Free Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 by Three Doors to Death Page B

know he existed. He’s tough and he’s anything but a fool.”
    I was at a drawer of my desk, getting out two guns and loading them—one for Fritz and one for me. So I was still there to hear Ward Roper’s contribution.
    “That explains it,” Roper said, the bitterness allgone, replaced by a tone of pleased discovery. “If Paul was alive up to last night, he designed those things himself and got them to us through Cynthia! Certainly! That explains it!”
    I didn’t stay for the slapping, if any.
    “There’s no hurry,” Wolfe told me as I was leaving. “I have things to do before you get back.”
XII
    For transportation I had my pick of the new Cadillac, the subway, or a taxi. It might not be convenient to have my hands occupied with a steering wheel, and escorting a murderer on a subway without handcuffs is a damn nuisance, so I chose the taxi. The driver of the one I flagged on Tenth Avenue had satisfactory reactions to my license card and my discreet outline of the situation, and I elected him.
    Eight-sixteen East Ninetieth Street was neither a dump nor a castle of luxury—just one of the big clean hives. Leaving the taxi waiting at the curb, I entered, walked across the lobby as if I were in my own home, entered the elevator, and mumbled casually, “Ten please.”
    The man moved no muscle but his jaw. “Who do you want to see?”
    “Dickson.”
    “I’ll have to phone up. What’s your name?”
    “Tell him it’s a message from Mr. Bernard Daumery.”
    The man moved. I followed him out of the elevator and around a corner to the switchboard, and watched him plug in and flip a switch. In a moment he wasspeaking into the transmitter, and in another moment he turned to me.
    “He says for me to bring the message up.”
    “Tell him my name is Goodwin and I was told to give it to him personally.”
    Apparently Dickson didn’t have to think things over. At least there was no extended discussion. The man pulled out the plug, told me to come ahead, and led me back to the elevator. He took me to the tenth floor and thumbed me to the left, and I went to the end of the hall, to the door marked IOC. The door was ajar, to a crack big enough to stick a peanut in, and as my finger was aiming for the pushbutton a voice came through.
    “You have a message from Mr. Daumery?”
    “Yes, sir, for George Dickson.”
    “I’m Dickson. Hand it through to me.”
    “I can’t. It’s verbal.”
    “Then say it. What is it?”
    “I’ll have to see you first. You were described to me. Mr. Daumery is in a little trouble.”
    For a couple of seconds nothing happened, then the door opened wide enough to admit ten bags of peanuts abreast. Since he had certainly had his hoof placed to keep it from opening, I evened up by promptly placing mine to keep it from shutting. The light was nothing wonderful, but good enough to see that he was a husky middle-aged specimen with a wide mouth, dark-colored deepset eyes, and a full share of chin.
    “What kind of trouble?” he snapped.
    “He’ll have to tell you about it,” I said apologetically. “I’m just a messenger. All I can tell you is that I was instructed to ask you to come to him.”
    “Why didn’t he phone me?”
    “A phone isn’t available to him right now.”
    “Where is he?”
    “At Nero Wolfe’s office on West Thirty-fifth Street.”
    “Who else is there?”
    “Several people. Mr. Wolfe, of course, and men named Demarest and Roper, and women named Zarella and Nieder—that’s all.”
    The dark eyes had got darker. “I think you’re lying. I don’t think Mr. Daumery sent for me at all. I think this is a put-up job and you can get out of here and stay out.”
    “Okay, brother.” I kept the foot in place. “Where did I get your name and address, from a mailing list? You knew Mr. Daumery was at Nero Wolfe’s, since he phoned you around seven o’clock to ask your advice about going, and he told you who else was invited, so what’s wrong with that? Why do you