“This whole performance,” Nero Wolfe was saying, “is based on an idiotic assumption, which was natural and indeed inevitable, since Mr Rowcliff is your champion ass—the assumption that Mr Goodwin and I are both cretins. I do not deny that at times in the past I have been less than candid with you—I will acknowledge, to humor you, that I have humbugged and hoodwinked to serve my purpose—but I still have my license, and you know what that means. It means that on balance I have helped you more than I have hurt you—not the community, which is another matter, but you, Mr Cramer, and you, Mr Bowen, and of course you others too.”
So the DA himself was in the audience.
“It means also that I have known where to stop, and Mr Goodwin has too. That is our unbroken record, and you know it. But what happens today? Following my customary routine, at four o’clock this afternoon I go up to my plant rooms for two hours of relaxation. I have been there but a short time when I hear a commotion and go to investigate. It is Mr Rowcliff. He has taken advantage of the absence of Mr Goodwin, whom he fears and petulantly envies, and has entered my house by force and—”
“That’s a lie!” Rowcliff’s voice came. “I rang and—”
“Shut up!” Wolfe roared, and it seemed to me that the door moved to narrow the crack a little. In a moment he went on, not roaring but not whispering either, “As you all know, a policeman has no more right to enter a man’s home than anyone else, except under certain adequately defined circumstances. But such a right is often usurped, as today when my cook and housekeeper unlatched the door and Mr Rowcliff pushed it open against resistance, entered, brushed my employee aside, and ignored all protests while he was illegally mounting three flights of stairs, erupting into my plant rooms, and invading my privacy.”
I leaned against the jamb and got comfortable.
“He was ass enough to suppose I would speak with him. Naturally I ordered him out. He insisted that I must answer questions. When I persisted in my refusal and turned to leave him, he intercepted me, displayed a warrant for my arrest as a material witness in a murder case, and put a hand on me.” The voice suddenly went lower and much colder. “I will not have a hand put on me, gentlemen. I like no man’s hand on me, and one such as Mr Rowcliff’s, unmerited, I will not have. I told him to give me his instructions under the authority of the warrant, in as few words as possible, without touching me. I am not bragging of my extreme sensitiveness to hostile touch, since it is shared by all the animals; I mention it only as one of the reasons why I refused to speak to Mr Rowcliff. He took me into custody under the warrant, conducted me out of my house, and, in a rickety old police car with a headstrong and paroxysmal driver, brought me to this building.”
I bit my lip. While the fact that he too had been arrested and bandied was not without its charm, the additional fact that I was responsible made it nothing to titter about. Therefore I did not titter. I listened.
“I had assumed, charitably, that some major misapprehension, possibly even excusable, had driven Mr Rowcliff to this frenzied zeal. But I learned from you, Mr Bowen, that it was merely an insane fit of nincompoopery. To accuse Mr Goodwin of impersonating a policeman is infantile; I don’t know what he said or did, and I don’t need to; I know Mr Goodwin, and he couldn’t possibly be so fatuous. To accuse him, acting on my account, of giving false information may not be infantile, but it is pointless. You suspect that I have been hired by someone involved, either innocently or guiltily, in the death of Miss Eads and Mrs Fomos, that I wish to conceal that fact, and that Mr Goodwin went to that place today as my agent and, denying it, is lying.”
“I know damn well he is,” a voice blurted—Rowcliff’s.
“The arrangement,” Wolfe said curtly, “was that I was to speak without interruption. I say the accusation is pointless. If Mr Goodwin is lying on instructions from me, do you suppose I didn’t consider the probabilities? Is it likely that I’ll be halted or deflected by such inanities as putting handcuffs on him—yes, Mr Rowcliff actually flaunted that—or dragging me down here in an unsafe vehicle? You suspect that I have a client; that I know something you don’t know and would like to; and that you can bully it out of me. You can’t, because I haven’t got it. But you’re correct in thinking I have a client. I admit it. I have.”
Rowcliff’s voice ejaculated something that sounded like a cry of triumph. I thought to myself, At last here it is. The sonofagun has got himself a customer!
Wolfe was going on. “I didn’t have a client this morning, or even an hour ago, but now I have. Mr Rowcliff’s ferocious spasms, countenanced by you gentlemen, have made the challenge ineluctable. When Mr Goodwin said that I was not concerned in this matter and that he was acting solely in his own personal interest, he was telling the truth. As you may know, he is not indifferent to those attributes of young women that constitute the chief reliance of our race in our gallant struggle against the menace of the insects. He is especially vulnerable to young women who possess not only, those more obvious charms but also have a knack of stimulating his love of chivalry and adventure and his preoccupation with the picturesque and the passionate. Priscilla Eads was such a woman. She spent some time with Mr Goodwin yesterday; he locked her in a bedroom of my house. Within three hours of her eviction by him at my behest, she was brutally murdered. I will not say that the effect on him amounted to derangement, but it was considerable. He bounded out of my house like a man obsessed, after telling me that he was going single-handed after a murderer, and after arming himself. It was pathetic, but it was also humane, romantic, and thoroughly admirable, and your callous and churlish treatment of him leaves me with no alternative. I am at his service. He is my client.”
Rowcliff’s voice blurted incredulously, “You mean Archie Goodwin is your client?”
The dry cutting voice of Bowen, the DA, put in, “All that rigmarole was leading up to that?”
I pushed the door open and stepped in.
Eight pairs of eyes came at me. Besides Wolfe, Bowen, Cramer, and Rowcliff, there were the two who had been pecking at me previously, and two others, strangers. I crossed toward Wolfe. It had been desirable to let him know that I had heard what he said before witnesses, but it was equally desirable to make it plain that his new client had the warmest appreciation of the honor.
“I’m hungry,” I told him. “I had a soda-fountain lunch and I could eat a porcupine with quills on. Let’s go home.”
His reaction was humane, romantic, and thoroughly admirable. As if we had rehearsed it a dozen times, he arose without a word, got his hat and stick from a nearby table, came and gave me a pat on the shoulder, growled at the audience, “A paradise for puerility,” and turned and headed for the door. I followed. No one moved to intercept us.
Since I knew the building better than he did, I took the lead in the corridor and got us downstairs and out to the street. In the taxi he sat with his lips pressed tight, gripping the strap. There was no conversation. At the curb in front of home I paid the driver, got out and held the door for him, preceded him up the stoop, and used my key, but the key was not enough. The door opened an inch and was stopped by the chain bolt, so I had to ring for Fritz. After he had come and let us in, Wolfe instructed us, “Never again an unbolted door. Never!” To Fritz: “You proceeded with the kidney?”
“Yes, sir. You didn’t phone.”
“The dumplings and burnt sugar?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Satisfactory. Beer, please. I’m so dry I crackle.”
His hat and stick disposed of, he went to the office, and I tagged. For hours I had been sweaty where the leather holster kept my skin from breathing, and it was a relief to get rid of the thing. That attended to, I did not sit at my desk. Instead I went to the red leather chair—the chair where a thousand clients had sat, not to mention thousands who had never attained cliency. I lowered myself into it, leaned back, and crossed my legs. Fritz came with beer, and Wolfe opened, poured, and drank.