Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 36 - Gambit Read online

  “MR. WOLFE IS IN THE MIDDLE OF A FIT …”

  … I told her. “He’s seated in front of the fireplace, on a chair too small for him, tearing the pages out of a book and burning them. The book is the new edition of Webster’s New International Dictionary, Unabridged. He considers it subversive because it threatens the integrity of the English language. In the past week he has given me a thousand examples of its crimes. I describe the situation at length because he told me to bring you in there, and it will be bad. Even if he hears what you say, his mental processes are stultified. Could you come back later? After lunch he may be human.”

  She was staring up at me. “He’s burning up a dictionary?”

  “Right. That’s nothing. Once he burned up a cookbook because it said to remove the hide from a ham end before putting it in the pot with lima beans. Which he loves most, food or words, is a toss-up.”

  “I don’t want to come back.” She leaned forward. “I want to see him now. I must see him now.”

  She stood up. “My father will be convicted of murder!”

  Bantam Books by Rex Stout

  Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

  AND BE A VILLAIN

  AND FOUR TO GO

  CHAMPAGNE FOR ONE

  CURTAINS FOR THREE

  DEATH OF A DOXY

  DEATH OF A DUDE

  A FAMILY AFFAIR

  THE FATHER HUNT

  FER-DE-LANCE

  GAMBIT

  THE GOLDEN SPIDERS

  HOMICIDE TRINITY

  IN THE BEST OF FAMILIES

  MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD

  THE MOTHER HUNT

  MURDER BY THE BOOK

  PRISONERS BASE

  THE RED BOX

  A RIGHT TO DIE

  THE SECOND CONFESSION

  THREE DOORS TO DEATH

  THREE FOR THE CHAIR

  THREE MEN OUT

  THREE WITNESSES

  TOO MANY WOMEN

  TRIO FOR BLUNT INSTRUMENTS

  This low-priced Bantam Book has been completely reset in a type face designed for easy reading, and was printed from new plates. It contains the complete text of the original hard-cover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  GAMBIT

  A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with

  The Viking Press, Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Viking edition published October 1962

  Bantam edition / February 1964

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1962 by Rex Stout.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Viking Press, 40 W. 23rd St., New York, NY. 10010.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76805-6

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books. Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  v3.1_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  1

  At twenty-seven minutes past eleven that Monday morning in February, Lincoln’s Birthday, I opened the door between the office and the front room, entered, shut the door, and said, “Miss Blount is here.”

  Without turning his head Wolfe let out a growl, yanked out some more pages and dropped them on the fire, and demanded, “Who is Miss Blount?”

  I tightened my lips and then parted them to say, “She is the daughter of Matthew Blount, president of the Blount Textile Corporation, who is in the coop charged with murder, and she has an appointment with you at eleven-thirty, as you know. If you’re pretending you’ve forgotten, nuts. You knew you couldn’t finish that operation in half an hour. Besides, how about the comments I have heard you make about book burners?”

  “They are not relevant to this.” He yanked out more pages. “I am a man, not a government or a committee of censors. Having paid forty-seven dollars and fifty cents for this book, and having examined it and found it subversive and intolerably offensive, I am destroying it.” He dropped the pages on the fire. “I’m in no mood to listen to a woman. Ask her to come after lunch.”

  “I have also heard you comment about people who dodge appointments they have made.”

  Pause. More pages. Then: “Very well. Bring her here.”

  I returned to the office, shutting the door, crossed to the red leather chair near the end of Wolfe’s desk where I had seated the caller, and faced her. She tilted her head back to look up at me. She was a brownie, not meaning a Girl Scout—small ears and a small nose, big brown eyes, a lot of brown hair, and a wide mouth that would have been all right with the corners turned up instead of down.

  “I’d better explain,” I told her. “Mr. Wolfe is in the middle of a fit. It’s complicated. There’s a fireplace in the front room, but it’s never lit because he hates open fires. He says they stultify mental processes. But it’s lit now because he’s using it. He’s seated in front of it, on a chair too small for him, tearing sheets out of a book and burning them. The book is the new edition, the third edition, of Webster’s New International Dictionary, Unabridged, published by the G. & C. Merriam Company of Springfield, Massachusetts. He considers it subversive because it threatens the integrity of the English language. In the past week he has given me a thousand examples of its crimes. He says it is a deliberate attempt to murder the—I beg your pardon. I describe the situation at length because he told me to bring you in there, and it will be bad. Even if he hears what you say, his mental processes are stultified. Could you come back later? After lunch he may be human.”

  She was staring up at me. “He’s burning up a dictionary?”

  “Right. That’s nothing. Once he burned up a cookbook because it said to remove the hide from a ham end before putting it in the pot with lima beans. Which he loves most, food or words, is a tossup.”

  “I don’t want to come back.” She stood up. “I want to see him now. I must see him now.”

  The trouble was, if I persuaded her to put it off she might not show again. When she had phoned for an appointment it had looked as if we were going to have Matthew Blount for a client, and, judging from the newspapers and the talk around town, he could use plenty of good detective work; and he could pay for it, even at Nero Wolfe’s rates. So I didn’t want to shoo her out, and also there was her face—not only the turned-down corners of her mouth, but the look in her eyes. There is trouble in the eyes of nearly everyone who comes to that office, but hers were close to desperate. If I eased her out she might go straight to some measly agency with no genius like Wolfe and no dog like me.

  “Okay, but I told you,” I said, and went to my desk for my notebook, stepped to the door to the front room, and opened it. She came, leaving her coat, pallid mink, on the back of the chair.

  I moved up chairs for us, but with Wolfe so close to the fireplace I couldn’t put her directly facing him. He rarely stands when a caller enters, and of course he didn’t then, with the dictionary, the two-thirds of it that was left, on his lap. He dropped sheets on the fire, turned to look at her, and inquired, “Do you use ‘infer’ and ‘imply’ interchangeably, Miss Blount?”

  She did fine. She said simply, “No.”

  “This book says you may. Pfui. I prefer not to interrupt this auto-da-fé. You wish to consult me?”

  “Yes. About my father. He is in—he has been arrested for murder. Two weeks ago a man died, he was poisoned—”

  “If you please. I read newspapers. Why do you come to me?”

  “I know my father didn’t do it and I want you to prove it.”

  “Indeed. Did your father send you?”

  “No.”

  “Did his attorney, Mr. Kalmus?”

  “No, nobody sent me. Nobody knows I’m here. I have twenty-two thousand dollars here in my bag.” She patted it, brown leather with straps, on her lap. “I didn’t have that much, but I sold some things. I can get more if I have to. My father and mother mustn’t know I’m doing this, and neither must Dan Kalmus.”

  “Then it’s impossible.” Wolfe tore pages loose and dropped them on the fire. “Why must they not know?”

  “Because they wouldn’t let—they’d stop it. I’m sure my father would.” She was gripping the bag. “Mr. Wolfe, I came to you because I had to. I knew I’d have to tell you things I shouldn’t tell anybody. This is the first good thing I have ever done. That’s the trouble with me, I never do anything bad and I never do anything good, so what’s the use? And I’m twenty-two years old, that’s why I brought twenty-two thousand dollars.”

  She patted the bag. “But I’m doing this. Dan Kalmus has been my father’s lawyer for years, and he may be good at business things, but he’s no good for this. I know he isn’t; I’ve known him all my life. Last week I told him he should get you, get you to help, and he smiled
at me and said no, he didn’t like the way you work. He says he knows what he’s doing and it will be all right, but it won’t. I’m afraid; I’m scared clear through.” She leaned forward. “Mr. Wolfe, my father will be convicted of murder.”

  Wolfe grunted. He tore pages. “If your father wants to hire me I might consider it without his attorney’s approval, but it would be difficult.”

  She was shaking her head. “He wouldn’t. If Dan Kalmus said no, he wouldn’t. And my mother wouldn’t if my father said no. So it’s just me. I can hire you, can’t I?”

  “Certainly not. Without the cooperation of your father and his attorney I couldn’t move a finger.” Wolfe tore pages with a little extra force. Twenty-two grand wouldn’t break any record, but it would be a nice start on 1962.

  “That’s silly,” Miss Blount said. “Of course your mental processes are stultified by the fire. Why I told Dan Kalmus to get you, and why I came, I thought you could do things that nobody else can do. You’re supposed to be a wizard. Everyone says you are. Dan Kalmus himself said you’re a wizard, but he doesn’t want you taking over his case. That’s what he said, ‘my case.’ It’s not his case, it’s my father’s case!”

  “Yes,” Wolfe agreed, “your father’s case, not yours. You must—”

  “I’m making it mine! Didn’t I say this is the first good thing I’ve ever done?” Leaning forward, she grabbed his wrist and jerked his hand away from the dictionary, and hung on to the wrist. “Does a wizard only do easy things? What if you’re the only man on earth who can save my father from being convicted of a murder he didn’t do? If there was something I could do that no one else on earth could do, I’d do it! You don’t need my father or his attorney because I can tell you anything they can. I can tell you things they wouldn’t, like that Dan Kalmus is in love with my mother. Dan Kalmus wouldn’t, and my father couldn’t because he doesn’t know it, and he’s in jail and I’m not!”

  She turned loose the wrist, and Wolfe tore out pages and dropped them on the fire. He was scowling, not at the dictionary. She had hit exactly the right note, calling him a wizard and implying (not inferring) that he was the one and only—after mentioning what she had in her bag.

  He turned the scowl on her. “You say you know he didn’t do it. Is that merely an opinion seemly for a daughter or can you support it with evidence?”

  “I haven’t any evidence. All the evidence is against him. But it’s not just an opinion, I know it. I know my father well enough to—”

  “No.” He snapped it. “That is cogent for you but not for me. You want to engage me, and pay me, to act on behalf of a man without his knowledge—a man who, in spite of his wealth and standing, has been charged with murder and locked up. The evidence must be strong. Your father wouldn’t be my client; you would.”

  “All right, I will.” She opened the bag.

  “I said would. It’s preposterous, but it is also tempting. I need to know—but first what Mr. Goodwin and I already know.” His head turned. “Archie. What do we know?”

  “The crop?” I asked. “Or the highlights?”

  “Everything. Then we’ll see if Miss Blount has anything to add.”

  “Well.” I focused on the prospective client. “This is from the papers and some talk I’ve heard. If I’m wrong on anything don’t try to remember until I’m through, stop me. The Gambit Club is a chess club with two floors in an old brick building on West Twelfth Street. It has about sixty members, business and professional men and a couple of bankers. As chess clubs go, it’s choosy. Tuesday evening, January thirtieth, two weeks ago tomorrow, it had an affair. A man named Paul Jerin, twenty-six years old, not a member, was to play simultaneous blindfold games with twelve of the members.

  “About Paul Jerin. I’m mixing the papers and the talk I’ve heard without separating them. He was a screwball. He had three sources of income: from writing verses and gags for greeting cards, from doing magic stunts at parties, and from shooting craps. Also he was hot at chess, but he only played chess for fun, no tournament stuff. You knew him. You met him—how long ago?”

  “About a year. I met him at a party where he did tricks.”

  “And he cultivated you—or you cultivated him. I’ve heard it both ways—of course you realize there’s a lot of talk, a thing like this. Learning that he played chess, you arranged for him to play a game with your father, at your home. Then he came again, and again. How often? I’ve heard different versions.”

  “He played chess with my father only three times. Three evenings. He said it was no fun because it was too easy. The last time he gave my father odds of a rook and beat him. That was months ago.”

  “But aside from chess you saw a lot of him. One version, you were going to marry him, but your father—”

  “That’s not true. I never dreamed of marrying him. And I didn’t see a lot of him. The police have asked me about it, and I know exactly. In the last three months I saw him just five times, at parties, mostly dancing. He was a good dancer. No girl with any sense would have married him.”

  I nodded. “So much for talk. But you got your father to arrange that affair at the Gambit Club.” We had to keep our voices up because of the noise Wolfe made tearing paper.

  “They’ve asked me about that too,” she said. “The way it happened, Paul suggested it to me, he said it would be fun to flatten their noses, and I told my father, but I didn’t get him to do it. He said he thought two or three of the members could beat Paul with him playing blindfold, and he arranged it.”

  “Okay, he arranged it. Of course that’s important. Did your father know that Paul always drank hot chocolate when he was playing chess?”

  “Yes. Paul drank hot chocolate when he was doing almost anything.”

  “Then we’ll tackle the affair of January thirtieth. It was stag. Men only.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is from the papers. I read murders in the papers, but with full attention only when we’re in on it, so I may slip up. If I do, stop me. No one was there but club members, about forty of them, and Paul Jerin, and the steward, named Bernard Nash, and the cook, named Tony Laghi. In a big room on the ground floor there were twelve chess tables, in two rows, six tables in each row, ranged along the two long walls, and at each table a club member sat with his back to the wall. They were the players. That left room in the middle, the length of the room, for the other members to move around and watch the play. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But four of the other members didn’t just watch the play, they were messengers. Paul Jerin was in a smaller room to the rear of the house which one paper, I think the Times, said contains the best chess library in the country. He was sitting on a couch, and, after play started, he was alone in the room. The tables were designated by numbers, and each messenger served three tables. When play started a messenger went in to Jerin and told him the table—”

  “Not when play started. A man playing blindfold has white at all the boards and makes the first move.”

  “I should think he’d need it. Anyway, whenever a member at one of the tables made a move the messenger serving that table went in to Jerin and told him the table number and the move, and Jerin told him his move in reply, and he went back out to the table and reported it. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, but I don’t believe it. I have monkeyed with chess a little, enough to get the idea, and I do not believe that any man could carry twelve simultaneous games in his head without seeing the boards. I know men have done it, even twenty games, but I don’t believe it.”

  Wolfe grunted. “One hundred and sixty-nine million, five hundred and eighteen thousand, eight hundred and twenty-nine, followed by twenty-one ciphers. The number of ways the first ten moves, both sides, may be played. A man who can play twelve simultaneous games blindfold is a lusus nature. Merely a freak.”

  “Is that material?” I asked him.

  “No.”

  I returned to Sally Blount. She had told me on the phone that her name was Sarah but everyone called her Sally and she preferred it. “Play was to start at eight-thirty,” I said, “but it actually started at eight-forty, ten minutes late. From then on Jerin was alone in the library except when one of the messengers entered. I think I can name them. Charles W. Yerkes, banker. Daniel Kalmus, attorney-at-law. Ernst Hausman, wealthy retired broker, one of the founders of the club. Morton Farrow, a nephew of Mrs. Matthew Blount, your mother.” I paused, shutting my eyes. I opened them. “I pass. I’m sure one of the papers said what your cousin Morton does for a living, but I can’t recall it.”