“Have you any knowledge or suspicion, however vague, of the identity of the murderer?”
“No.”
“Have you, Mr. Whipple?”
“No,” Whipple said. “Absolutely none. But I have a question. Not just curiosity, my son wants to know, and I told him I’d ask you. A lawyer will defend a man even if he thinks he’s guilty, but you won’t. You must think, you must be fairly sure, that my son is innocent. He wants to know why.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to him.”
“Pfui. Tell him because he’s a Negro and Susan Brooke was a white girl. That should satisfy him. To satisfy you: partly the absence of a known motive for him, but mostly what he said and did in this room Tuesday afternoon. Either it was an inspired performance or he is innocent, and I don’t think he is inspired. I think he’s a callow stripling. Please tell him so.” Wolfe went back to Oster. “I tried baiting a hook this morning. Have you seen today’s Gazette!”
“No.”
Wolfe picked it up from his desk and stretched his arm. “Here. It’s open to the page. Third column, my name in the headline.”
Oster took it and read it, taking his time, and reached to hand it to Whipple. “Damn it, you’re worse than arbitrary,” he told Wolfe. “You know damn well you should have cleared it with me. Bait? Where’s the hook?”
Wolfe nodded. “I’m merely showing you that the assumption you reject is not exclusive. As for the bait and hook, I thought it worth trying. It’s barely possible that someone, satisfied and apparently secure because the police have settled on Dunbar Whipple, will be disquieted by the news that I am taking a hand and will do something. Remote, certainly.”
“It certainly is. How conceited can you get? Understand this, Wolfe: you’re under my direction. I’m glad to have this report; that’s fine. But anything you do must first have my approval. Understand?”
Wolfe shook his head. “I don’t work that way, but let it pass for the moment. For what I intend to do first I need not only your approval but your assistance. Tomorrow evening at nine o’clock I would like to see, here, the entire staff of the office of the Rights of Citizens Committee. Including Mr. Henchy, the executive director.”
Oster smiled, a broad smile. “Listen, Wolfe. You began by trying to get a rise out of me, and you got it. Once is enough. Go soak your head.”
“Not now. I’m using it. If you don’t approve and won’t help, I’ll get those people here myself. I must see them.”
“If you try that, you’re through.” Oster stood up. “In fact, you’re through now. You’re out.” He turned to Whipple. “Come on, Paul. He’s impossible. Come on.”
“No,” Whipple said.
“What do you mean, no? You heard him! He’s impossible!”
“But he...” Whipple let it hang. “I think you should consider it, Harold. Isn’t it reasonable, his wanting to see them and ask them questions? It isn’t—”
“I have seen them and asked them questions! I know them! Come on! If we need a detective, there are others!”
“Not like him,” Whipple said. “No, Harold. You’re being hasty. If you don’t want to ask them to come, all right, I will. I’m sure Tom Henchy will see that it’s reasonable. He’s a—”
“You do that, Paul, and you’ll get another lawyer, you and Dunbar. I’m warning you. I’m telling you.”
“You’re being hasty, Harold.”
“I’m telling you!”
“You certainly are.” Whipple’s head was tilted back. I had his profile, and for the first time I saw in him the cocky college boy at Kanawha Spa years and years back. “I know you’re a good lawyer, Harold, but I don’t know if you’re good enough to get Dunbar out of this trouble. I’m being frank, and I doubt it. If anybody can, Nero Wolfe can. If it has to be you or Nero Wolfe, I’ll see Dunbar in the morning and tell him what I think, and he’ll agree. I’m sure he will.” His eyes went to Wolfe. “Mr. Wolfe, it’s not only the impression you made on me long ago when I was a raw kid. I’ve followed your career. As far as I’m concerned, you’re in charge.” Back to Oster: “Don’t go, Harold. Sit down.”
Oster was chewing his lip. “It’s ridiculous,” he said. “I’m an attorney-at-law, a respected member of the bar. He’s a... a gumshoe.”
“Mr. Oster,” Wolfe said.
“What?”
“I suggest that Mr. Whipple’s extravagance should be ignored. Let’s put it that the legal defense of Dunbar Whipple is in your hands, and the search for evidence to support that defense is in my hands. I knew we would clash, and we have. There are no casualties. Oblige me by sitting down. Naturally I expected, and expect, you to be present at the conference tomorrow evening. If you wish to object to anything I say or do, you have a tongue. You have indeed. I don’t wonder that you tried to drum me out; I’m difficult, though not really impossible. If you wish to debate it with Mr. Whipple, you can do so later.” He looked at the clock. “No doubt you have information for me, and suggestions, and in less than half an hour it will be dinnertime. If you and Mr. Whipple will dine with us, we’ll have the evening for it. Wild duck with Vatel sauce — wine vinegar, egg yolk, tomato paste, butter, cream, salt and pepper, shallots, tarragon, chervil, and peppercorns. Is any of those distasteful to you?”
Oster said no.
“To you, Mr. Whipple?”
Whipple said no.
“Tell Fritz, Archie.”
I got up and went to the kitchen. It was a good thing neither of them had said yes, for Fritz was well along with the sauce, as Wolfe had known he would be. He didn’t welcome my news. Not that he didn’t like guests at meals, but he thought there wouldn’t be enough duck. I told him it would do Wolfe good to go easy for a change, returned to the office, and found that Oster was back in the red leather chair, evidently on speaking terms, and Wolfe had a pen and pad of paper, taking notes. I interrupted to ask about drinks, got orders for a martini and a vodka on the rocks, and went to the kitchen to fill them.
Only two kinds of guests ever dine at that table: (a) men for whom Wolfe has personal feelings — there are eight altogether, and only two of them live in or near New York — and (b) people who are involved in his current problem. With both kinds he makes a point of steering the table talk to subjects that he thinks the guests will be interested in; for him, as he once remarked, a guest is a jewel on the cushion of hospitality — a little fancy maybe, but a fine sentiment. As Fritz was serving the mussels I was wondering what it would be for those two. It was William Shakespeare. After the skimpy portions of mussels, in white wine with creamed butter and flour, had been commented on, Wolfe asked them if they had read the book by Rowse. They hadn’t. But they were interested in Shakespeare? Oh, yes. Not many lawyers or professors would dare to say no. Of course they were familiar with Othello? They were. I cocked an eye at Wolfe. Surely it wasn’t very tactful, with those dinner guests to deliberately drag Othello in.
He swallowed his last bite of mussel. “There’s an interesting point,” he said. “A question. If the facts were established as they are presented in the play, could Iago, today in the State of New York, be legally charged with murder as an accessory, and be successfully prosecuted?”
I had to hand it to him. Unquestionably Othello concerned a subject in which they were interested, and putting the spot on Iago and a question of law made it discussable. They discussed it up one side and down the other. By the time the duck and trimmings had been disposed of, and Fritz had brought the fig soufflé, it looked to me as if Iago was on the ropes.
Fritz answers the doorbell during meals, so when it rang as I started on my soufflé I stayed put. It would be Cramer. Having read the report, he had come with questions, and they were welcome, because that was better than being invited to the DA’s office. But it wasn’t Cramer. The sound of voices came from the hall, Fritz’s and another, and then another, not recognized. They stopped. There was no use trying to hear a door closing; not only does Fritz close doors quietly, but also Oster was talking. Fritz appeared, crossed the sill, and told Wolfe, “Two men and a woman, sir.” Formerly he would have said two gentlemen and a lady, but Wolfe had stopped that. He went on, “Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Brooke and Mr. Peter Vaughn. In the front room. I told them I thought you were engaged for the evening.”