Nothing had happened to change my attitude or opinion. When I went to the office after finishing with the kept-warm kidneys and accessories Wolfe permitted me to report on the conversation and slugging match at Vance’s apartment, leaning back and closing his eyes to show he was listening, but he didn’t even grunt when I told the Stebbins part, though ordinarily it gets under his skin, way under, when a client is hauled in. When I was through I said it was a good thing he knew Kirk was innocent since otherwise the typewriter development might make him wonder.
His eyes opened. “I didn’t say I knew it. I said it was extremely improbable that he had killed his wife, and it still is. Any of the others could have managed access to his typewriter for a few minutes, in his absence.”
“Sure. And when his wife told him she had let someone use it, it made him so mad he got rid of it the next day. She could confirm it, but she’s dead. Tough. Or his getting rid of it just then could have been coincidence, but that would be even tougher. Judges and juries hate coincidence, and I’ve heard you make remarks about it.”
“Only when it’s in my way, not when it serves me.” He straightened up and reached for his book. “Can Mrs. Fougere have her husband here at six o’clock?”
“I haven’t asked her. I doubt it. They’re not chummy, and he’s the wrong end of the horse.”
“Perhaps…” He considered it. He shook his head. “No. I must see him. Tell her to tell him, or you tell him, that he has slandered my client before witnesses, and he will either sign a retraction and apology or defend a suit for defamation of character. I’ll expect him at six o’clock.” He picked up the book and opened it.
Cut. I hadn’t expected him to open up, since he is as pigheaded as I am steadfast, but he could have made some little comment. As I looked up the Fougere number and dialed it, I was actually considering something I had never done and thought I never would: retract, apologize, and ask him please to tell me, as a favor to an old associate and loyal assistant, what the hell was in his mind, if anything. But of course I didn’t. When I hung up after getting no answer from the Fougere number, I had an idea: I would ask him if he wanted me to phone Parker. With a client collared as a material witness and probably headed for the coop on a murder charge, it should be not only routine but automatic for him to get Parker. But I looked at his face as he sat, comfortable, his eyes on the book, and vetoed it. He would merely say no and go on reading. It would have improved my feelings to pick up something and throw it at him, but not the situation, so I arose, went to the hall and up two flights to my room, stood at the window, and reviewed the past thirty hours, trying to spot the catch I had missed, granting there had been one. The trouble was I was sore. You can work when you’re sore, or eat or sleep or fight, but you can’t think straight.
My next sight of Wolfe was at two minutes past six when the elevator brought him down from the plant rooms and he entered the office. The slander approach had got results. The fifth time I tried the Fougere number, a little after four, Paul had answered, and I poured it on. On the phone his squeak sounded more like the one that had told me to burn the tie, but of course it would. A voice on a phone, unless it’s one you know well, is tricky. He said he’d come. An hour later Rita phoned. She was too frantic to be practical. She wanted to know if we had heard from Kirk, and were we doing anything and if so what, and shouldn’t Kirk have a lawyer. Being sore, I told her Wolfe was responsible to his client, not to her, that Kirk would of course need a lawyer, if and when he was charged with something, and that we were expecting her husband at six o’clock. When she said she knew that and she was coming along, I said she might as well have saved the dime. I am rude to people only when I am being rude to myself, or they have asked for it. I admit she hadn’t asked for it.
For Wolfe, being rude is no problem at all. When he entered he detoured around the red leather chair to his desk, gave Rita a nod, sat, narrowed his eyes at the husband, and snapped, “You’re Paul Fougere?”
It’s hard to snap back with a squeak, but Fougere did the best he could with what he had. “You’re Nero Wolfe?”
“I am. Did you kill that woman?”
I had known when I let them in that Fougere had decided on his line. It’s easy to see when a man’s all set. So the unexpected question flustered him. “You know damn well I didn’t,” he said. “You know who did, or you ought to.”
“Possibly I don’t. Do you?”
Fougere looked at his wife, at me, and back at Wolfe. He was adjusting. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said. “With witnesses. All right, I can’t prove it, and anyway that’s not up to me, it’s up to the cops. But I’m not going to sign anything. I’ve told Vance I shouldn’t have said it, and I’ve told my wife. Ask her.” He turned to me. “You were the only other one that heard me. I’m telling you now, I can’t prove it and I shouldn’t have said it.” Back to Wolfe: “That covers it. Now try hooking me for defamation of character.”
“Pfui.” Wolfe flipped a hand to dismiss it. “I never intended to. That was only to get you here. I wanted to tell you something and ask you something. First, you’re a blatherskite. You may perhaps know that Mr. Kirk didn’t kill his wife, but you can’t possibly know that he did. Manifestly you’re either a jackass or a murderer, and conceivably both.” He turned his head. “Archie. A twenty-dollar bill, please.”
I went to the safe and got a twenty from the petty cash drawer and came back and offered it, but he shook his head. “Give it to Mrs. Fougere.” To Paul: “I assume your wife is an acceptable stakeholder. Give her a dollar. Twenty to one Mr. Kirk did
“You’ve got a bet.” Fougere got out his wallet, extracted a bill, and handed it to me. “You keep it, Goodwin. My wife might spend it. I suppose his conviction decides it? Do I have to wait until after the appeals and all the horsing around?”
Obviously Rita wasn’t hearing him. Probably she had had a lot of practice at not hearing him. She was gazing at Wolfe. “You really mean that, don’t you?” she asked. “You mean it?”
“I expect to win that dollar, madam.” His eyes stayed at Fougere. “As for you, sir, let’s see how sure you are. I would like to ask some questions which may give you a hint of my expectations. If you don’t care to hear them you are of course at liberty to go.”
Fougere laughed. It would be fair to say that he giggled, but I’ll give him a break. He laughed. “Hell, I’ve got a bet down,” he said. “Go right ahead. You’ve already asked me if
Wolfe nodded. “But you’re not a mere onlooker. You’re not in the audience; you’re on the stage. Do you know about the envelope Mr. Goodwin received in the mail yesterday morning and its contents?”
