Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 20 - Prisoner's Base Page 2

  “That won’t do,” I objected. “Hotels and rooming houses have to know names. We can make one up for you. How would Lizzie Borden do?”

  She reacted to that crack as she had to the Coke and rum—she flushed a little. “You think it’s funny?” she inquired.

  I was firm. “So far,” I declared, “the over-all effect is comical. You aren’t going to tell us your name?”

  “No.”

  “Or where you live? Anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “Have you committed a crime or been accessory to one? Are you a fugitive from justice?”

  “No.”

  “Prove it.”

  “That’s silly! I don’t have to prove it!”

  “You do if you expect to get bed and board here. We’re particular. Altogether four murderers have slept in the south room—the last one was a Mrs. Floyd Whitten, some three years ago. And I am personally interested, since that room is on the same floor as mine.” I shook my head regretfully. “Under the circumstances, there’s no point in continuing the chinning, which is a pity, since I have nothing special to do and you are by no means a scarecrow, but unless you see fit to open up—”

  I stopped short because it suddenly struck me that in any case I could do better than shoo her out. Even if she couldn’t be cast as a client, I could still use her.

  I looked at her. “I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “Tell me your name.”

  “No,” she said positively.

  “Why not?”

  “Because—what good would it do unless you checked on it? How would you know it was my real name? And I don’t want you checking on it. I don’t want anyone to have the faintest idea where I am for a week—until June thirtieth.”

  “What happens on June thirtieth?”

  She shook her head, smiling at me. “You’re good at asking questions, I know that, so I’m not going to answer any at all. I don’t want you to do anything, or Nero Wolfe either, except to let me stay here for a week, right in that room, for my meals too. I think I’ve already talked too much. I think I should have said—no, I guess that wouldn’t have worked.” She laughed a little, a low running ripple. “If I had said I had read about you and seen a picture of you, and you fascinated me, and I wanted to be near you for one wonderful week, you’d have known I was lying.”

  “Not necessarily. Millions of women feel like that, but they can’t afford the fifty bucks a day.”

  “I said I would pay more. Whatever you say.”

  “Yeah, I know. Let’s get this settled. Are you going to stick to this—no naming or identifying?”

  “I certainly intend to.”

  “Then you’d better leave Mr. Wolfe to me.” I glanced at my wrist. “He’ll be coming down in three-quarters of an hour.” I left my chair. “I’ll take you up and leave you there, and when he comes down I’ll tackle him. With no tag on you it’s probably hopeless, but I may be able to persuade him to listen to you.” I picked up her jacket and turned. “It might help if he saw the cash. Sometimes the sight of money has an effect on people. Say three hundred and fifty, as you suggested? With the understanding, of course, that it’s not a deal until Mr. Wolfe accepts it.”

  Her fingers were quick and accurate as they ticked off seven new fifties from the stack she got from her purse. She had enough left. I stuck our share in my pocket, went to the hall for the suitcase and hatbox, and led the way up the stairs, two flights. The door to the south room was standing open. Inside I put the luggage down, went and pulled the cords of the Venetian blinds for light, and cranked a window open.

  She stood, taking a look around. “It’s a big room,” she said approvingly. She lifted a hand as if to touch my sleeve, but let it drop. “I appreciate this, Mr. Goodwin.”

  I grunted. I was not prepared to get on terms with her. Putting the suitcase on the rack at the foot of one of the twin beds, and the hatbox on a chair, I told her, “I’ll have to watch you unpack these.”

  Her eyes widened. “Watch me? Why?”

  “For the kick.” I was slightly exasperated. “There are at least a thousand people in the metropolitan area who think Nero Wolfe has lived long enough, and one or more of them might have decided to take a hand. His room, as you apparently know, is directly below this. What I expect to find is a brace and bit in the suitcase and a copperhead or rattler in the hatbox. Are they locked?”

  She regarded me to see if I was kidding, decided I wasn’t, and stepped over and opened the suitcase. I was right there. On top was a blue silk negligee, which she lifted and put on the bed.

  “For the kick,” she said indignantly.

  “It hurts me worse than it does you,” I assured her. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

  I’m not a lingerie expert, but I know what I like, and that was quite a collection. There was one plain white folded garment, sheer as gossamer, with the finest mesh I had ever seen. As she put it on the bed I asked politely, “Is that a blouse?”

  “No. Pajama.”

  “Oh. Excellent for hot weather.”

  When everything was out of the suitcase I picked it up for a good look, pressing with my fingertips on the sides and ends, inside and out. I wasn’t piling it on; among the unwanted articles that had been introduced into that house in some sort of container were a fer-de-lance, a tear-gas bomb, and a cylinder of cyanogen. But there was nothing tricky about the construction of the suitcase, or the hatbox either; and as for the contents, you couldn’t ask for a prettier or completer display of the personal requirements of a young woman for a quiet and innocent week in a private room of the house of a private detective.

  I backed off. “I guess that’ll do,” I granted. “I haven’t inspected your handbag, nor your person, so I hope you won’t mind if I lock the door. If you sneaked down to Mr. Wolfe’s room and put a cyanide pill in his aspirin bottle, and he took it and died, I’d be out of a job.”

  “Certainly.” She hissed it. “Lock it good. That’s the kind of thing I do every day.”

  “Then you need a caretaker, and I’m it. How about a drink?”

  “If it isn’t too much bother.”

  I said it wasn’t and left her, locking the door with the key I had brought along from the office. Downstairs, after stopping in the kitchen to tell Fritz we had a guest locked in the south room, to ask him to take her up a drink, and to give him the key, I went to the office, took the seven fifties from my pocket, worked them into a fan, and put them under a paperweight on Wolfe’s desk.

  Chapter 2

  At one minute past six, when the sound came of Wolfe’s elevator descending, I got so busy with things on my desk that I didn’t have time to turn my head when he entered the office. I followed him by ear—crossing to his chair behind his desk, getting his four thousand ounces seated and adjusted in comfort, ringing for beer, grunting as he reached for the book he was reading, left there by him two hours earlier, his place marked by a counterfeit ten-dollar bill which had been autographed in red ink by a former Secretary of the Treasury in appreciation of services rendered. I also caught, by ear, Wolfe speaking to Fritz when he brought the beer.

  “Did you put this money here, Fritz?”

  Of course that forced me. I swiveled. “No, sir, I did.”

  “Indeed. Thank you, Fritz.” He got his eighteen-carat opener from the drawer, uncapped a bottle, and poured. Fritz departed. Wolfe let the foam subside a little, not too much, lifted the glass, and took two healthy swallows. Putting the glass down, he tapped the new non-counterfeit fifties, still in a fan under the paperweight, with a fingertip, and demanded, “Well? Flummery?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  I bubbled with eager frankness. “I admit it, sir, what you said Friday about my excessive labors and the bank balance—that really hurt. I felt I wasn’t doing my share, with you sweating it out four hours a day up with the orchids. I was sitting here this afternoon mulling over it, some of the hardest mulling I’ve ever done, when the doorbell rang.”

  He was reacting to my opening as expected. Turning to his place in the book, he started reading. I went right on.

  “It was a human female in her twenties, with unprecedented eyes, a fine wholesome figure, a highly polished leather suitcase, and a hatbox. She tooted her knowledge of the premises and you and me, bragging about her reading. I brought her in here and we chatted. She wouldn’t tell her name or anything else about herself. She wants no advice, no information, no detective work, no nothing. All she wants is board and room for one week, with meals served in her room, and she specified the south room, which, as you know, is on the same floor as mine.”

  I made a little gesture signifying modesty. With his eyes on the book, he didn’t see it, but I made it anyway. “With your trained mind, naturally you have already reached the conclusion that I was myself compelled to accept, on the evidence. Not only has she read about me, she has seen my picture, and she can’t stand it not to be near me—as she put it, for one wonderful week. Luckily she is supplied with lettuce, and she paid for the week in advance, at fifty bucks a day. That’s where that came from. I told her I was taking it only tentatively, awaiting your okay, and took her up to the south room and helped her unpack, and locked her in. She’s there now.”

  He had turned in his chair for better light on his book, practically turning his back on me. I went on, unruffled. “She said something about having to go somewhere and stay until June thirtieth, where no one could find her, but of course she had to put some kind of face on it. I made no personal commitments, but I won’t object to some sacrifice of time and convenience, provided I average eight hours’ sleep. She seems educated and refined and will probably want me to read aloud to her, so I’ll have to ask you to lend me some books, like Pilgrim’s Progress and Essays of Elia. She also seems sweet and unspoiled and has fine legs, so if we like her and get used to her one of us could marry her. However, the immediate point is that, since I am responsible for that handy little contribution of cash, you may feel like signing a replacement for the check I tore up Friday.”

  I got it from a drawer, where I had it ready, and got up to put it on his desk. He put his book down, took his pen from the stand, signed the check, and slid it across to me.

  He regarded me with what looked like amiable appreciation. “Archie,” he told me, “that was an impressive performance. Friday I spoke hastily and you acted hastily, and the fait accompli of that torn check had us at an impasse. It was an awkward problem, and you have solved it admirably. By contriving one of your fantastically and characteristically puerile inventions, you made the problem itself absurd and so disposed of it. Admirable and satisfactory.”

  He removed the paperweight from the fifties, picked them up, jiggled the edges even, and extended his hand with them, telling me, “I didn’t know we had fifties in the emergency cash reserve. Better put them back. I don’t like money lying around.”

  I didn’t take the dough. “Hold it,” I said. “We’re bumping.”

  “Bumping?”

  “Yes, sir. That didn’t come from the safe. It came from a visitor as described, now up in the south room. I invented nothing, puerile or not. She’s a roomer for a week if you want her. Shall I bring her down so you can decide?”

  He was glaring at me. “Bah,” he said, reaching for his book.

  “Okay, I’ll go get her.” I started for the door, expecting him to stop me with a roar, but he didn’t. He thought he knew I was playing him. I compromised by going to the kitchen to ask Fritz to come in a minute, and let him precede me back to the office. Wolfe didn’t glance at us.

  “A little point of information,” I told Fritz. “Mr. Wolfe thinks I’m exaggerating. Our lady visitor you took a drink to up in the south room—is she old, haggard, deformed, ugly, and crippled?”

  “Now, Archie,” Fritz reproved me. “She is quite the opposite. Precisely the opposite!”

  “Right. You left her locked in?”

  “Certainly. I brought you the key. You said she would probably have her dinner—”

  “Yeah, we’ll let you know. Okay, thanks.”

  Fritz darted a look at Wolfe, got none in return, wheeled, and left. Wolfe waited for the sound of the kitchen door closing, then put his book down and spoke. “It’s true,” he said in a tone that would have been fitting if he had just learned that I had been putting thrips on his plants. “You have actually installed a woman in a room of my house?”

  “Not installed exactly,” I objected. “That’s too strong a word. And it implies that I have personal—”

  “Where did you get her?”

  “I didn’t get her. As I told you, she came. I wasn’t inventing. I was reporting.”

  “Report it in full. Verbatim.”

  That order was easy, compared to some I have had to fill. I gave him words and actions complete, from opening the front door to let her in through to locking the south room door to keep her in. He leaned back with his eyes closed, as he usually does when I’m reporting at length. When I finished he had no questions, not one. He merely opened his eyes and snapped at me, “Go up and give her back her money.” He glanced at the wall clock. “It’ll be dinnertime in twenty minutes. Get her out of the house in ten. Help her pack.”

  Here I hit a snag. Looking back at it, it would seem that my natural and normal course would have been to obey instructions. My double mission had been accomplished. I had taken a backhanded crack at his being so damn particular about accepting jobs and clients, and also I had got a replacement for my check. She had served my purpose, so why not bounce her? But evidently something about her, maybe the way she packed a suitcase, had made an impression on me, for I found myself taking a line.

  I told Wolfe that, acting as his agent, I had practically promised her that he would see her. He only grunted. I told him that he could probably get her to can the mystery and tell her name and describe her troubles, and if so the resulting fee might provide for my salary checks for a year. Another grunt.

  I gave up. “Okay,” I said, “she’ll have to find some bacalhau somewhere else. Maybe East Harlem—there’s a lot of Portuguese around there. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to her.”

  “Bacalhau?” he demanded.

  “Yeah. I happened to mention we were having it for dinner, and she asked what it was and I told her, and she said salt cod couldn’t possibly be fit to eat no matter how it was cooked, not even if it was an adaptation of a Portuguese recipe by you and Fritz.” I shrugged. “Skip it. She may be a murderess anyhow. What’s the difference if we break a precedent by turning her out hungry just at mealtime? What if I did sell her on salt cod and now have to evict her unfed? Who am I?”

  I got up and picked up the seven fifties from his desk. “This,” I said regretfully, “puts us back where we started. Since this is to be returned to her, I have contributed nothing to the bank account, and the situation regarding my salary check snaps back to last Friday. That leaves me no alternative,” I reached to my desk for the check he had signed as replacement, took it at the middle of its top edge with thumbs and forefingers—

  “Archie!” he roared. “Don’t tear that!”

  I still do not know what the decision would have been about the roomer upstairs if it had been left to us. Because Wolfe did not like the idea of sending anyone from his house hungry, because of his instinctive reaction to the challenge that salt cod couldn’t be made edible, and because of my threat to tear up another check, the roomer was not bounced before dinner, and the tray that was prepared for the south room was inspected personally by Wolfe before Fritz took it up. But except for the preparation and dispatch of the tray, no decision was put into words; the question was ignored. Wolfe and I ate together in the dining room as usual; the salt cod with Portuguese trimmings was so good that I had no room for the veal and not much for the walnut pudding; and when we were through with coffee and I followed Wolfe back into the office I assumed that the first item on the agenda would be Miss or Mrs. X. But he didn’t even call a meeting. After a full meal, which our dinner always is, it takes him four or five minutes to get adjusted in his chair to his complete satisfaction. With that accomplished that Monday evening, he opened his book and started to read.

  I had nothing to complain about, since it was certainly his move. She was still up there, fed and locked in, and it was up to him. He could just pass it and let her stay, which was unthinkable, or he could have me bring her down for a talk, which he would hate, or he could tell me to put her out, which might or might not get my prompt cooperation. In any case, I didn’t intend to give him an opening, so when he started reading I sat regarding him silently for a couple of minutes and then got up and headed for the door.

  His voice came at me from behind. “You’re not going out?”

  I turned and was bland. “Why not?”

  “That woman you smuggled in. The arrangement was that you would get rid of her after dinner.”

  It was a barefaced lie; there had been no such arrangement, and he knew it. But he had unquestionably squared off and feinted with a jab, and it was my turn. The disposal of our roomer would probably have been settled quickly and finally if it hadn’t been for an interruption. The doorbell rang. It was only two steps from where I stood to the hall, and I took them.

  After dark I never open the outside door to a ring without first flipping on the stoop light and taking a look through the one-way panel. That time a glance was enough. He was alone, about twice my age, tall and bony with a square jutting jaw, with a dark gray felt hat firmly on his head and a briefcase under his arm. I pulled the door open and asked him how he did. Ignoring that question, he said his name was Perry Helmar and that he wanted to see Nero Wolfe, urgently. Ordinarily, when Wolfe is in the office and a stranger calls, I let the caller wait while I go in to check, but now, welcoming a chance to give Wolfe another tack to sit on, and also perhaps to postpone a showdown on the roomer until bedtime, I invited the guy in, hung his hat on the rack, and escorted him to the office.