The Red Box (5 page)

“Excuse me, please.” She glanced around, composed, and settled on me. “Can you spare Miss Frost? She is needed downstairs. And Mr. McNair says you wish to speak with me. I can give you a few minutes now.”

I looked at Wolfe. He bowed to the woman, his head moving two inches. “Thank you, Mrs. Lamont. It won’t be necessary. We have made excellent progress; more than could reasonably have been expected—Archie. Did you pay for the beer? Give Mr. Frost a dollar. That should cover it.”

I took out my wallet and extracted a buck and laid it on the table. A swift glance showed me that Helen Frost looked pale, Thelma Mitchell looked interested, and Llewellyn looked set for murder. Wolfe had left. I
did likewise, and joined him outside where he was pushing the button for the elevator.

I said, “That beer couldn’t have been more than two bits a throw, seventy-five cents for three.”

He nodded. “Put the difference on his bill.”

Downstairs we marched through the activity without halting. McNair was over at one side talking with a dark medium-sized woman with a straight back and a proud mouth, and I let my head turn for a second look, surmising it was Helen Frost’s mother. A goddess I hadn’t seen before was parading in a brown topcoat in front of a horsey jane with a dog, and three or four other people were scattered around. Just before we got to the street door it opened and a man entered, a big broad guy with a scar on his cheek. I knew all about that scar. I tossed him a nod.

“Hi, Purley.”

He stopped and stared, not at me, at Wolfe. “In the name of God! Did you shoot him out of a cannon?”

I grinned and went on.

On the way home I made attempts at friendly conversation over my shoulder, but without success. I tried:

“Those models are pretty creatures. Huh?”

No sale. I tried:

“Did you recognize that gentleman we met coming out? Our old friend Purley Stebbins of the Homicide Squad. One of Cramer’s hirelings.”

No response. I started looking ahead for a good hole.

T
he first telephone call from Llewellyn Frost came around half-past one, while Wolfe and I were doing the right thing by some sausage with ten kinds of herbs in it, which he got several times every spring from a Swiss up near Chappaqua who prepared it himself from home-made pigs. Fritz Brenner, the chef and household pride, was instructed to tell Llewellyn that Mr. Wolfe was at table and might not be disturbed. I wanted to go and take it, but Wolfe nailed me down with a finger. The second call came a little after two, while Wolfe was leisurely sipping coffee, and I went to the office for it.

Frost sounded concerned and aggravated. He wanted to know if he could expect to find Wolfe in at two-thirty, and I said yes, he would probably be in forevermore. After we hung up I stayed at my desk and fiddled around with some things, and in a few minutes Wolfe entered, peaceful and benign but ready to resent any attempt at turbulence, as he always was after a proper and unhurried meal.

He sat down at his desk, sighed happily, and looked around at the walls—the bookshelves, maps, Holbeins, more bookshelves, the engraving of Brilliat-Savarin.
After a moment he opened the middle drawer and began taking out beer-bottle caps and piling them on the desk. He remarked:

“A little less tarragon, and add a pinch of chervil. Fritz might try that next time. I must suggest it to him.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, not wanting to argue about that. He knew damn well I love tarragon. “But if you want to get those caps counted you’d better get a move on. Our client’s on his way down here.”

“Indeed.” He began separating the caps into piles of five. “Confound it, in spite of those three outside bottles, I think I’m already four ahead on the week.”

“Well, that’s normal.” I swirled. “Listen, enlighten me before Frost gets here. What got you started on the Frost girl?”

His shoulders lifted a quarter of an inch and dropped again. “Rage. That was a cornered rat squealing. There I was, cornered in that insufferable scented hole, dragooned into a case where there was nothing to start on. Or rather, too much. Also, I dislike murder by inadvertence. Whoever poisoned that candy is a bungling ass. I merely began squealing.” He frowned at the piles of caps. “Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-three. But the result was remarkable. And quite conclusive. It would be sardonic if we should earn the second half of our fee by having Miss Frost removed to prison. Not that I regard that as likely. I trust, Archie, you don’t mind my babbling.”

“No, it’s okay right after a meal. Go right ahead. No jury would ever convict Miss Frost of anything anyhow.”

“I suppose not. Why should they? Even a juror must be permitted his tribute to beauty. But if Miss Frost is in for an ordeal, I suspect it will not be that.
Did you notice the large diamond on her finger? And the one set in her vanity case?”

I nodded. “So what? Is she engaged?”

“I couldn’t say. I remarked the diamonds because they don’t suit her. You have heard me observe that I have a feeling for phenomena. Her personality, her reserve—even allowing for the unusual circumstances—it is not natural for Miss Frost to war diamonds. Then there was Mr. McNair’s savage hostility, surely as unnatural as it was disagreeable, however he may hate Mr. Llewellyn Frost—and why does he hate him? More transparent was the reason for Mr. Frost’s familiarity with so strange a term as ‘ortho-cousin,’ strictly a word for an anthropologist, though it leaves room for various speculations.… Ortho-cousins are those whose parents are of the same sex—the children of two brothers or of two sisters; whereas cross-cousins are those whose parents are brother and sister. In some tribes cross-cousins may marry, but not ortho-cousins. Obviously Mr. Frost has investigated the question thoroughly.… Certainly it is possible that none of these oddities has any relation to the death of Molly Lauck, but they are to be noted, along with many others. I hope I am not boring you, Archie. As you are aware, this is the routine of my genius, though I do not ordinarily vocalize it. I sat in this chair one evening for five hours, thus considering the phenomena of Paul Chapin, his wife, and the members of that incredible League of Atonement. I talk chiefly because if I do not you will begin to rustle papers to annoy me, and I do not feel like being irritated. That sausage—but there’s the bell. Our client. Ha! Still our client, though he may not think so.”

Footsteps sounded from the hall, and soon again,
returning. The office door opened and Fritz appeared. He announced Mr. Frost, and Wolfe nodded and requested beer. Fritz went.

Llewellyn came bouncing in. He came bouncing, but you could tell by his eyes it was a case of dual personality. Back behind his eyes he was scared stiff. He bounced up to Wolfe’s desk and began talking like a man who was already late for nine appointments.

“I could have told you on the phone, Mr. Wolfe, but I like to do business face to face. I like to see a man and let him see me. Especially for a thing like this. I owe you an apology. I flew off the handle and made a damn fool of myself. I want to apologize.” He put out a hand. Wolfe looked at it, and then up at his face. He took his hand back, flushed, and went on, “You shouldn’t be sore at me, I just flew off the handle. And anyway, you must understand this, I’ve got to insist on this, that that was nothing up there. Helen—my cousin was just flustered. I’ve had a talk with her. That didn’t mean a thing. But naturally she’s all cut up—she already was, anyhow—and we’ve talked it over, and I agree with her that I’ve got no right to be butting in up there. Maybe I shouldn’t have butted in at all, but I thought—well—it doesn’t matter what I thought. So I appreciate what you’ve done, and it was swell of you to go up there when it was against your rule … so we’ll just call it a flop and if you’ll just tell me how much I owe you …”

He stopped, smiling from Wolfe to me and back again like a haberdasher’s clerk trying to sell an old number with a big spiff on it.

Wolfe surveyed him. “Sit down, Mr. Frost.”

“Well … just to write a check …” He backed into a chair and got onto his sitter, pulling a check
folder from one pocket and a fountain pen from another. “How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

He gasped and looked up. “What!”

Wolfe nodded. “Ten thousand. That would be about right for completing your commission; half for solving the murder of Molly Lauck and half for getting your cousin away from that hell-hole.”

“But, my dear man, you did neither. You’re loony.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t think you’re going to hold me up. Don’t think—”

Wolfe snapped, “Ten thousand dollars. And you will wait here while the check is being certified.”

“You’re crazy.” Frost was sputtering again. “I haven’t got ten thousand dollars. My show’s going big, but I had a lot of debts and still have. And even if I had it—what’s the idea? Blackmail? If you’re that kind—”

“Please, Mr. Frost. I beg you. May I speak?”

Llewellyn glared at him.

Wolfe settled back in his chair. “There are three things I like about you, sir, but you have several bad habits. One is your assumption that words are brickbats to be hurled at people in an effort to stun them. You must learn to stop that. Another is your childish readiness to rush into action without stopping to consider the consequences. Before you definitely hired me to undertake an investigation you should have scrutinized the possibilities. But the point is that you hired me; and let me tell you, you burned all bridges when you goaded me into that mad sortie to Fifty-second Street. That will have to be paid for. You and I are bound by contract; I am bound to pursue a certain inquiry, and you are bound to pay my reasonable and commensurate charge. And when, for personal and peculiar reasons, you grow to dislike the
contract, what do you do? You come to my office and try to knock me out of my chair by propelling words like ‘blackmail’ at me! Pfui! The insolence of a spoiled child!”

He poured beer, and drank. Llewellyn Frost watched him. I, after getting it into my notebook, nodded my head at him in encouraging approval of one of his better efforts.

The client finally spoke. “But look here, Mr. Wolfe. I didn’t agree to let you go up there and … that is … I didn’t have any idea you were going …” He stopped on that, and gave it up. “I’m not denying the contract. I didn’t come here and start throwing brickbats. I just asked, if we call it off now, how much do I owe you?”

“And I told you.”

“But I haven’t got ten thousand dollars, not this minute. I think I could have it in a week. But even if I did, my God, just for a couple of hours’ work—”

“It is not the work.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “It is simply that I will not permit my self-conceit to be bruised by the sort of handling you are trying to give it. It is true that I hire out my abilities for money, but I assure you that I am not to be regarded as a mere peddler of gewgaws or tricks. I am an artist or nothing. Would you commission Matisse to do a painting, and, when he had scribbled his first rough sketch, snatch it from him and crumple it up and tell him, ‘That’s enough, how much do I owe you?’ No, you wouldn’t do that. You think the comparison is fanciful? I don’t. Every artist has his own conceit. I have mine. I know you are young, and your training has left vacant lots in your brain; you don’t realize how offensively you have acted.”

“For God’s sake.” The client sat back. “Well.” He
looked at me as if I might suggest something, and then back at Wolfe. He spread out his hands, palms up. “All right, you’re an artist. You’re it. I’ve told you, I haven’t got ten thousand dollars. How about a check dated a week from today?”

Wolfe shook his head. “You could stop payment. I don’t trust you; you are incensed; the flame of fear and resentment is burning in you. Besides, you should get more for your money, and I should do more to earn it. The only sensible course—”

The ring of the telephone interrupted him. I swung around to my desk and got it. I acknowledged my identity to a gruff male inquiry, waited a minute, and heard the familiar tones of another male voice. What it said induced a grin.

I turned to Wolfe: “Inspector Cramer says that one of his men saw you up at McNair’s place this morning, and nearly died of the shock. So did he when he heard it. He says it would be a pleasure to discuss the case with you a while on the telephone.”

“Not for me. I am engaged.”

I returned to the wire and had more talk. Cramer was as amiable as a guy stopping you on a lonely hill because he’s out of gas. I turned to Wolfe again:

“He’d like to stop in at six o’clock to smoke a cigar. He says, to compare notes. He means S O S.”

Wolfe nodded.

I told Cramer sure, come ahead, and rang off.

The client had stood up. He looked back and forth from me to Wolfe, and said with no belligerence at all, “Was that Inspector Cramer? He—he’s coming here?”

“Yeah, a little later.” I answered because Wolfe had leaned back and closed his eyes. “He often drops around for a friendly chat when he has a case so easy it bores him.”

“But he … I …” Llewellyn was groggy. He straightened up. “Listen, goddam it. I want to use that phone.”

“Help yourself. Take my chair.”

I vacated and he moved in. He started dialing without having to look up the number. He was jerky about it, but seemed to know what he was doing. I stood and listened.

“Hello, hello! That you, Styce? This is Lew Frost. Is my father still there? Try Mr. McNair’s office. Yes, please.… Hello, Dad? Lew … No.… No, wait a minute. Is Aunt Callie still there? Waiting for me? Yeah, I know … No, listen, I’m talking from Nero Wolfe’s office, 918 West 35th Street. I want you and Aunt Callie to come down here right away.… There’s no use explaining on the phone, you’ll have to come.… I can’t explain that … Well, bring her anyway.… Now, Dad, I’m doing the best I can.… Right. You can make it in ten minutes.… No, it’s a private house.…”

Wolfe’s eyes were closed.

T
hat conference was a lulu. On several occasions I have run through pages of my notebook where I took it down, just for the entertainment. Dudley Frost was one of the very few people who have sat in that office and talked Nero Wolfe to a frazzle. Of course, he did it more by volume than by vigor, but he did it.