Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 41 Read online

  “Not good. Not exactly épaté, but broad. Not bien fait.”

  “Then it should be pushed,” I forked sausage.

  So he was at ease when I finished and went to the office. The meals would be okay, at least for today. As I dusted the desks, tore sheets from the calendars, and opened the mail, which was mostly junk, I was considering an experiment. If I dialed a number, any number, say Parker’s, I might be able to tell if we were tapped. It would be interesting to know if they had already reacted to the call to Mrs. Bruner. I vetoed it. I intended to keep strictly to my instructions. Doing so, I got my pocket notebook and another item from a drawer of my desk, opened the safe to get the check, went to the kitchen to tell Fritz not to expect me for lunch and to the hall rack for my hat and coat, and departed.

  Heading east, I merely walked. It’s a cinch to spot a tail, even a good one, especially on a winter day when a cold, gusty wind is keeping the sidewalk traffic down, but presumably they knew where I was going, so why bother? At the bank, on Lexington Avenue, I had the pleasure of seeing the teller’s eyes widen a little as he gave the check a second glance. The simple pleasure of the rich. Outside again, I turned uptown. I had two miles to go, but it was only twenty after ten. I am a walker, and if I had a tail it would be good for his lungs and legs.

  The four-story stone on Seventy-fourth Street between Madison and Park was at least twice as wide as Wolfe’s brownstone, but it wasn’t brown. The door to the vestibule, three steps down, was solid, but the inside one was a metal grille with glass. It was opened by a man in black with no lips who swung it wide only after he had my name. He led me down the hall to an open door on the left and motioned me in.

  It was an office, not large—filing cabinets, a safe, two desks, shelves, a cluttered table. On the wall back of the table was a blow-up of the Bruner building. My quick glance around came to rest on a face, a face that rated a glance, belonging to the female seated at one of the desks. Her hazel eyes were meeting the glance.

  “I’m Archie Goodwin,” I said.

  She nodded. “I’m Sarah Dacos. Have a seat, Mr. Goodwin.” She lifted the receiver from a phone and pressed a button, in a moment told someone I was there, hung up, and told me Mrs. Bruner would be down soon. Sitting, I asked her, “How long have you been with Mrs. Bruner?”

  She smiled. “I know you’re a detective, Mr. Goodwin, you don’t have to prove it.”

  I smiled back. “I have to keep in practice.” She was easy to smile at. “How long?”

  “Nearly three years. Do you want it exactly?”

  “Later maybe. Shall I wait until Mrs. Bruner comes?”

  “Not necessarily. She said you would ask me some questions.”

  “Then I will. What did you do before?”

  “I was a stenographer at the Bruner Corporation, and then Mr. Thompson’s secretary, the vice-president.”

  “Have you ever worked for the government? For instance, for the FBI?”

  She smiled. “No. Never. I was twenty-two years old when I started with the Bruner Corporation. I’m twenty-eight now. You’re not taking notes.”

  “In here.” I touched my forehead. “What gave you the idea that the FBI is tailing you?”

  “I don’t know it’s the FBI. But it must be, because nobody else would.”

  “How sure are you you’re being tailed?”

  “Oh, I’m positive. I don’t keep looking behind me, nothing like that, but my hours here are irregular, I leave at different times, but when I go to the bus stop a man always comes and gets on after me, and he gets off where I do. The same man.”

  “Madison Avenue bus?”

  “No, Fifth Avenue. I live in the Village.”

  “When did it start?”

  “I’m not sure. The first time I noticed him was the Monday after Christmas. He’s there in the morning, too. And in the evening, if I go out. I didn’t know it was done like that. I thought if you followed someone you didn’t want her to know it.”

  “It depends. Sometimes you do want her to know. It’s called an open tail. Can you describe the man?”

  “I certainly can. He’s six or seven inches taller than me, about thirty years old, maybe a little more, a long face with a square chin, a long thin nose, a small straight mouth. His eyes are a kind of greenish gray. He always has his hat on, so I don’t know about his hair.”

  “Have you ever spoken to him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Have you reported it to the police?”

  “No, the lawyer said not to. Mrs. Bruner’s lawyer. He said that if it’s the FBI they can always say it’s a security check.”

  “So they can. And do. By the way, did you suggest sending people copies of that book to Mrs. Bruner?”

  Her brow went up. It was a nice smooth brow. “Why, no. I hadn’t read it. I only read it afterwards.”

  “After you got a tail?”

  “No, after she decided to send all those copies.”

  “Do you know who did suggest it to her?”

  “I don’t know if anyone did.” She smiled. “I suppose it’s natural, your asking me that, since you’re a detective, but to me it would seem more natural to ask her. Even if I knew someone suggested it, I don’t think—”

  There were footsteps in the hall, approaching, and Mrs. Bruner appeared. As she entered I arose, and so did Sarah Dacos. I moved to meet her and take the offered hand and return the greeting, and when she went to sit at the other desk I changed to another chair. She gave a pile of papers under a weight a mere glance and pushed it aside, and said to me, “I suspect that I owe you some thanks, Mr. Goodwin. More than just thanks.”

  I shook my head, “No, you don’t. Not that it matters, since the check has been deposited, but I was against it. Now that it’s a job I’m for it.” I got from a pocket the item I had taken from my desk drawer and handed it to her. It was a sheet of paper on which I had typed:

  MR. NERO WOLFE

  914 West 35th Street

  New York City 1

  January 6, 1965

  Dear Sir:

  Confirming our conversation of yesterday, I hereby engage you to act in my interest in the matter we discussed. I believe the Federal Bureau of Investigation is responsible for the espionage I and my family and associates are being subjected to, for the reasons I gave you, but whoever is responsible, you are to investigate it and use your best efforts to have it stopped. Whatever the outcome, the $100,000 I have given you as a retainer will not be subject to any claim by me. I will pay any expenses you incur in my behalf, and if you get the result I desire I will pay a fee to be determined by you.

  (Mrs. Lloyd Bruner)

  She read it twice, first skimming and then every word. She looked up. “I’m supposed to sign this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t. I never sign anything my lawyer hasn’t read.”

  “You can call him and read it to him.”

  “But my telephone is tapped.”

  “I know. It’s barely possible that when they know that you are giving Nero Wolfe a free hand, no limit, they’ll cool off. Tell the lawyer that. Not that they’re in awe of him, they’re not in awe of anybody, but they know a lot about him. As for that last sentence, the fee to be determined by him, there’s a loophole. It says ‘if you get the result I desire.’ Obviously that will be determined by you, so you’re not signing a blank check. The lawyer should agree.”

  She read it again, then leveled the brown-black eyes at me. “I can’t do that. My lawyers don’t know I went to Nero Wolfe. They wouldn’t approve. No one knows but Miss Dacos.”

  “Then we’re up a stump.” I turned a palm up. “Look, Mrs. Bruner. Mr. Wolfe couldn’t possibly tackle it without something in writing. What if it got so hot you wanted out, leaving him in? What if you tried to hedge on what you hired him to do and wanted the retainer back?”

  “I wouldn’t do that. I’m not a hedger, Mr. Goodwin.”

  “Good. Then go ahead and sign it.” />
  She looked at it, at me, back at it, and at Miss Dacos.

  “Here, Sarah,” she said, “make a copy of it.”

  “I have a carbon,” I said, and handed it to her. By gum, she read it through. Well trained by her husband, or by the lawyers after he died. She took a pen from a stand and signed the original, and I reached for it.

  “So that’s why Mr. Wolfe wanted you to come this morning,” she said.

  I nodded. “Partly. He wanted me to ask Miss Dacos a few questions about being tailed, and I have. I saw your tail yesterday. When you left a car followed you, close, with two men in it, and I got the license number. They were FBI. They want you to know. From here on we probably won’t have anything to ask you or tell you unless and until there’s a break, but we might, and there should be an arrangement. Since you have read that book, you know what ‘bugged’ means. Do you know if this room is bugged?”

  “No, I don’t. Of course I’ve thought about it, and we have examined it several times. I’m not sure. They have to get in, don’t they? Put something in it?”

  “Yes. Unless electronics has come up with something that isn’t being mentioned, and I doubt it. I don’t want to overplay it, Mrs. Bruner, but I don’t think any part of this house is a good place to talk. It’s cold out, but a little fresh air will do you good. If you’ll get a coat?”

  She nodded. “You see, Mr. Goodwin. In my own house. All right.” She got up. “Wait here.” She went.

  Sarah Dacos was smiling at me. “You could have gone upstairs,” she said. “I can’t hear through walls or even through keyholes.”

  “No?” I looked her up and down, glad to have an excuse. She was very lookable. “You may be wired for sound, and there would be only one way to make sure, and you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

  The hazel eyes laughed. “How do you know I wouldn’t?”

  “My knowledge of human nature. You’re the squeamish type. You haven’t walked up to your tail and said what’s your name and what do you want.”

  “Why, do you think I should?”

  “No. But you haven’t. May I ask, do you dance?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’d know more about you if you danced with me. I don’t mean about the possibility that you’re playing with the FBI. If they had you, right here in the house, they wouldn’t be dogging her and the whole family. The only reason I—”

  The client showed at the door. I hadn’t heard her footsteps. That was bad. Miss Dacos was attractive, but not enough to keep me from hearing footsteps, even though I was talking. That could only mean that my opinion of the job wouldn’t let me get fully on it, all of me, and that wouldn’t do. As I went and followed the client to the front my jaw was set. The man in black opened the door, and I got the vestibule door, and we were out in the January wind. We headed east, toward Park Avenue, and stopped at the corner.

  “We can talk better standing,” I said. “First, our getting you in a hurry if we have to. There’s absolutely no telling what’s going to happen. It’s even possible that Mr. Wolfe and I will have to leave his house and hole up somewhere. If you get a message, by phone or otherwise, no matter how, that the pizza is sour, go at once to the Churchill Hotel and find a man named William Coffey. He’s a house dick there—an assistant security officer. You can do that openly. He’ll have something for you, either to tell you or give you. Pizza is sour. Churchill Hotel, William Coffey. Remember it. Don’t write it down.”

  “I won’t.” She was frowning. “I suppose you’re sure you can trust him?”

  “Yes. If you knew Mr. Wolfe better, and me, you wouldn’t ask that. Have you got it?”

  “Yes.” She pulled the collar of her coat, not the sable, something else, closer.

  “Okay. Now your getting us if you have to, for something not to be spilled. Go to a phone booth and ring Mr. Wolfe’s number and tell whoever answers that Fido is sick, just that, and hang up. Wait two hours and go to the Churchill and William Coffey. Of course this is just for something they are not to know. For anything they have done or already know about, just ring us. Fido is sick.”

  She was still frowning. “But they’ll know about William Coffey after the first time if I go to him openly.”

  “We may use him only once. Leave that to us. Actually, Mrs. Bruner, you’re more or less out of it now, the operation. We’ll be working for you, but not on you or about you. We probably won’t need to make contact with you at all. All this is just a precaution in case. But there’s something we ought to know now. You said you came to Mr. Wolfe and gave him that six-figure check merely because you’re being annoyed. Of course you’re a very wealthy woman, but that’s hard to believe. It’s a good guess that there’s something buried somewhere—about you or yours—that you don’t want dug up, and you’re afraid they will. If that’s so we ought to know it—not what it is, but how urgent it is. Are they getting close?”

  A gust of wind slapped her and she bent her head and hunched a shoulder. “No,” she said, but the wind swept it away and she said it louder. “No.”

  “But of course they might.”

  Her eyes were focused on me, but the wind made it a squint. “We won’t discuss that, Mr. Goodwin,” she said. “I suppose every family has its … something. Perhaps I didn’t consider that risk enough when I sent those books, but I did it, and I don’t regret it. They’re not ‘getting close’ to anything, as far as I know. Not yet.”

  “That’s all you want to say about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. If and when you want to say more you know what to do. What is sour?”

  “The pizza.”

  “Who is sick?”

  “Fido.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “William Coffey. At the Churchill.”

  “Good enough. You’d better get back in, your ears are red. I’ll probably see you again some day, but God knows when.”

  She touched my arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “Look around. Buzz. Pry.”

  She was going to say something, decided not to, and turned and went. I stood until she reached her door and went in, then headed west. There was no point in casing areaways or windows, but I gave the parked cars a glance as I passed, and a little this side of Madison Avenue there was one with two men in the front seat. I stopped. They weren’t looking at me, the way they are trained not to look in Washington. I backed up a couple of steps, got my notebook out, and jotted down the license number. If they wanted it open, why not? They still not-looked, and I went on.

  Turning down Madison, I didn’t bother about spotting a tail, since I had made arrangements on the phone, from a booth the night before, with a hackie I knew, Al Goller. My watch said 11:35, so I had plenty of time and stopped here and there on the way to look in shop windows. At the corner of Sixty-fifth Street I entered a drugstore with a lunch counter, mounted a stool near the front, and ordered a corned-beef sandwich on rye and a glass of milk. There is never any corned beef or rye bread at Wolfe’s table. When that was down I requested a piece of apple pie and coffee. At 12:27 I finished the second cup and twisted around on the stool to look through the window. At 12:31 a brown and yellow taxi rolled to a stop out in front, and I moved, fast—almost not fast enough because a woman was making for the door. I beat her to it and climbed in, and Al pushed the OFF DUTY sign up, and the flag, and we were off.

  “Not the cops, I hope,” Al said over his shoulder.

  “Nope,” I said. “Arabs on camels. Turn corners awhile. A very slim chance, but I need to be loose. Excuse my back.” I turned around on the seat to watch the rear. Six turns and ten minutes later there was no question about being clear and I told him First Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street. There I gave him a sawbuck and told him to sit twenty minutes and then shove off if I didn’t show. A finif would have been enough, but the client could afford it, and we would probably need Al again. Again and again. I walked a block and a half south, entered a building that hadn’t been there three
years back, consulted the directory on the wall of the lobby, learned that Evers Electronics, Inc., was on the eighth floor, and took the elevator.

  They had the whole floor; the receptionist’s desk was right there when I left the elevator, and at it was not the regulation female but a broad-shouldered husky with a square chin and unfriendly eyes. I crossed to him and said, “Mr. Adrian Evers, please. My name is Archie Goodwin.”

  He didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have believed it if I had said today is January sixth. He asked, “You have an appointment?”

  “No. I work for Nero Wolfe, the private investigator. I have some information for Mr. Evers.”

  He didn’t believe that either. “You say Nero Wolfe?”

  “I do. Got a Bible?”

  Not bothering to resent it, he got at a phone and did some talking and listening, hung up, told me, “Wait here,” and cocked his head at me. He was probably deciding how much of a job it would be to take me. To show him I wasn’t fazed I turned my back and went to inspect a picture on the wall, a photograph of a sprawling two-story building with the inscription EVERS ELECTRONICS DAYTON PLANT. I had about finished counting the windows when a door opened to admit a woman who pronounced my name and told me to come, and I followed her down a hall and around a corner to a door that had MR. EVERS on it. She opened it and I entered, but she didn’t.

  He was at a desk between two windows, taking a bite from a sandwich. Two steps in I stopped and said, “But I don’t want to butt in on your lunch.”

  He chewed the bite, sizing me up through his rimless cheaters. His neat little face was the kind that doesn’t register unless you make a point of it. When the bite was down he took a sip of coffee from a paper cup and said, “Someone always butts in. What’s this about Nero Wolfe and information? What kind of information?” He took a bite of the sandwich, lox on white toast.

  I went to a chair near the end of his desk and sat. “You may already have it,” I said. “It’s in connection with a government contract.”

  He chewed and swallowed and asked, “Is Nero Wolfe working for the government?”

  “No. He’s working for a private client. The client is interested in the fact that after a security check of an officer of your company the government has canceled a contract, or is about to. That’s a matter of public interest, and—”