It's my self-conceit again. You have diddled me, and I will not be diddled.” “I've paid you fifty-five thousand dollars.” “So you have. And no more?” “No more. For what?” “For finishing the job. I'm going to find out who killed Mr Rony, and I'm going to prove it.” Wolfe aimed a finger at him. “If I fail, Mr Sperling-” He let the finger down and shrugged. “I won't. I won't fail. See if I do.” Suddenly, without the slightest preliminary, Sperling got mad. In a flash his eyes changed, his colour changed-he was a different man. Up from the chair, on his feet, he spoke through his teeth.
“Get out! Get out of here!” Evidently there was only one thing to do, get out. It was nothing much to me, since I had had somewhat similar experiences before, but for Wolfe, who had practically always been in his own office when a conference reached the point of breaking off relations, it was a novelty to be told to get out. He did well, I thought. He neither emphasized dignity nor abandoned it, but moved as if he had taken a notion to go to the bathroom but was in no terrible hurry. I let him precede me, which was only proper.
However, Sperling was a many-sided man. His flare-up couldn't possibly have fizzled out as quick as that, but as I hopped ahead of Wolfe to open the door his voice came.
“I won't stop payment on that cheque!”
CHAPTER Fourteen
The package arrived a little before noon on Wednesday.
We hadn't got back to normal, since there was still a small army busy up in the plant rooms, but in many respects things had settled down. Wolfe had on a clean shirt and socks, meals were regular and up to standard, the street was cleared of broken glass, arid we had caught up on sleep. Nothing much had yet been done towards making good on Wolfe's promise to finish the Rony job, but we had only been home fourteen hours and nine of them had been spent in bed.
Then the package came. Wolfe, having been up in the plant rooms since breakfast, was in the office with me, checking invoices and shipping memos of everything from osmundine fibre to steel sash putty. When I went to the front door to answer the bell, and a boy handed me a package about the size of a small suitcase and a receipt to sign, I left the package in the hall because I supposed it was just another item for the operations upstairs, and I was busy.
But after I returned to the office it struck me as queer that there was no shipper's name on it, so I went back to the hall for another look. There was no mark of any kind on the heavy wrapping paper but Wolfe's name and address. It was tied securely with thick cord. I lifted it and guessed six pounds. I pressed it against my ear and held my breath for thirty seconds, and heard nothing.
Nuts, I thought, and cut the cord with my knife and slashed the paper. Inside was a fibre carton with the flaps taped down. I got cautious again and severed the flaps from the sides by cutting all the way around, and lifted one corner for a peek. All I saw was newspaper. I inserted the knife point and tore a piece of it off, and what I saw then made me raise my brows. Removing the flaps and the newspaper, and seeing more of the same, I got the carton up under my arm, marched into the office with it, and asked Wolfe, “Do you mind if I unpack this on your desk? I don't want to make a mess in the hall.” Ignoring his protest, I put the package down on his desk and starting taking out stacks of twenty-dollar bills. They were used bills, not a new one among them as well as I could tell from the edges, and they were banded in bundles of fifty, which meant a thousand bucks to a bundle.
“What the devil is this?” Wolfe demanded.
“Money,” I told him. “Don't touch it, it may be a trap. It may be covered with germs.” I was arranging the bundles ten to a pile, and there were five piles.
“That's a coincidence,” I remarked. “Of course we'll have to check the bundles, but if they're labelled right it's exactly fifty grand. That's interesting.” “Archie.” Wolfe was glowering. “What fatuous flummery is this? I told you to deposit that cheque, not cash it.” He pointed. “Wrap that up and take it to the bank.” “Yes, sir. But before I do so-” I went to the safe and got the bank book, opened it to the current page, and displayed it to him. “As you see, the cheque was deposited. This isn't flummery, it's merely a coincidence. You heard the doorbell and saw me go to answer it. A boy handed me this package and gave me a receipt to sign-General Messenger Service, Twenty-eight West Forty-seventh Street. I thought it might be a clock bomb and opened it in the hall, away from you. There is nothing on the package or in it to show who sent it. The only clue is the newspaper the carton was lined with-from the second section of the New York Times. Who do we know that reads the Times and has fifty thousand bucks for a practical joke?” I gestured. “Answer that and we've got him.” Wolfe was still glowering, but at the pile of dough, not at me. He reached for one of the bundles, flipped through it, and put it back. “Put it in the safe.
The package too.” “Shouldn't we count it first? What if one of the bundles is short a twenty?” There was no reply. He was leaning back in his chair, pushing his lips out and in, and out and in again. I followed instructions, first returning the stuff to the carton to save space, and then went to the hall for the wrapping paper and cord and put them in the safe also.
I sat at my desk, waited until Wolfe's lips were quiet again, and asked coldly, “How about a rise? I could use twenty bucks a week more. So far this case has brought us one hundred and five thousand, three hundred and twelve dollars.
Deduct expenses and the damage-” “Where did the three hundred and twelve come from?” “From Rony's wallet. Saul's holding it. I told you.” “You know, of course, who sent that package.” “Not exactly. D, C, B, or A, but which? It wouldn't come straight from X, would it?” “Straight? No.” Wolfe shook his head. “I like money, but I don't like that. I only wish you could answer a question.” “I've answered millions. Try me.” “I've already tried you on this one. Who drugged that drink on Saturday evening-the one intended for Mr Rony which you drank?” “Yeah. That's the question. I myself asked it all day yesterday, off and on, and again this morning, and I don't know.” Wolfe sighed. That, of course, is what constrains us. That's what forces us to assume that it was not an accident, but murder. But for that I might be able to persuade myself to call it closed, in spite of my deception of Mr Archer.” He sighed again. “As it is, we must either validate the assumption or refute it, and heaven knows how I'm going to manage it. The telephone upstairs has been restored. I wanted to test it, and thought I might as well do so with a call to Mr Lowenfeld of the police laboratory. He was obliging but didn't help much. He said that if a car is going slightly downhill at twenty-five miles an hour, and its left front hits a man who is standing erect, and its wheels pass over him, it is probable that the impact will leave dents or other visible marks on the front of the car, but not certain. I told him that the problem was to determine whether the man was upright or recumbent when the car hit him, and he said the absence of marks on the front of the car would be suggestive but not conclusive.