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

violent attack, and I habitually am armed. See—”
    Paul Chapin had us going all right. As his right hand came around behind him and his fingers started under the edge of his dinner coat, there were two or three cries of warning from the group, and I took it on the jump. With my momentum and him balanced against his walking-stick, I damn near toppled him over, but I had my grip on his right wrist and saved him from a tumble. With my left hand I jerked the gat from his hip pocket.
    “Archie!” Wolfe snapped at me. “Release Mr. Chapin.”
    I let go his wrist. Wolfe was still snapping: “Give him back his—article.”
    I looked at the gat. It was a thirty-two, an old veteran, and a glance showed me it wasn’t loaded. Paul Chapin, his light-colored eyes having no look in them at all, held out his hand. I put the gun in it and he let it sit there on his palm as if it was a dish of applesauce.
    Wolfe said, “Confound you, Archie. You have deprived Mr. Chapin of the opportunity for a dramaticand effective gesture. I know, Mr. Chapin. I am sorry. May I see the gun?”
    Chapin handed it to him and he looked it over. He threw the cylinder out and back, cocked it, snapped the trigger, and looked it over again. He said, “An ugly weapon. It terrifies me. Guns always do. May I show it to Mr. Goodwin?”
    Chapin shrugged his shoulders, and Wolfe handed the gat to me. I took it under my light and gave it a few warm glances; cocked it, saw what Wolfe had seen, and grinned. Then I looked up and saw Paul Chapin’s eyes on me and stopped grinning. You could still have said there was no look in them, but behind them was something I wouldn’t have cared to bring into plain sight. I handed him the gun, and he stuck it back into his hip pocket. He said, half to me and half to Wolfe, in an easy tone:
    “That’s it, you see. The effect is psychological. I learned a good deal about psychology from my friend Andy Hibbard.”
    There were ejaculations. George Pratt stepped to Chapin and glared at him. Pratt’s hands were working at his sides as he stammered, “You—you snake! If you weren’t a goddam cripple I’d knock you so far I’ll say you’d be harmless—”
    Chapin showed no alarm. “Yes, George. And what made me a goddam cripple?”
    Pratt didn’t retreat. “I helped to, once. Sure I did. That was an accident, we all have ’em, maybe not as bad as yours. Christ, can’t you ever forget it? Is there no man in you at all? Has your brain got twisted—”
    “No. Man? No.” Chapin cut him off, and smiled at him with his mouth. He looked around at the others. “You fellows are all men though. Aren’t you? Every one. God bless you. That’s an idea, depend on God’sblessing. Try it. I tried it once. Now I must ask you to excuse me.” He turned to Wolfe. “Good evening, sir. I’ll go. Thank you for your courtesy. I trust I haven’t put too great a strain on your intelligence.”
    He inclined his head to Wolfe and to me, turned and made off. His stick had thumped three times on the rug when he was halted by Wolfe’s voice:
    “Mr. Chapin. I almost forgot. May I ask you for a very few minutes more? Just a small—”
    Nicholas Cabot’s voice broke in, “For God’s sake, Wolfe, let him go—”
    “Please, Mr. Cabot. May I, gentlemen? Just a small favor, Mr. Chapin. Since you are innocent of any ill intent, and as anxious as we are to see your friends’ difficulties removed, I trust you will help me in a little test. I know it will seem nonsensical to you, quite meaningless, but I should like to try it. Would you help me out?”
    Chapin had turned. I thought he looked careful. He said, “Perhaps. What is it?”
    “Quite simple. You use a typewriter, I suppose?”
    “Of course. I type all my manuscripts myself.”
    “We have a typewriter here. Would you be good enough to sit at Mr. Goodwin’s desk and type something at my dictation?”
    “Why should I?” He hesitated, and was certainly being careful now. He