Wolfe was speaking: “Person-to-person call to a New York City number. This is Whiteface seven-eight-oh-eight. My name is Nero Wolfe. I wish to speak to Mr. Nathaniel Parker in New York, at Lincoln three four-six-one-six.”
I thought the trooper looked as if he would enjoy a bone, so I told him, “Parker’s our lawyer. A reputable member of the bar and a very fine man. He’s got me out of jail three times.”
He was in no humor for conversation. He stood. I stood. At that time of evening it didn’t take long for the call to get through, and soon Wolfe was telling the receiver, “Mr. Parker?... Yes, Nero Wolfe. I hope I didn’t interrupt your dinner... I’m calling from Mr. Bragan’s lodge in the Adirondacks... Yes, of course you’ve heard... I need some information from you, mais il faut parler français exclusivement. Vous comprenez?... Bien...”
He went on. The trooper was up against it. The phone calls were probably being recorded out at the tap, but no doubt he was supposed to stand by and note the substance, and he couldn’t note meaningless sounds. The changes on his face kept me informed. First, he didn’t know French, that was obvious. Next, he had an impulse to reach and cut the connection — he even started a hand out — but voted it down. Next, he tried looking intelligent and superior, indicating that he understood it perfectly, but gave it up when he glanced at me and met my eye. Next, he decided to pretend that there was no problem involved at all, that he was standing there only to see that Wolfe didn’t twist the phone cord. Going through all the phases took a lot of time, a quarter of an hour or more, and he was doing pretty well with the last one when Wolfe did him a favor by getting out his pencil and starting to write in the notebook. That gave the cop something to look at, and was a big relief to both of us, though I doubted if he could read Wolfe’s fine small handwriting upside down at a distance of five feet. I was closer, and, stretching my neck, saw that he was writing the same lingo he was speaking. Since I don’t know French either, I just looked intelligent.
Wolfe filled a page of the notebook and part of another, and then suddenly went back to English. “Thank you very much, Mr. Parker. Satisfactory. I apologize for interrupting your dinner, but it was urgent... No, I have nothing to add and nothing more to ask... Yes, I shall, but I doubt if I’ll need you again. Good-by, sir.”
He hung up, put the notebook in his pocket, turned to me, and opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get it out. The door to the veranda swung open and people entered — first District Attorney Colvin, then a medium-sized guy with a round red face and big ears, and last Sheriff Dell.
Colvin, seeing us, stopped and turned. “That’s Nero Wolfe. Wolfe and Goodwin.” He came on. “Wolfe, this is Mr. Herman Jessel, attorney general of the state of New York. I’ve told him how things stand, and he’ll talk with you first. Now.”
“Excellent,” Wolfe declared. “I’m ready, and it shouldn’t take long. But not privately. If I am to disclose the murderer of Mr. Leeson, as I now intend, it must be in the presence of everyone concerned. If you’ll please have them gathered here?”
They goggled at him. The sheriff said something. Colvin’s specs slipped to the tip of his nose, but he ignored them.
Jessel was confronting Wolfe. “Will you repeat that, please?”
“It was clear, I thought. I am prepared to identify the murderer. I will do so only in the presence of the others. I will say nothing whatever, answer no questions, except with them present. And when they are here, all of them, and of course you gentlemen too, I must first speak to the Secretary of State on the telephone. If he is not in Washington he must be located. I assure you, gentlemen, it is useless to start barking at me or haul me off somewhere; I’ll be mute. There is no acceptable way to proceed other than the one I suggested.”
The sheriff and the DA looked at each other. Jessel looked at Wolfe. “I’ve met you once before, Mr. Wolfe. You’ve probably forgotten.”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“And I know your record, of course. You say you can identify the murderer. With evidence?”
“To convict, no. To indict, yes. To convince all who hear me, including you, beyond question.”
“What’s this about the Secretary of State?”
“I must begin by speaking to him. The reason will be apparent when you hear me.”
“All right. We can reach him. But I have a must too. I must first hear from you privately what you’re going to say.”
“No, sir.” Wolfe’s tone was final. “Not a word.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have a score to pay, and if I told you first you might somehow interfere with the payment.” Wolfe turned a palm up. “What is so difficult? Get them in here. Get the Secretary of State on the phone. I speak to him. You can stop me at any point, at any word. Stand beside me, ready to snatch it from me. Station a policeman behind me with a club.”
“I’ll take it as a great personal favor if you’ll talk with me first.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jessel. I’m far too pigheaded. Give it up.”
The attorney general looked around. If for suggestions, he got none. He shoved his hands in his pockets, wheeled, and walked toward the fireplace. Halfway there he turned abruptly and came back, and asked Colvin, “They’re all here?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Send for them, please. I’ll put in the call.”
VIII
Attorney General Jessel, standing, was speaking into the phone. “Then you understand the situation, Mr. Secretary. One moment. Here is Mr. Wolfe.”
He handed the instrument to Wolfe, who was seated. Bragan and the ambassador and Mrs. Kelefy were on a divan that had been turned around. Mrs. Leeson was on a chair at the end of the divan. Spiros Papps, the man of guile and malice and simple candor, was perched on a big fat cushion in front of Mrs. Leeson. Ferris and the sheriff had chairs a little to one side, with Lieutenant Hopp and two of his colleagues standing back of them. District Attorney Colvin stood by the table, practically at Wolfe’s elbow, and Jessel, after handing Wolfe the phone, stayed there at the other elbow. I was on my feet too, at Wolfe’s back. I hadn’t a glimmer of an idea where he was headed for, but he had said he was going to identify a murderer, so while they were arranging things I had gone to my room, got my gun, and put it in my side pocket.
Wolfe’s tone was easy. “This is Nero Wolfe, Mr. Secretary. I should have asked Mr. Jessel to say that this will take some time, ten minutes or more, I’m afraid, so I trust you are comfortably seated... Yes sir, I know; I won’t prolong it beyond necessity. You already know the details of the situation, so I’ll go straight to my personal predicament. I know who killed Mr. Leeson. It would be pointless to denounce him to officers of the law. But I want to denounce him; first, because if I don’t I’ll be detained and harassed here interminably; and second, because he has foolishly wounded my self-esteem... Yes sir, but if I tell it at all I have to tell it my way, and I think you should hear it first...
“Today I was to cook trout for lunch. Four creels, tagged with the names of the fishermen, were brought to me. The fish in three of the creels were perfectly fresh and sweet, but those in Ambassador Kelefy’s creel were not. They were not stiff or discolored, nothing so obvious; indeed, the cook apparently saw nothing wrong with them; but they had not been caught this morning. It would take too long to explain how an expert tells exactly how long a fish has been dead no matter how carefully it has been handled, but I assure you I can do it infallibly. Of course I decided not to include them in my dish. The cook asked why, but I didn’t explain, not wishing to embarrass the ambassador. Naturally, I supposed either his luck or his skill had failed him this morning, and he had somehow procured those dead trout to cover his deficiency.