The Silent Speaker (Crime Line)

“Bring him in.”

I did so. In spite of his obnoxious qualities and of his keeping us up, I put him in the red leather chair because that had him facing both of us. He was not a lounger. He sat up straight, with his fingers intertwined in his lap, and told Wolfe:

“I gave the name of John Smith because my name is of no significance. I am merely an errand boy.”

Starting off by contradicting me. He went on:

“This is a confidential matter and I must speak with you privately.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Mr. Goodwin is my confidential assistant. His ears are mine. Go ahead.”

“No.” Smith’s tone implied, and that settles it. “I have to be alone with you.”

“Bah.” Wolfe pointed to a picture of the Washington Monument, on the wall fifteen feet to his left. “Do you see that picture? It is actually a perforated panel. If Mr. Goodwin is sent from the room he will go to an alcove around a corner of the hall, across from the kitchen door, open the panel on that side, invisible to us, and watch us and listen to us. The objection to that is that he would be standing up. He might as well stay here sitting down.”

Without batting an eye, Smith stood up. “Then you and I will go to the hall.”

“No we won’t.-Archie. Mr. Smith wants his hat and coat.”

I arose and moved. When I was halfway across the room Smith sat down again. I whirled, returned to my base, and did likewise.

“Well, sir?” Wolfe demanded.

“We have somebody,” Smith said, in what was apparently the only tone he ever used, “for the Boone and Gunther murders.”

“We? Somebody?”

Smith untangled his fingers, raised a hand to scratch the side of his nose, dropped the hand, and retwined the fingers. “Of course,” he said, “death is always a tragedy. It causes grief and suffering and often hardship. That cannot be avoided. But in this case, the deaths of these two people, it has already caused widespread injury to many thousands of innocent persons and created a situation that amounts to gross injustice. As you know, as we all know, there are elements in this country that seek to undermine the very foundations of our society. Death is serving them-has served them well. The very backbone of our free democratic system-composed of our most public-spirited citizens, our outstanding businessmen who keep things going for us-is in great and real peril. The source of that peril was an event-now two events-which may have resulted either from the merest chance or from deep and calculated malice. From the standpoint of the common welfare those two events were in themselves unimportant. But overwhelmingly-”

“Excuse me.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “I used to make speeches myself. The way I would put it, you’re talking about the nation-wide reaction against the National Industry Association on account of the murders. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I am emphasizing the contrast between the trivial character of the events in themselves and the enormous harm-”

“Please. You’ve made that point. Go on to the next one. But first tell me, do you represent the NIA?”

“No. I represent, actually, the founding fathers of this country. I represent the best and most fundamental interests of the American people. I-”

“All right. Your next point?”

Smith untwined his fingers again. This time it was the chin that needed scratching. When that was finished he proceeded, “The existing situation is intolerable. It is playing directly into the hands of the most dangerous and subversive groups and doctrines. No price would be too high to pay for ending it, and ending it at the earliest possible moment. The man who performed that service would deserve well of his country. He would earn the gratitude of his fellow citizens, and naturally, especially of those who are being made to suffer under this unjust odium.”

“In other words,” Wolfe suggested, “he ought to be paid something.”

“He would be paid something.”

“Then it’s too bad I’m already engaged. I like being paid.”

“There would be no conflict. The objectives are identical.”

Wolfe frowned. “You know, Mr. Smith,” he said admiringly, “I like the way you started this. You said it all, except certain details, in your first short sentence. Who are you and where do you come from?”

“That,” Smith declared, “is stupid. You’re not stupid. You can learn who I am, of course, if you want to take the time and trouble. But there are seven respectable-very respectable-men and women with whom I am playing bridge this evening. After a dinner party. Which accounts for the whole evening, from seven o’clock on.”

“That should cover it adequately. Eight against two.”

“Yes, it really should,” Smith agreed. He untangled his fingers once more, but not to scratch. He reached to his side coat pocket and pulled out a package wrapped neatly in white paper and fastened with Scotch tape. It was big enough to be tight in his pocket and he had to use both hands. “As you say,” he remarked, “there are certain details. The amount involved is three hundred thousand dollars. I have one-third of it here.”

I gave it a look and decided it couldn’t all be in hundreds. There must have been some five-hundreds and grands.