“Certainly. That’s what—”
“I’ll go on, please. You were and are convinced that the substitution was made by one of his dinner companions who is a Communist and who learned that your nephew was acting for the FBI, and you so informed Inspector Cramer of the police. You were not satisfied with his acceptance of that information, especially in a subsequent talk with him yesterday morning, Monday, and went yourself to the office of the FBI, saw a Mr. Anstrey, and found him noncommittal. He took the position that a homicide in Manhattan is the business of the New York police. Exasperated, you went to Inspector Cramer’s office, were unable to see him, talked with a sergeant named Stebbins, came away further exasperated, regarded with favor your husband’s suggestion, made this morning, that I be consulted, and here you are. Have I left out anything important?”
“One little point.” Rackell cleared his throat. “Our telling Inspector Cramer about Arthur’s joining the Communist party for the FBI — that was in confidence. Of course this talk with you is confidential too, naturally, since we’re your clients.”
Wolfe shook his head. “Not yet. You want to hire me to investigate the death of your nephew?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Then you should know that while no one excels me in discretion I will not work under restrictions.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“Good. I’ll let you know tomorrow, probably by noon.” Wolfe reached to push the paperweight aside and pick up the check. “Shall I keep this meanwhile and return it if I can’t take the job?”
Rackell frowned, perplexed. His wife snapped, “Why on earth couldn’t you take it?”
“I don’t know, madam. I hope to. I need the money. But I’ll have to look into it a little — discreetly, of course. I’ll let you know tomorrow at the latest.” He extended a hand with the check. “Unless you prefer to take this and try elsewhere.”
They didn’t like it, especially her. She even left the red leather chair to take the check, her lips tight, but after some give-and-take with her husband they decided to let it ride, and she put the check back on the desk. They wanted to give us more details, especially about their nephew’s five dinner guests, but Wolfe said that could wait, and they left, none too pleased. As I let them out at the front door Rackell gave me a polite thank-you nod, but she didn’t even know I was there.
Returning to the office, I got the check and put it in the safe and then stood to regard Wolfe. His nose was twitching. He looked as if he had an oyster with horseradish on it in his mouth, a combination he detests.
“It can’t be helped,” I told him. “It takes all kinds to make a clientele. What are we going to look into a little?”
He sighed. “Get Mr. Wengert of the FBI. You want to see him, this evening if possible. I’ll talk.”
“It’s nearly seven o’clock.”
“Try.”
I went to the phone on my desk, dialed RE 2–3500, talked to a stranger and to a man I had met a couple of times, and reported to Wolfe, “Not available. Tomorrow morning.”
“Make an appointment.”
I did so and hung up.
Wolfe sat scowling at me. He spoke. “I’ll give you instructions after dinner. Have we got the Gazette of the past three days?”
“Sure.”
“Let me have them, please. Confound it.” He sighed again. “Saturday, and tomorrow’s Wednesday. Like a warmed-over meal.” He came erect and his face brightened. “I wonder how Fritz is making out with that fish.”
He left his chair and headed for the hall and the kitchen.
II
Wednesday morning all the air in Manhattan was conditioned — the wrong way. It was no place for penguins. On my way to Foley Square my jacket was beside me on the seat of the taxi, but when I had paid the driver and got out I put it on. Sweat or no sweat, I had to show the world that a private detective can be tough enough to take it.
When, after some waiting, I got admitted to Wengert’s big corner room I found him in his shirt sleeves with his tie and collar loosened. He got up to shake hands and invited me to sit. We exchanged remarks.
“I haven’t seen you,” I told him, “since you got elevated here. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I notice you’ve got brass in your voice, but I guess that can’t be helped. Mr. Wolfe sends his regards.”
“Give him mine.” His voice warmed up a little, just perceptibly. “I’ll never forget how he came through on that mercury thing.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “What can I do for you, Goodwin?”
Back a few years, when we had been in G2 together, it had been Archie, but then he hadn’t had a corner room with five phones on his desk. I crossed my legs to show there was no rush.
“Not a thing,” I told him. “Mr. Wolfe just wants to clear. Yesterday a man and wife named Rackell came to see him. They want him to investigate the death of their nephew, Arthur Rackell. Do you know about it, or do you want to call someone in? Mrs. Rackell has talked with a Mr. Anstrey.”
“I know. Go ahead.”
“Then I won’t have to draw pictures. Our bank says that Rackell rates seven figures west of the decimal point, and we would like to earn a fee by tagging a murderer, but our country right or wrong. We would hate to torpedo the ship of state in this bad weather. The Rackells came to Mr. Wolfe because they think the FBI and the NYPD regard the death of Arthur as a regrettable but minor incident. They say he was killed by a Commie who discovered that he was an FBI plant. Before we proceed on that theory Mr. Wolfe wants to clear with you. Of course you may not want to say, even under the rug to us, that he was yours. May you?”
“It’s hotter than yesterday,” Wengert stated.
“Yeah. Would you care to make any sign at all, for instance a wink?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll try something more general. There has been nothing in the papers about the Commie angle, not a word, so there has been no mention of the FBI. Is the FBI working on the murder, officially or otherwise?”
“Much hotter,” he said.
“It sure is. How about the others, the five dinner guests? Of course they’re our meat. Any suggestions, requests, or orders? Any strings you wouldn’t want us to trip on?”
“The humidity, too.”
“Absolutely. I realize that you would like to tell us to lay off on general principles, but you’re afraid there might be a headline tomorrow, FBI WARNS NERO WOLFE TO KEEP HANDS OFF OF RACKELL MURDER. Besides, if you give us a stop sign you’ll have to say why or we’ll keep going. Just to clean it up, it there any question I might ask that would take your mind off the weather?”
“No.” He stood up. “It was nice to see you for old time’s sake, and you can still give Wolfe my regards, but tell him to go climb a tree. Some nerve. Sending you here with that bull about wanting to clear! Why didn’t he ask me to send him up the files? Come again when I’m not here.”
I was on my way, but before I reached the door I turned. “The radio said this morning it would hit ninety-five,” I told him and went.
There are always taxis at Foley Square. I removed my jacket, climbed into one, and gave an address on West Twentieth Street. When we got there my shirt was stuck to the back of the seat. I pulled loose, paid, got out, put on the jacket, and went into a building. The headquarters of the Homicide Squad, Manhattan West, was much more familiar to me than the United States Courthouse. So were the inmates, one in particular, the one sitting at a dingy little desk in a dingy little room to which I was escorted. They have never let me roam loose in that building since the day I took a snapshot of a piece of paper they were saving, though they couldn’t prove it.