Free The Doorbell Rang by Rex Stout

You’ll have to go to him, to his house-you and Miss Hinckley, and, if possible, Mr Yarmack. Can you be there this evening at nine o’clock?”
    “Why& ” She had her hands clasped. “I don’t& What good would it do'There’s nothing I can tell him.”
    “There might be. I often think there’s nothing I can tell him, but I find out I’m wrong. Or if he only decides that none of you can tell him anything, that will help. Will you come?”
    “I suppose& ” She looked at the girl who had been expecting to be her daughter-in-law.
    “Yes,” Miss Hinckley said. “I’ll go.”
    I could have hugged her. It would have been relevant to the job. I asked her, “Could you bring Mr Yarmack?”
    “I don’t know. I’ll try.”
    “Good.” I rose. “The address is in the phone book.”
    To Mrs Althaus: “I should tell you, it’s next to certain that the FBI has a watch on the house and you will be seen. If you don’t mind, Mr Wolfe doesn’t. He’s perfectly willing for them to know he is investigating the murder of your son. Nine o’clock?”
    She said yes, and I went. In the foyer the maid came and wanted to hold my coat, and not to hurt her feelings I let her. Down in the lobby, from the look the doorman gave me as he opened the door I deduced that the hallman had told him what I was, and to be in character I met the look with a sharp and wary eye. Outside, some snowflakes were doing stunts. In the taxi, headed downtown, again I ignored the rear. I figured that if they were on me, which was highly likely, maybe one cent of each ten grand of Wolfe’s income tax, and one mill of each ten grand of mine, would go to pay government employees to keep me company uninvited, which didn’t seem right.
    Wolfe had just come down from the plant rooms after his four-to-six afternoon session with the orchids and got nicely settled in his chair with The Treasure of Our Tongue. Instead of going on in and crossing to my desk as usual, I stopped at the sill of the office door, and when he looked up I pointed a finger straight down, emphatically, turned, and beat it to the stairs to the basement and on down. Flipping the light switch, I went and perched on the pool table. Two minutes. Three. Four, and there were footsteps. He stood at the door, glared at me, and spoke.
    “I won’t tolerate this.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “I could write it.”
    “Pfui. Two points. One, the risk is extremely slight. Two, we can use it. As you talk you can insert comments or statements at will which I am to disregard, notifying me by raising a finger. I shall do the same. Of course making no reference to Mr Cramer; we can’t risk that; and maintaining our conclusion that the FBI killed that man, and we intend to establish it.”
    “But actually we don’t.”
    “Certainly not.” He turned and went.
    So I was foxed. His house, his office, and his chair. But I had to admit, as I mounted the steps, that pigheaded as he was, it wasn’t a bad idea. If they really had an electronic ear on the office, which I didn’t believe, it might even be a damned good idea. When I entered the office he was back at his desk and I went to mine, and as I sat he said, “Well?”
    He should have had a finger raised. He never wastes breath by saying “Well?” when I return from an errand; he merely puts the book down, or the beer glass, and is ready for me to speak.
    I raised a finger. “Your guess that they might have hit on the FBI theory at the Gazette, and be working on it, wasn’t so good.” I lowered the finger. “Lon Cohen didn’t mention it, so I didn’t. They haven’t got a theory. He let me go through the files, and we talked, and I got a dozen pages of names and assorted details, some of which might possibly be useful.” I raised a finger. “I’ll type it up at the usual five dollars a page.” I lowered the finger. “Next I phoned Mrs David Althaus from a booth, and she said she would see me, and I went. Park Avenue in the Eighties,