Of the other phone calls I need to report only one, shortly after lunch, from Oster, when it was arranged that he and Whipple would come at six o’clock for a conference.
In the cab returning from 20th Street I read the item three times. It was on page 3, with the headline: NERO WOLFE SITS IN. Not bad. About anyone else it would probably have been STEPS IN. God knows he sits. It went:
Nero Wolfe, the well-known private detective, is working on the Susan Brooke murder case. He announced today that he has been engaged by Harold R. Oster, attorney for Dunbar Whipple, who has been charged with the murder, to investigate certain aspects of the affair.
According to the record, not one of Wolfe’s clients has ever been convicted of murder. Asked this morning by a Gazette reporter if he didn’t feel that in this case he was endangering his record, he replied with a flat no. He said that he has good reason to believe that Dunbar Whipple is innocent, and he is confident that, working with Oster, he will be able to procure evidence that will clear him.
He declined to disclose his reasons for believing that Whipple is innocent or the nature of the evidence he expects to get. But for some people the mere fact that he is willing to have it known publicly that he is engaged in the defense of Whipple will be significant. Others will say that there is always a first time.
No picture of the well-known detective, though there were a dozen shots of him in the Gazette morgue. I’d have to write a letter to the editor.
When I entered the old brownstone and went to the office I noticed something. The Gazette is delivered there every day around five o’clock, and it wasn’t on my desk, and I wanted the extra copy. I went to the kitchen and asked Fritz if he had it, and he said no, Wolfe had phoned down from the plant rooms to bring it up. More out of the ordinary. He likes to see his name in the paper as well as you do, but he always waits until he comes down to the office. As I got the milk from the refrigerator and poured a glass I was thinking that if you stick around long enough you’ll see everything.
Whipple and Oster arrived early. One of the many Wolfe-made rules in that house is that when a client and his lawyer are both present the client gets the red leather chair, but that time it wasn’t followed. Oster shot a glance around and went straight to it. He was tall and broad, with skin the color of dark honey, the kind Wolfe prefers — I mean honey — and he moved like a man who is in charge and intends to stay in charge. I was curious to see what would happen if Wolfe tried to shift him to the yellow chair.
He didn’t bother. The sound came of the elevator jolting to a stop, and he entered. The Gazette was in his hand. He nodded left and right and headed between them for his desk, but Oster was up with a hand out. Wolfe halted, shook his head, said distinctly, “My wrist,” and went to his chair.
Oster sat down and asked, “Hurt your wrist?”
“Long ago.” Wolfe looked at the client. “Have you seen your son, Mr. Whipple?”
Whipple said he had.
“And he accepts my offer?”
“I have accepted it,” Oster said. He had the kind of deep baritone that bounces off of walls. “I’m his attorney and I make the decisions.”
Wolfe ignored him. “I wish to make sure,” he told Whipple, “that your son knows I am working for him and approves. Have you told him—”
“That’s impertinent!” Oster cut in. “You know damn well, Wolfe, that a counselor acts for his client. If you don’t, you’re a lot more ignorant than a man like you ought to be. I’m surprised. I’m astonished, and I may have to reconsider my acceptance of your offer.”
Wolfe regarded him. “Are you through, Mr. Oster?”
“I said I may have to reconsider.”
“I mean are you through speaking?”
“I’m through with that.”
“Good. I goaded you deliberately. I’m aware of the status of a counselor. What concerns me is my status. In order to do a satisfactory job for Mr. Whipple, I must begin with an assumption which you will almost certainly reject. Knowing that we would inevitably clash, I thought it well to show you at once that I am arbitrary and contumelious. If there must be a clash, let’s have it and see what happens. My initial assumption is that Dunbar Whipple did not kill Susan Brooke, but that she was killed by someone who works for or with the Rights of Citizens Committee. That is—”
“You’re damn right I reject it.” Oster turned to Whipple. “He’s impossible. Listen to him. Impossible!”
“You’re a bungler,” Wolfe said, not clashing, just stating a fact.
Oster goggled at him, speechless.
“Even if you repudiate my assumption,” Wolfe said, “as the man responsible for Dunbar Whipple’s defense you should want to know why I make it. It’s tentative, merely a place to start; I must start somewhere. The most pointed known fact about the murderer is that he knew about that apartment, and that Miss Brooke was there or probably was. Since her money and jewelry were not taken, he was not a random marauder, moreover, he didn’t try to pose as one by taking them. I don’t suppose there were many people who knew of the apartment; apparently, from accounts and hints in the newspapers, there were very few. In an effort to find them, the most likely place should be tried first. I have a question. Dunbar Whipple is your client. If you could clear him only by exposing the real culprit, and if the culprit were someone connected with the organization of which you are the counsel, and if you had it in your power to expose him, would you do so?”
Of course he had to say yes. He added, “But that’s three ifs.”
“Not the first one, though I said ‘if.’ Come, Mr. Oster, let’s be realistic. Yesterday at this hour a police inspector was sitting in that chair, and we talked at length. I believe that your client is in grave jeopardy unless we produce a substitute. Don’t you?”
“Was it Cramer?”
“Yes.”
“That damned Cossack.”
“Not by definition.” Wolfe flipped it aside. “I won’t press you for an answer; your reputation for acumen is answer enough.” Vinegar, then butter. “Dunbar Whipple entered that apartment shortly after nine o’clock and remained there continuously until the police arrived some forty minutes later; he says so. The only feasible method of proving that Susan Brooke died before he arrived is to produce the person who killed her. Let’s find him. The ROCC is not the place to look, certainly. Your report, Archie?”
I got it from a drawer. He asked, “You have an extra copy?”
I nodded. “I made three.”
“Give it to Mr. Oster. That, sir, is a complete report, omitting nothing that could possibly be pertinent, of the investigation of Susan Brooke undertaken by me at the request of Mr. Paul Whipple. I haven’t studied it yet, but I shall. I suggest that you do the same. Any hint it contains, however slight, will of course be considered. But as soon as possible I must see—
He stopped short. He slapped the desk blotter. “Confound it. I’m a ninny. I haven’t asked you: have you in mind a ready and cogent defense?”
Oster was flipping the pages of the report. He looked up. “Not... I wouldn’t say... not ready, no.”