The Red Box (25 page)

“I wouldn’t, Archie.” He was in his patient mood. “I really wouldn’t. You are perfectly aware that I have enough enterprise to turn off the radio; you have seen me do it; the exercise is good for me. I purposely dial the station which will later develop into the “Pearls of Wisdom,” and I deliberately bear it. It’s discipline. It fortifies me to put up with ordinary inanities for days. I gladly confess that after listening to the “Pearls of Wisdom” your conversation is an intellectual and esthetic delight. It’s the tops.” He grimaced. “That’s what a Pearl of Wisdom just said that cultured interests are. He said they are the tops.” He grimaced
again. “Great heavens, I’m thirsty.” He jerked himself up and leaned forward to press the button for beer.

But it was a little while before he got it. An instant after he pressed the button the doorbell rang, which meant that Fritz would have to attend to that chore first. Since it was nearly eleven o’clock and no one was expected, my heart began to beat, as it always does when we’re on a case with any kick to it and any little surprise turns up. As a matter of fact, I got proof that I had fallen for Wolfe’s showmanship again, for I had a sudden conviction that Saul Panzer was going to walk in with the red box under his arm.

Then I heard a voice in the hall that didn’t belong to Saul. The door opened and swung around and Fritz stepped back to admit the visitor, and Helen Frost walked in. At the look on her face I hopped up and went over and put a hand on her arm, thinking she was about ready to flop.

She shook her head and I dropped the hand. She walked toward Wolfe’s desk and stopped. Wolfe said:

“How do you do, Miss Frost? Sit down.” Sharply: “Archie, put her in a chair.”

I got her arm again and eased her over and got a chair behind her, and she sank into it. She looked at me and said, “Thank you.” She looked at Wolfe: “Something awful has happened. I didn’t want to go home and I … I came here. I’m afraid. I have been all along, really, but … I’m afraid now. Perren is dead. Just now, up on 73rd Street. He died on the sidewalk.”

“Indeed. Mr. Gebert.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at her. “Breathe, Miss Frost. In any event, you need to breathe. —Archie, get a little brandy.”

O
ur client shook her head. “I don’t want any brandy. I don’t think I could swallow.” She was querulous and shaky. “I tell you … I’m afraid!”

“Yes.” Wolfe had sat up and got his eyes open. “I heard you. If you don’t pull yourself together, with brandy or without, you’ll have hysterics, and that will be no help at all. Do you want some ammonia? Do you want to lie down? Do you want to talk? Can you talk?”

“Yes.” She put the fingertips of both hands to her temples and caressed them delicately—her forehead, then the temples again. “I can talk. I won’t have hysterics.”

“Good for you. You say Mr. Gebert died on the sidewalk on 73rd Street. What killed him?”

“I don’t know.” She was sitting up straight, with her hands clasped in her lap. “He was getting in his car and he jumped back, and he came running down the sidewalk toward us … and he fell, and then Lew told me he was dead—”

“Wait a minute. Please. It will be better to do this neatly. I presume it happened after you left the chapel where the services were held. Did all of you leave
together? Your mother and uncle and cousin and Mr. Gebert?”

She nodded. “Yes. Perren offered to drive mother and me home, but I said I would rather walk, and my uncle said he wanted to have a talk with mother, so they were going to take a taxi. We were all going slow along the sidewalk, deciding that—”

I put in, “East? Toward Gebert’s car?”

“Yes. I didn’t know then … I didn’t know where his car was, but he left us and my uncle and mother and I stood there while Lew stepped into the street to stop a taxi, and I happened to be looking in the direction Perren had gone, and so was my uncle, and we saw him stop and open the door of his car … and then he jumped back and stood a second, and then he yelled and began running toward us … but he only got about halfway when he fell down, and he tried to roll … he tried …”

Wolfe wiggled a finger at her. “Less vividly, Miss Frost. You’ve lived through it once, don’t try to do so again. Just tell us about it; it’s history. He fell, he tried to roll, he stopped. People ran to succor him. Did you? Your mother?”

“No. My mother held my arm. My uncle ran to him, and a man that was there, and I called to Lew and he came and ran there too. Then mother told me to stay where I was, and she walked to them, and other people began to come. I stood there, and in about a minute Lew came to me and said they thought Perren was dead and told me to get a taxi and go home and they would stay. The taxi he had stopped was standing there and he put me in it, but after it started I didn’t want to go home and I told the driver to come here. I … I thought perhaps …”

“You couldn’t be expected to think. You were in no
condition for it.” Wolfe leaned back. “So. You don’t know what Mr. Gebert died of.”

“No. There was no sound … no anything …”

“Do you know whether he ate or drank anything at the chapel?”

Her head jerked up. She swallowed. “No, I’m sure he didn’t”

“No matter.” Wolfe sighed. “That will be learned. You say that after Mr. Gebert jumped back from his car he yelled. Did he yell anything in particular?”

“Yes … he did. My mother’s name. Like calling for help.”

One of Wolfe’s brows went up. “I trust he yelled it ardently. Forgive me for permitting myself a playful remark; Mr. Gebert would understand it, were he here. So he yelled ‘Calida.’ More than once?”

“Yes, several times. If you mean … my mother’s name …”

“I meant nothing really. I was talking nonsense. It appears that, so far as you know, Mr. Gebert may have died of a heart attack or a clot on the brain or acute misanthropy. But I believe you said it made you afraid. What of?”

She looked at him, opened her mouth, and closed it again. She stammered. “That’s why … that’s what …” and stopped. Her hands unclasped and fluttered up, and down again. She took another try at it: “I told you … I’ve been afraid …”

“Very well.” Wolfe showed her a palm. “You needn’t do that. I understand. You mean that for some time you have been apprehensive of something malign in the relations of those closest and dearest to you. Naturally the death of Mr. McNair made it worse. Was it because—but forgive me. I am indulging one of my vices at a bad time—bad for you. I would not
hesitate to torment you if it served our end, but it is useless now. Nothing more is needed. Did you intend to marry Mr. Gebert?”

“No. I never did.”

“Did you have affection for him?”

“No. I told you … I didn’t really like him.”

“Good. Then once the temporary shock is past you can be objective about it. Mr. Gebert had very little to recommend him, either as a sapient being or as a biological specimen. The truth is that his death simplifies our task a little, and I feel no regret and shall pretend to none. Still his murder will be avenged, because we can’t help ourselves. I assure you, Miss Frost, I am not trying to mystify you. But since I am not yet ready to tell you everything, I suppose it would be best to tell you nothing, so I’ll confine myself, for this evening, to one piece of advice. Of course you have friends—for instance, that Miss Mitchell who attempted loyalty to you on Tuesday morning. Go there, now, without informing anyone, and spend the night. Mr. Goodwin can drive you. Tomorrow—”

“No.” She was shaking her head. “I won’t do that. What you said … about Perren’s murder. He was murdered. Wasn’t he?”

“Certainly. He died ardently. I repeat that because I like it. If you make a conjecture from it, all the better as preparation for you. I do not advise your spending the night with a friend on account of any danger to yourself, for there is none. In fact, there is no danger left for anyone, except as I embody it. But you must know that if you go home you won’t get much sleep. The police will be clamoring for minutiae; they are probably bullying your family at this moment, and it would only be common sense to save yourself from
that catechism. Tomorrow morning I could inform you of developments.”

She shook her head again. “No.” She sounded decisive. “I’ll go home. I don’t want to run away … I just came here … and anyhow, mother and Lew and my uncle … no. I’ll go home. But if you could only tell me … please, Mr. Wolfe, please … if you could tell me something so I would know …”

“I can’t. Not now. I promise you, soon. In the meantime—”

The phone rang. I swiveled and got it. Right away I was in a scrap. Some sap with a voice like a foghorn was going to have me put Wolfe on the wire immediately and no fooling, without bothering to tell me who it was that wanted him. I derided him until he boomed at me to hold it. After waiting a minute I heard another voice, one I recognized at once:

“Goodwin? Inspector Cramer. Maybe I don’t need Wolfe. I’d hate to disturb him. Is Helen Frost there?”

“Who? Helen Frost?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why should she be? Do you think we run a night shift? Wait a minute, I didn’t know it was you, I think Mr. Wolfe wants to ask you something.” I smothered the transmitter and turned: “Inspector Cramer wants to know if Miss Frost is here.”

Wolfe lifted his shoulders half an inch and dropped them. Our client said, “Of course. Tell him yes.”

I told the phone, “No, Wolfe can’t think of anything you’d be likely to know. But if you mean
Miss
Helen Frost, I just saw her here in a chair.”

“Oh. She’s there. Some day I’m going to break your neck. I want her up here right away, at her home—no, wait. Keep her. I’ll send a man—”

“Don’t bother. I’ll bring her.”

“How soon?”

“Right now. At once. Without delay.”

I rang off and whirled my chair to face the client. “He’s up at your apartment. I suppose they all are. Do we go? I can still tell him I’m shortsighted and it wasn’t you in the chair.”

She rose. She faced Wolfe and she was sagging a little, but then she straightened out the spine. “Thank you,” she said. “If there really isn’t anything …”

“I’m sorry, Miss Frost. Nothing now. Perhaps tomorrow. I’ll get word to you. Don’t resent Mr. Cramer more than you must. He unquestionably means well. Good night.”

I got up and bowed her ahead and through the office door, and snared my hat in the hall as I went by.

I had put the roadster in the garage, so we had to walk there for it. She waited for me at the entrance, and after she got in and I turned into Tenth Avenue, I told her:

“You’ve been getting lefts and rights both, and you’re groggy. Lean back and shut your eyes and breathe deep.”

She said thank you, but she sat straight and kept her eyes open and didn’t say anything all the way to 65th Street. I was thinking that presumably I would make a night of it. Ever since she had busted in on us with the news, I had been kicking myself for having been in such a hell of a hurry to get away from 73rd Street; it had happened right there at Gebert’s car, parked in front of mine, not five minutes after I left. That had been luck for you. I could have been right there, closer than anyone else …

I didn’t get to make a night of it, either. My sojourn at the Frost apartment as Helen’s escort was short and sour. She handed me her key to the door to the
entrance hall, and as soon as I got it open there stood a dick. Another one was in a chair by the mirrors. Helen and I started to go on by, but got blocked. The dick told us:

“Please wait here a minute? Both of you.”

He disappeared into the living room, and pretty soon that door opened again and Cramer entered. He looked preoccupied and unfriendly.

“Good evening, Miss Frost. Come with me, please.”

“Is my mother here? My cousin—”

“They’re all here. —All right, Goodwin, much obliged. Pleasant dreams.”

I grinned at him. “I’m not sleepy. I can stick around without interfering—”

“You can also beat it without interfering. I’ll watch you do that.”

I could tell by his tone there was no use; he would merely have gone on being adamant. I ignored him. I bowed to our client:

“Good night, Miss Frost.”

I turned to the dick: “Look sharp, my man, open the door.”

He didn’t move. I reached for the knob and swung it wide open and went on out, leaving it that way. I’ll bet by gum he closed it.

T
he next morning, Saturday, there was no early indication that the detective business of Nero Wolfe had any burden heavier than a feather on either its mind or its conscience. I had my figure laved and clothed before eight o’clock, rather expecting a pre-breakfast summons to some sort of action from the head of the firm, but I might as well have snoozed my full 510 minutes. The house phone stayed silent. As usual, Fritz took a tray of orange juice, crackers and chocolate to Wolfe’s room at the appointed moment, and there was no indication that I was scheduled for anything more enterprising than slitting open the envelopes of the morning mail and helping Fritz empty the wastebasket.

At nine o’clock, when I was informed by the hum of the elevator that Wolfe was ascending for his two hours with Horstmann in the plant rooms, I was seated at the little table in the kitchen, doing the right thing by a pile of toast and four eggs cooked in black butter and sherry under a cover on a slow fire, and absorbing the accounts in the morning papers of the sensational death of Perren Gebert. It was a new one on me. The idea was that when he started to enter his
car he had bumped his head against a sauce dish full of poison which had been perched on a piece of tape stuck to the cloth of the top above the driver’s seat, and the poison had spilled on him, most of it going down the back of his neck. The poison wasn’t named. I decided to finish with my second cup of coffee before going to the shelves in the office for a book on toxicology to glance over the possibilities. There couldn’t be more than two or three that would furnish results as sudden and complete as that, applied externally.

A little after nine o’clock a phone call came from Saul Panzer. He asked for Wolfe and I put him through to the plant rooms; and then, to my disgust but not my surprise, Wolfe shooed me off the line. I stretched out my legs and looked at the tips of my shoes and told myself that the day would come when I would walk into that office carrying a murderer in a suitcase, and Nero Wolfe would pay dearly for a peek. Soon after that, Cramer phoned. He was also put through to Wolfe, and this time I kept my line and scribbled it in my notebook, but it was a waste of paper and talent. Cramer sounded tired and bitter, as if he needed three drinks and a good long nap. The gist of his growlings was that they were on the rampage at the District Attorney’s office and about ready to take drastic action. Wolfe murmured sympathetically that he hoped they would do nothing that would interfere with Cramer’s progress on the case, and Cramer told Wolfe where to go. Kid stuff.