Free Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 02 by The League of Frightened Men

“Nonsense! Yes, of course! Romantic nonsense. Yes!”
    Farrell said to him, “I should hope so. The wonder is you weren’t first.”
    I went on, “Augustus Farrell.”
    “Yes.”
    I called the others, Drummond, Cabot, Pratt, Byron, Adler, Kommers; they all said
yes.
I called, “Michael Ayers.” He was still sprawled in his chair. Isaid his name again. Farrell, next to him, dug him in the ribs: “Mike! Hey! Say yes.” Mike Ayers stirred a little, opened his eyes into slits, bawled out, “Yes!” and shut his eyes again.
    I turned to Wolfe, “That’s all, sir.”
    I usually heard Fritz when he went down the front hall to answer the doorbell, but that time I didn’t; I suppose because I was too interested in the roll I was calling. So I was surprised when I saw the door of the office opening. The others saw me look and they looked too. Fritz came in three steps and waited until Wolfe nodded at him. “A gentleman to see you, sir. He had no card. He told me to say, Mr. Paul Chapin.”
    “Indeed.” Wolfe didn’t move. “Indeed. Show him in.”

Chapter 6
    F ritz went back to the hall to get the visitor. I missed a bet, but Wolfe probably didn’t—I don’t know; I should have been taking notice of the expressions on the faces of our guests, but I wasn’t; my eyes were glued on the door. I imagine all the others’ were too, except Wolfe’s. I heard the thud of Paul Chapin’s walking-stick on the rubber tile of the hall.
    He limped in and stopped a few paces from the door. From where he was he couldn’t see Wolfe, on account of the group gathered at the desk. He looked at the group, and at those around on chairs, and tossed his head up twice, his chin out, like a nervous horse trying to shake the rein. He said, “Hello, fellows,” and limped forward again, far enough into the room so he could see Wolfe, first sending a quick sharp glance at me. He was standing less than eight feet from me. He was dressed for evening, a dinner coat. He wasn’t a big guy at all, rather under medium size than over; you couldn’t call him skinny, but you could see the bone structure of his face—flat cheeks, an ordinary nose, and light-colored eyes. When he turned his back to me so as to face Wolfe I saw that his coat didn’t hangstraight down over his right hip pocket, and I uncrossed my legs and brought my feet back to position, just in case.
    There had been no audible replies to his salutation. He looked around again, back again at Wolfe, and smiled at him. “You are Mr. Wolfe?”
    “Yes.” Wolfe had his fingers intertwined on his belly. “You are Mr. Chapin.”
    Paul Chapin nodded. “I was at the theater. They’ve done a book of mine into a play. Then I thought I’d drop in here.”
    “Which book? I’ve read all of them.”
    “You have? Really. I wouldn’t suppose …
The Iron Heel.”
    “Oh yes. That one. Accept my congratulations.”
    “Thank you. I hope you don’t mind my dropping in. I knew of this gathering, of course. I learned of it from three of my friends, Leo Elkus and Lorry Burton and Alex Drummond. You mustn’t hold it against them, except possibly Leo. He meant well, I think, but the others were trying to frighten me. They were trying it with a bogy, but for a bogy to be effective its terrors must be known to the victim. Unfortunately you were unknown to me. You have terrors, I suppose?”
    Since Chapin’s first word he had kept his eyes on Wolfe, ignoring the others. They were regarding him with varying reactions on their faces: Mitchell of Boston with curiosity, Bowen with a sour poker face, Cabot with uncomfortable indignation, Mike Ayers with scowling disgust … I was looking them over. Of a sudden Dr. Burton left his chair, strode to the desk, and grabbed Chapin by the arm. He said to him:
    “Paul, for God’s sake. Get out of here! This is terrible. Get out!”
    Drummond the florist put in, his cultured tenortransformed by intensity into a ferocious squeal, “This is the limit,