Rex Stout
Booby Trap
Chapter 1
On our way out of the house — his house, which was also his office, on West 35th Street over near the North River — Nero Wolfe, who was ahead of me, stopped so abruptly that I nearly bumped into him. He wheeled and confronted me, glancing at my briefcase.
“Have you got that thing?”
I looked innocent. “What thing?”
“You know very well. That confounded grenade. I want that infernal machine out of this house. Have you got it?”
I held my ground. “Colonel Ryder,” I said in a crisp military tone, “who is my superior officer, said I could keep it for a souvenir in view of my valor and devotion to duty in recovering—”
“You can’t keep it in my house. I tolerate pistols as a tool of the business, but not that contraption. If by accident the pin got removed it would blow off the top of the building, not to mention the noise it would make. I thought you understood this is out of discussion. Get it, please.”
Formerly I might have argued that my room on the third floor was my castle, tenanted by me as part of my pay for suffering his society as his assistant and guardian, but that was out now, since Congress was taking care of me by appropriating around ten billion bucks a month. So I merely shrugged to show I was humoring him, and, knowing how it annoyed him to be kept waiting standing up, moseyed over to the stair and took my time mounting the two flights to my room. It was there where I kept it on top of the chest of drawers — about seven inches long and three in diameter, painted a pale pink, looking nothing like as deadly as it was supposed to be. Reaching for it, I glanced at the safety pin to make sure it was snug, put it in the briefcase, went back downstairs at my leisure, ignored a remark he saw fit to make, and accompanied him out to the curb where the sedan was parked.
One thing Wolfe demanded from the Army, and got, was enough gas for his car. Not that he was trying to bypass the war. He really was making sacrifices for victory. As one, most of his accustomed income from the detective business. Two, his daily sessions with his orchids in the plant rooms on the roof, whenever Army work interfered. Three, his fixed rule to avoid the hazards of unessential movements, especially outdoors. Four, food. I kept an eye on that, looking for a chance to insert remarks, and drew a blank. He and Fritz accomplished wonders within the limitations of coupon fodder, and right there in the middle of New York, with black markets tipping the wink like floozies out for a breath of air on a summer evening, Wolfe’s kitchen was as pure as cottage cheese.
After burning up not more than half a gallon of the precious gas, even counting traffic stops and starts, I let him out in front of 17 Duncan Street, found a place to park, and walked back and joined him in the lobby. Leaving the elevator at the tenth floor, Wolfe had a chance to suppress some more irritation. In my uniform all I had to do was return the salute of the corporal on guard, but although Wolfe had been there at least a couple dozen times and it was no trick to recognize him, he was in cits, and the New York headquarters of Military Intelligence was finicky about civilian visitors. After he got the high sign we went through a door, down a long corridor with closed doors on both sides, one of which was to my office, turned a corner, and entered the anteroom of the Second in Command.
An Army sergeant was sitting at a desk giving the keyboard of a typewriter the one-two.
I said good morning.
“Good morning, Major,” the sergeant replied. “I’ll tell them you’re here.” She reached for a phone.
Wolfe was staring. “What in the name of heaven is this?” he demanded.
“WAC,” I told him. “We’ve got some new furniture since you were here last. Brightens the place up.”
He compressed his lips and continued to stare. Nothing personal; what was eating him was the sight of a female, in uniform, in that job.
“It’s all right,” I soothed him. “We don’t tell her any of the important secrets, such as Captain So-and-So wears a corset.”
She was through at the phone. “Colonel Ryder said to ask you to join them, sir.”
I said sternly, “You didn’t salute.”
If she’d had a sense of humor she’d have stood up and snapped one at me, but in the ten days she had been there I hadn’t been able to discover any sign of it. Which didn’t mean I had quit trying. I had decided she was putting it on. Her serious efficient eyes and straight functional nose led you to expect a jutting bony chin, but that’s where she fooled you. It didn’t jut. It would have fitted nicely in the palm of your hand if things ever got to that point.
She was speaking. “I beg your pardon, Major Goodwin. I am obeying the regulations—”
“Okay.” I waved it aside. “This is Mr. Nero Wolfe. Sergeant Dorothy Bruce of the United States Army.”
They acknowledged each other. Stepping to a door at the other end, I opened it, let Wolfe go through, then followed him and shut the door.
It was a roomy corner office with windows on two sides and the space of the other two walls filled with locked steel cabinets reaching two-thirds of the way to the ceiling, except for a spot occupied by another door which gave access to the hall without going through the anteroom.
There was no humor in there either. The four men on chairs were about as chipper as a bunch of Dodger fans after watching dem bums drop a double-header. Seeing that the atmosphere didn’t call for military etiquette, I let the arm hang. The two colonels and the lieutenant we knew, and though we had never met the civilian we knew who he was, having been told about him; and besides, almost any good citizen would have recognized John Bell Shattuck. He was shorter than I would have expected, and maybe a little bulkier, but there was no mistaking his manner as he got up to shake hands with us and look us in the eye. True, we were residents of New York, but an elected person can never be sure you aren’t going to move to his own state and be a constituent with a vote.
“Meeting Nero Wolfe is a real occasion,” he said, in a voice that sounded as if it was pitched lower than God intended it to be. I had run across that before. Half the statesmen in Washington have been trying to sound like Winston Churchill ever since he made that speech to Congress.
Wolfe was polite to him and then turned back to Ryder. “This is my first opportunity, Colonel, to offer my condolences. Your son. Your only son.”
Ryder’s jaw was set. It had been for nearly a week, since the news came. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Had he killed any Germans?”
“He had shot down four German planes. Presumably he killed Germans. I hope he did.”
“No doubt.” Wolfe grunted. “I can’t speak about him, I didn’t know him. I know you. I would hold up your heart if I could. Obviously you are capable of holding your chin up yourself.” He looked around at the chairs that were empty, saw they were of equal dimensions, and moved to one and got himself onto it, with the usual lapping over at the edges. “Where was it?”
“Sicily,” Ryder said.
“He was a fine boy,” John Bell Shattuck put in. “I was his godfather. No finer boy in America. I was proud of him. I still am proud of him.”
Ryder closed his eyes, opened them again, reached for the phone on his desk, and spoke in it. “General Fife.” After a moment he spoke again, “Mr. Wolfe has come, General. We’re all here. Shall we come up now? Oh. Very well, sir. I understand.”
He pushed the phone back and told the room, “He’s coming here.”
Wolfe grimaced, and I knew why. He knew there was a bigger chair up in the general’s office, in fact two of them. I moved to Ryder’s desk, put my briefcase on it, unbuckled the straps, and took out the grenade.
“Here, Colonel,” I said, “I might as well do this while we’re waiting. Where shall I put it?”