. I merely—”

  Wolfe outspoke her. “At least you made it plain that you had had enough and he was no longer welcome in your home. You must have made it fairly strong, since he was moved to disclose an extremely tight secret: that he had been persuaded by the FBI, back in nineteen forty-eight, to join the Communist party for the purpose of espionage. No easy admonition would have dragged that out of him, surely.”
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  “I didn’t say it was easy. I told him—” She stopped, and the thin lips really did tighten. She relaxed them enough to let words out. “I think he thought he would lose his job, and he was well paid. Much more than he earned, the amount of work he did.”

  Wolfe nodded. “Anyhow, he told you his secret, and you promised to keep it, becoming a confederate. Privately admiring him, with others you had to pretend to maintain your condemnation. You told your husband and no one else. That was about a week ago, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Saturday evening, three days ago, your nephew was murdered. Now to that. You have added little to what the papers have carried, but let’s see. He left the apartment, your home, and took a taxi to Chezar’s restaurant, where he had a dinner engagement He had invited three women and two men to dine with him, and they were all there when he arrived, in the bar. When your nephew came they went with him to the table he had reserved and had cocktails. He took a small metal box from—”

  “Gold.”

  “Gold is a metal, madam. He took it from a pocket, his side coat pocket, put it on the table, and left it there while he conferred with the waiter. There was conversation. When plates and rolls and butter were brought, the pillbox got pushed around. It was on the table altogether some ten or twelve minutes. When hors d’oeuvres were served, your nephew started to eat, remembered the pillbox, found it behind the basket of rolls, got from it a vitamin capsule, swallowed the capsule with a sip of water, and began on his hors d’oeuvres. Six or seven minutes later he suddenly cried out, sprang to his feet, overturning his chair, made convulsive gestures, became rigid, collapsed and crumpled to the floor, and died. A doctor arrived shortly, but he was already dead. It has been found that two other capsules in the metal box, similar in appearance to the one he took, contained what they were supposed to and were harmless; but your nephew had swallowed potassium cyanide. He was murdered by replacing a vitamin capsule with a capsule filled with poison.”

  “Certainly. That’s what—”

  “I’ll go on, please. You were and are convinced that the substitution was made by one of his dinner companions who is a Communist and who learned that your nephew was acting for the FBI, and you so informed Inspector Cramer of the police. You were not satisfied with his acceptance of that information, especially in a subsequent talk with him yesterday morning, Monday, and went yourself to the office of the FBI, saw a Mr. Anstrey, and found him noncommittal. He took the position that a homicide in Manhattan is the business of the New York police. Exasperated, you went to Inspector Cramer’s office, were unable to see him, talked with a sergeant named Stebbins, came away further exasperated, regarded with favor your husband’s suggestion, made this morning, that I be consulted, and here you are. Have I left out anything important?”

  “One little point.” Rackell cleared his throat. “Our telling Inspector Cramer about Arthur’s joining the Communist party for the FBI—that was in confidence. Of course this talk with you is confidential too, naturally, since we’re your clients.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Not yet. You want to hire me to investigate the death of your nephew?”

  “Yes. Certainly.”

  “Then you should know that while no one excels me in discretion I will not work under restrictions.”

  “That’s fair enough.”

  “Good. I’ll let you know tomorrow, probably by noon.” Wolfe reached to push the paperweight aside and pick up the check. “Shall I keep this meanwhile and return it if I can’t take the job?”

  Rackell frowned, perplexed. His wife snapped, “Why on earth couldn’t you take it?”

  “I don’t know, madam. I hope to. I need the money. But I’ll have to look into it a little—discreetly, of course. I’ll let you know tomorrow at the latest.” He extended a hand with the check. “Unless you prefer to take this and try elsewhere.”

  They didn’t like it, especially her. She even left the red leather chair to take the check, her lips tight, but after some give-and-take with her husband they decided to let it ride, and she put the check back on the desk. They wanted to give us more details, especially about their nephew’s five dinner guests, but Wolfe said that could wait, and they left, none too pleased. As I let them out at the front door Rackell gave me a polite thank-you nod, but she didn’t even know I was there.

  Returning to the office, I got the check and put it in the safe and then stood to regard Wolfe. His nose was twitching. He looked as if he had an oyster with horseradish on it in his mouth, a combination he detests.

  “It can’t be helped,” I told him. “It takes all kinds to make a clientele. What are we going to look into a little?”

  He sighed. “Get Mr. Wengert of the FBI. You want to see him, this evening if possible. I’ll talk.”

  “It’s nearly seven o’clock.”

  “Try.”

  I went to the phone on my desk, dialed RE 2–3500, talked to a stranger and to a man I had met a couple of times, and reported to Wolfe, “Not available. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Make an appointment.”

  I did so and hung up.

  Wolfe sat scowling at me. He spoke. “I’ll give you instructions after dinner. Have we got the Gazette of the past three days?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me have them, please. Confound it.” He sighed again. “Saturday, and tomorrow’s Wednesday. Like a warmed-over meal.” He came erect and his face brightened. “I wonder how Fritz is making out with that fish.”

  He left his chair and headed for the hall and the kitchen.

  II

  WEDNESDAY morning all the air in Manhattan was conditioned—the wrong way. It was no place for penguins. On my way to Foley Square my jacket was beside me on the seat of the taxi, but when I had paid the driver and got out I put it on. Sweat or no sweat, I had to show the world that a private detective can be tough enough to take it.

  When, after some waiting, I got admitted to Wengert’s big corner room I found him in his shirt sleeves with his tie and collar loosened. He got up to shake hands and invited me to sit. We exchanged remarks.

  “I haven’t seen you,” I told him, “since you got elevated here. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I notice you’ve got brass in your voice, but I guess that can’t be helped. Mr. Wolfe sends his regards.”

  “Give him mine.” His voice warmed up a little, just perceptibly. “I’ll never forget how he came through on that mercury thing.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “What can I do for you, Goodwin?”

  Back a few years, when we had been in G2 together, it had been Archie, but then he hadn’t had a corner room with five phones on his desk. I crossed my legs to show there was no rush.

  “Not a thing,” I told him. “Mr. Wolfe just wants to clear. Yesterday a man and wife named Rackell came to see him. They want him to investigate the death of their nephew, Arthur Rackell. Do you know about it, or do you want to call someone in? Mrs. Rackell has talked with a Mr. Anstrey.”

  “I know. Go ahead.”

  “Then I won’t have to draw pictures. Our bank says that Rackell rates seven figures west of the decimal point, and we would like to earn a fee by tagging a murderer, but our country right or wrong. We would hate to torpedo the ship of state in this bad weather. The Rackells came to Mr. Wolfe because they think the FBI and the NYPD regard the death of Arthur as a regrettable but minor incident. They say he was killed by a Commie who discovered that he was an FBI plant. Before we proceed on that theory Mr. Wolfe wants to clear with you. Of course you may not want to say, even under the rug to us, that he was yours. May you?”

  “It’s hotter than yesterday,” Wengert stated.

  “Yeah. Would you care to make any sign at all, for instance a wink?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll try something more general. There has been nothing in the papers about the Commie angle, not a word, so there has been no mention of the FBI. Is the FBI working
on the murder, officially or otherwise?”

  “Much hotter,” he said.

  “It sure is. How about the others, the five dinner guests? Of course they’re our meat. Any suggestions, requests, or orders? Any strings you wouldn’t want us to trip on?”

  “The humidity, too.”

  “Absolutely. I realize that you would like to tell us to lay off on general principles, but you’re afraid there might be a headline tomorrow, FBI WARNS NERO WOLFE TO KEEP HANDS OFF OF RACKELL MURDER. Besides, if you give us a stop sign you’ll have to say why or we’ll keep going. Just to clean it up, it there any question I might ask that would take your mind off the weather?”

  “No.” He stood up. “It was nice to see you for old time’s sake, and you can still give Wolfe my regards, but tell him to go climb a tree. Some nerve. Sending you here with that bull about wanting to clear! Why didn’t he ask me to send him up the files? Come again when I’m not here.”

  I was on my way, but before I reached the door I turned. “The radio said this morning it would hit ninety-five,” I told him and went.

  There are always taxis at Foley Square. I removed my jacket, climbed into one, and gave an address on West Twentieth Street. When we got there my shirt was stuck to the back of the seat. I pulled loose, paid, got out, put on the jacket, and went into a building. The headquarters of the Homicide Squad, Manhattan West, was much more familiar to me than the United States Courthouse. So were the inmates, one in particular, the one sitting at a dingy little desk in a dingy little room to which I was escorted. They have never let me roam loose in that building since the day I took a snapshot of a piece of paper they were saving, though they couldn’t prove it.

  Sergeant Purley Stebbins was big and strong but not handsome. His rusty old swivel chair squeaked and groaned as he leaned back.

  “Oh, hell,” I said, sitting, “I forgot. I meant to bring a can of oil for that chair my next trip here.” I cocked my head. “What are you glaring about? Is my face dirty?”