Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe - Too Many Women Page 2

  “My fee will of course be determined by the amount of time spent on the case and the amount and kind of work required. No guarantee is given. No retainer is necessary unless you prefer it that way, in which case the check should be for two thousand dollars. Sincerely.” Wolfe, who always straightened up to some extent to dictate, leaned back again.

  “After lunch you can go down and give that to him.” If I had been cool before I was a glacier now. “Why lunch?” I demanded. “Why should I eat?” “Why not?” His eyes went open. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing. Not a thing. But what I start I like to finish, and this may take weeks. There are one or two other little matters that need attention around here, and there’s a bare possibility that you may find it slightly inconvenient when you buzz me or call me or grunt at me, as you do on an average of ten times an hour, and I’m not here. Or, perhaps, that hadn’t occurred to me, perhaps you’re figuring on a replacement?” “Archie,” he murmured. His murmur is Wolfe at his worst. “I agree with someone, I forget who, that no man is indispensable. By the way, you may have noticed that I suggested the same salary as you receive from me. You can either endorse their checks over to me for deposit in my bank, and take my checks weekly as usual, or just keep their checks as your pay, whichever is simpler for your bookkeeping.” “Thank you very much.” I made no attempt to speak further. His deliberate use of the plural, checks, instead of check, three times, therefore got exactly the effect he intended it to. I got out paper and carbon and inserted them, and started on the typewriter in a way that left no possible doubt whether it was noiseless or not.

  Coolness.

  CHAPTER Six

  I started work as a personnel expert for Naylor-Kerr, Inc., the next day, Wednesday morning, March 19, the next to last day of winter.

  I knew just what I had known after my first call on Pine, and no more. Tuesday afternoon, when I took him Wolfe’s letter, he was co-operative about letting me ask questions, but he couldn’t supply many answers. He liked Wolfe’s idea on procedure, and proved he was a good executive by starting immediately to execute. That was simple. All he had to do was call in an assistant vice-president, introduce me, tell him about me, and instruct him to put me on the payroll and present me personally to all heads of departments. That was accomplished Tuesday afternoon, the presentations being made in the office of the assistant vice-president, to which the department heads were summoned. I found an opportunity to drop the remark that after looking over the reports and records I thought I would start in the stock department.

  Wednesday morning I was on the job in the stock department on the thirty-fourth floor. It handed me a surprise. I had vaguely supposed it to be something on the order of an overgrown hardware store, with rows of shelves to the ceiling containing samples of things that hold bridges together and related objects, but not at all. Primarily, as far as space went, it was a room about the size of the Yankee Stadium, with hundreds of desks and girls at them. Along each side of that arena, the entire length, was a series of partitioned offices, with some of the doors closed and some open. No stock of anything was in sight anywhere.

  One good glance and I liked the job. The girls. All right there, all being paid to stay right there, and me being paid to move freely about and converse with anyone whomever, which was down in black and white. Probably after I had been there a couple of years I would find that close-ups revealed inferior individual specimens, Grade B or lower in age, contours, skin quality, voice, or level of intellect, but from where I stood at nine-fifty-two Wednesday morning it was enough to take your breath away. At least half a thousand of them, and the general and overwhelming impression was of—clean, young, healthy, friendly, spirited, beautiful, and ready. I stood and filled my eyes, trying to look detached. It was an ocean of opportunity.

  A voice at my elbow said, “I doubt very much if there’s a virgin in the room.

  Now if you’ll come to my office...” It was Kerr Naylor, the head of the stock department. I had reported to him on arrival, as arranged, and he had introduced me to a dozen or so of his assistants, heads of sections. All but two of them were men. One of them I had regarded with special interest was the head of the Correspondence Checking Section, since Waldo Wilmot Moore had been a correspondence checker, but I was careful not to give him any extra time or attention there at the start. His name was Dickerson, he could easily have been my grandfather, and his eyes watered. I gathered from our brief talk that the function of a correspondence checker was to mosey around, pounce and grab a letter when the whim seized him, take it to the checkers’ office, and give it the works on content, tone, policy, style, and mechanical execution. So it could safely be assumed that his popularity quotient around the place would be about the same as that of an MP in the army, and that was bad. It presented the possibility that any letter-dictator or stenographer in the department might have felt like murdering Moore, including those who had lost their jobs—and the turnover had been twenty-eight per cent. For one man to sort out the whole haystack, a straw at a time, was not my idea of the pursuit of happiness, but it did have its good points as suggested above.

  Kerr Naylor’s office was also a corner room, but was considerably more modest in every respect than the president’s, two floors up. One whole wall was behind ceiling high filing cabinets, and there were piles of papers around on tables and even two of the chairs. After we were seated, him at his desk and me at one end of it, I asked him: “Why, do you refuse to hire virgins?” “What?” Then he tittered. “Oh, that was just a remark. No, Mr. Truett, this office has no prejudice against virgins. I merely doubt if there are any. Now how do you want to begin?” His voice matched his appearance. The voice was a thin tenor, and while he was not a pygmy they had been all out of large sizes the day he was outfitted. Also they had been low on pigments. His skin had no color at all, and the only thing that made it reasonable to suppose there was anybody at home inside it was the eyes. They too were without color, but they had a sharp dancing glint that wasn’t just on the surface but came from behind, deep.

  “This first day,” I said, “I guess I’ll just poke around and get my directions straight. No virgins at all? Who has picked all the flowers? You might as well call me Pete. Everybody does.” The name I had chosen to be introduced by was Peter Truett, liking the implication of the first syllable of the Truett. Pine had thought my own, Archie Goodwin, might be familiar to someone. I went back to virgins again because I wanted to keep the talk going to get acquainted with this bird. But apparently it had really been just a remark and the virgin question had not come to a boil in him, as it often does with men over fifty, for he ignored it and said: “As I understand it you are going to study the whole employee problem, past, present, and future. If you want to start with a specific case and spread out from there, I suggest the name of Waldo Wilmot Moore. He was with us last year, from April eighth to December fourth—a correspondence checker. He was murdered.”

  The glint in his eyes danced out at me and went back in again. I kept my own face under control, in spite of his splashing it out like that, but it is only natural and proper for anyone to betray a gleam of interest in murder, so I let one show.

  My brows went up. “Gosh,” I said, “no one told me it had gone that far.

  Murdered? Right here?” “No no, not on the premises, up on Thirty-ninth Street at night. He was run over by a car. His head was smashed flat.” Mr. Naylor tittered, or maybe it wasn’t a titter but only a nerve untwisting somewhere in the network. “I was one of those requested to come and identify him, at the morgue, and I can tell you it was a strange experience—like trying to identify something you have known only as a round object, for instance an orange, after it has been compressed to make two plane surfaces. It was extremely interesting, but I wouldn’t care to try it again.” “Could you identify him?” “Oh, certainly. There was no question about that.” “Why do you say murdered? Did they catch the guy and hang it on him?” “No. I understand that the police regard it as an
accident—what they call a hit-and-run.” “Then it wasn’t murder. Technically.” Naylor smiled at me. His neat little mouth wasn’t designed for anything expansive, but it was certainly meant for a smile, though it went as quick as it came. “Mr. Truett,” he said, “if we are to work together we should understand each other. I am rather perceptive, and it would probably surprise you to know how much I understand of you already. One little fact about me, I have always been a student of languages, and I am extraordinarily meticulous in my choice of words. I detest euphemisms and circumlocutions, and I am acquainted with all the verbs, including those of the argots, which mean to cause the death of. What did I say happened to this man Moore?” “You said he was murdered.” “Very well. That’s what I meant.” “Okay, Mr. Naylor, but I like words too.” I had a strong feeling that no matter what his reason had been for tossing this at me right off the bat, if I fielded it right I might at least end the inning, and possibly the game, that first morning. I tried. I grinned at him. “I have always been fond of words,” I declared. “I never got worse than B in grammar, clear to the eighth grade. Not that it’s any hide off of me, but since we’re speaking of words, when you say Moore was murdered I take it to mean that the driver of the car knew it was Moore, wanted him dead or at least hurt, and aimed the car at him. Doesn’t it come down to that?” Naylor was looking up at the wall behind me. His eyes stayed that way, with no glint showing because they were upraised, until I twisted my neck to see what he was looking at. All that was there was a clock. I untwisted back to him, and his gaze came down to my level.

  He smiled again. “Twenty minutes past ten,” he said resentfully. “I understand, Mr. Truett, that Mr. Pine has hired you to survey our personnel problems. What do you think he would say if he knew you were sitting here at your ease, prolonging a discussion of a murder which has no possible connection with your job?” The damn little squirt. The only satisfactory way to field that one would have been to pick him up and use him for a dust rag. Under the circumstances that satisfaction would have to be postponed. I swallowed it, stood up, and grinned down at him.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’m a great talker. It was nice of you to listen. Why don’t you put through a voucher in triplicate, or however you do it, docking me for an hour? I deserve it, I really do.” I left. If the “uh, complexities” that Pine had mentioned included a desire on the part of his brother executives and him to tie a can to Kerr Naylor’s tail, I was all for it. He sure was tricky and mean. He had me so sore that I went from his office straight to the main arena, took a random course through the labyrinth of desks, glancing in all directions at faces, shoulders, and arms, and took my time picking one who had probably been a Powers model and got fired because she made all her colleagues look below standard.

  I sat on the corner of her desk and she looked up at me with the clear blue eyes of an angel and a virgin.

  I leaned to her. “My name is Peter Truett,” I told her, “and I’ve been hired as a personnel expert. If your section head hasn’t told you about me...” “He has,” she said, in a sweet musical voice, a contralto, which is my favorite.

  “Then please tell me, have you heard any gossip recently about a man named Moore? Waldo Wilmot Moore? Did you know him when he worked here?” She shook her head. “I’m awfully sorry,” she said, sweeter than before if anything, “but I only started here day before yesterday, and I’m leaving on Friday. Just because I can’t spell! I never could spell.” Her lovely fingers were resting on my knee and her eyes were going straight to my heart. “Mr.

  Truman, do you know of any job where you don’t have to spell?” I forget exactly how I got away.

  CHAPTER Seven

  I had been assigned a room of my own, about the right size for an Irish setter but not big enough for a Great Dane, about midway of the row of offices that ran along the uptown side of the arena. It contained a cute little desk, three chairs, and a filing cabinet with a lock to which I had been given the key.

  Apparently there were nothing but shanties across the street, since the window had space outside, and if you took it at a slant there was a good view of the East River.

  I went there and sat.

  It seemed I had breezed into something with insufficient consideration of strategy and tactics. As a result I had already pulled two boners. When Kerr Naylor had unexpectedly jumped the gun by shoving Moore and murder at me, I should have shrugged it off as a man with a single-track stomach and no appetite for anything but personnel problems. And when he side-stepped and caught me off balance, I should have backed clear up and looked it over, instead of getting peeved and spilling Moore’s name to a vision of delight that couldn’t spell. I was too exuberant.

  On the other hand, I certainly didn’t intend to spend a week or so just getting myself established as a personnel expert. I sat there through two cigarettes, thinking it over, and then went and unlocked the filing cabinet and got out a couple of the folders I had stowed there. On one of them the tab said STOCK DEPARTMENT—STRUCTURAL METALS SECTION/font>, and on the other STOCK DEPARTMENT—CORRESPONDENCE CHECKERS SECTION. With the folders under my arm, I emerged to the arena, crossed it by a main traffic aisle, and knocked at the door of an office on the other side. When a voice told me to come in I entered.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “you’re busy.” Mr. Rosenbaum, the head of the Structural Metals Section, was a middle-aged, bald-headed guy with black-rimmed glasses. He waved me on in.

  “So what,” he said without a question mark. “If I ever dictated a letter without being interrupted I’d lose my train of thought. No one ever knocks around here, you just bust in. Sit down. I’ll ring later, Miss Livsey. This is the Mr. Truett mentioned in that memo we sent around. Miss Hester Livsey, my secretary, Mr.

  Truett.” I was wondering how I had ever missed her, even in that colossal swarm outside, until it struck me that a section head’s secretary probably had her own room.

  She was not at all spectacular, not to be compared with my non-speller, but there were two things about her that hit you at a glance. You got the instant impression that there was something beautiful about her that no one but you would ever see, and along with it the feeling that she was in some kind of trouble, real trouble, that no one but you would understand and no one but you could help her out of. If that sounds too complicated for a two-second-take, okay, I was there and I remember it distinctly.

  She went out with her notebook and I sat down.

  “Thanks for letting me horn in,” I told Rosenbaum, taking papers from the folder. “It won’t take long. I just want to ask a few general questions and one or two specific ones about these reports. You people have certainly got this thing organized to a T, with your sections and sub-sections. It must simplify things.” He agreed that it did. “Of course,” he added, “it gets mixed up sometimes. I’m Structural Metals, but right now I’ve got thirty-seven elephants in stock, over in Africa, and I can’t get any other section to take them. My basic position is that elephants are nonmetallic. I may have to go up to Mr. Naylor to get rid of them.” “Hah,” I said triumphantly, “so that’s where your stock is, Africa! And elephants. I’ve been wondering. With that settled, let’s tackle personnel.

  Speaking of which, I noticed that your secretary, Miss Livsey, didn’t seem to be wading through bliss. I hope she’s not quitting too?” That proved she had had that effect on me as described, my going out of my way to mention her name, with no reason at all.

  “Bliss?” Rosenbaum shook his head. “No, I guess she isn’t. The man she was engaged to died a few months ago. Got killed in an accident.” He shook his head again. “If it’s a part of your job to make our employees happy, I’m afraid you won’t get to first base with Miss Livsey. She’s a damn good secretary too. If I had that hit-and-run driver here I’d—do something to him.” “I’d be glad to help,” I said sympathetically. I riffled the papers. “The man she was engaged to—is he among these? Did he work here?” “Yes, but not in my section. He was a corresp
ondence checker. It was an awful blow for her, and she stayed away—but here I go again, you’re not here to listen to me gab. What are your questions, Mr. Truett?” Since I had quit being exuberant I decided not to press it, only it did seem that wherever I went I met Waldo Wilmot Moore. We got down to business. I had questions ready that I thought were good enough to keep me from being spotted as a phony, and I stayed with him a good twenty minutes, which seemed ample for the purpose.

  Then I went down the line to the office of the head of the Correspondence Checkers Section. The door was standing open and he was there alone.

  Grandpa Dickerson was by no means too old or too watery-eyed to know the time of day. As soon as the preliminary courtesies had been performed and I had sat down and got the folder opened, he inquired, perfectly friendly: “I’m wondering, Mr. Truett, why you start with me?” “Well—you’re not the first, Mr. Dickerson. I’ve just had a session with Mr.

  Rosenbaum. Incidentally, there’s a special problem there: are elephants personnel?” But he wasn’t having light conversation. “Even so,” he said, “I have the smallest number of employees of any section in the department. Only six men, whereas other sections have up to a hundred. Also, I have had no turnover; for nearly eight years, except one case, a man who got killed and was replaced. I’m quite willing to co-operate, but I really don’t see what you can do with me.” I nodded at him. “You’re perfectly right—from where you sit. From the standpoint of general personnel problems you’re out. But your section is something special.

  Everybody in the place regards your six men as dirty lowdown snoops, and you’re the Master Snoop.” It didn’t feeze him. He merely nodded back at me. “How do you propose to change that?” “Oh, I don’t. But it certainly ties it in with personnel difficulties. For instance, the man that got killed. Don’t you know there has been talk around that his death wasn’t an accident?” “Nonsense! Talk!” He tapped on his desk blotter. “Look here, young man, are you intimating that the functioning of this section has been the cause, directly or indirectly, of the commission of a crime?” “Yes.” His jaw trembled, and then came open and hung open. I was restraining myself from taking my handkerchief and wiping his eyes.