Jessup was forking a second joint to a paper plate. “But,” he objected, “many people leave, don’t they?”
“I wouldn’t say many. Sure, some go out and most of them come back in, but that doesn’t queer it, it merely complicates it. May I have a sheet of paper and a pen or pencil? Anything — that scratch pad.”
He handed me the pad and a pen from his pocket. I chewed bread and pâté and drank milk, which was warm, while deciding how to put it, and then wrote:
NW: I am talking to and with Jessup, as instructed. I’m glad you’re under house arrest because this jail is old and they use too much disinfectant. I suggest that you have Miss Rowan or someone at the ranch find and bring a girl named Peggy Truett. She was a friend of Peacock’s and she probably knows things. She may even know who Peacock went out to meet. I hope Haight doesn’t get to her before you get her to you. I also hope I won’t have to go to St. Louis because now you have stirred him and we should get him right here.
AG
8/11/68
I handed it to Jessup and said, “Read it, and the sooner he gets it the better.”
He read it, and then read it again. “Why this? Why not phone him?”
I shook my head. “That line may be tapped. From what I have been told about Haight and his feeling about you, it could even be that yours is tapped.”
“It’s a hell of a situation, Goodwin.”
“I agree.”
He looked at the sheet. “‘Now you have stirred him.’ Stirred him how?”
“My God, that’s obvious. Of course Peacock might have got killed anyway — for instance, if he was on a blackmail caper and overplayed it — but maybe not. He would probably still be alive if Mr. Wolfe hadn’t started in on him. Of course Haight should have done that long ago, or you should.”
He ignored the dig in his ribs. “Peggy Truett is the girl you were talking with when Peacock arrived.”
“Right. I reserved nothing relevant. If you prefer to get at her yourself I suppose it’s—”
“I don’t.” He looked at the sheet again. “You won’t have to go to St. Louis. A man named Saul Panzer is going. In fact” — he looked at his watch — “he’s there now if his plane was on time.”
“Oh.” I finished spreading an ample layer of caviar on a full slice of bread. “I don’t think I mentioned him, but evidently Mr. Wolfe did. He called him? When?”
“This morning. I drove him to Woody’s. He told Panzer to put another man on the job in New York — I forget his name—”
“Orrie Cather, probably.”
“That’s it. And he told Panzer to take the first available plane to St. Louis and gave him instructions. I think Wolfe has decided — no, not decided, assumed — that one of the persons at Farnham’s had a previous connection with Brodell. We went there when we returned from Woody’s — Wolfe and Miss Rowan and I — and I asked them to allow Miss Rowan to take pictures of them. With her camera. I know nothing about cameras, but apparently she does.”
I nodded. “She knows enough. Did any of them object?”
“No. Farnham didn’t like it, but of course he wouldn’t. She seemed quite expert. I brought the film and a man I know is developing it. I intended to take the prints to Miss Rowan later this evening, but with your message for Wolfe I’ll go now. Or as soon as the prints are ready. I like Miss Rowan’s conception of a snack. She seems to be aware that man cannot live by bread alone. She is leaving early in the morning for Helena to get the prints off to Panzer by air mail and to get Luther Dawson. She is not— You’ll remember that at our previous encounter she ordered me to leave.”
“She suggested that you go and sit in the car. This is good cheese. Have some.”
“And if I didn’t you would drag me. That episode is now forgotten by mutual consent. I’m going to repeat to you a confession that I made to her. Not for quotation. I think I funked it. I should have realized long ago that the conflict between Haight and me could be resolved only by the destruction, the political destruction, of one of us, and I should have seized the opportunity offered by his inefficient investigation of the murder of Philip Brodell. I said I’m stuck with you and Wolfe, and I’m glad I am. If we lose, it will finish me, but I don’t think we will.” He took some cheese.
“Did you say that to Mr. Wolfe?”
“No. I said it to Miss Rowan. His manner is... he doesn’t invite...”
“I know. I have known him quite a while. That’s a good way to put it, he doesn’t invite. Tell him and Miss Rowan that since they’re doing so well without me they don’t need to bother about bail, they might as well save the expense, and anyway I don’t like Dawson. Haight will probably turn me loose when they deliver X to him. Is there room in that refrigerator for what’s left?”
“Certainly. But there will be people here all day.”
“Wait until they’re gone. I probably won’t be hungry sooner anyhow. That disinfected cell doesn’t seem to whet a man’s appetite.” I picked up the can opener. “Plums, or pineapple?”
Chapter 12
I never got around to asking, so I still don’t know what happened to the rest of that snack.
The next time you’re in jail, try this. There are two steps. The first step is to determine whether there is anything helpful and practical that you can be using your mind for. If there is, okay, go ahead and use it. If there isn’t, proceed with the second step. Decide definitely and positively to cut all connections between your mind and you. I understand that something like that is used by people who are trying to go to sleep and can’t make it, but I don’t know how well it works because I never have that problem. Locked in a 6 by 9 cell and wide awake, you’ll be surprised at how the time will go. You will find, if you are anything like me, that your mind knows a thousand tricks and can sneak in through a crack that you didn’t even know was there. For instance, at one point that Monday afternoon, having another try at it, I decided to shut my eyes and look at girls’ and women’s knees, having learned hours ago that you have no chance at all unless you make your eyes see something or your ears hear something or your fingers touch something; and in a cell you have to see or hear or touch things that aren’t there. So I looked at dozens, maybe hundreds of females’ knees, all shapes and sizes and conditions, and was in control and doing fine when all of a sudden I realized that my mind had plugged in and was asking me if I thought that anyone was at that moment looking at Peggy Truett’s knees, and if so was it Nero Wolfe or Sheriff Haight... and what were they saying...
Nuts. I got up and kicked the stool clear to the far wall, at least three feet, and walked to the end wall, at least four feet, and reached to feel the rusty bars at the doll-size window. I knew them by heart.