Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 41 by The Doorbell Rang

happen to. Licensing Services, State Department, State of New York. Two-seventy Broadway.”
    “You would. I won’t string it out. The FBI wants Perazzo to take Wolfe’s license, and yours. Perazzo wants the Commissioner to give him whatever we’ve got on you. The Commissioner knows that for years I have had—uh—contacts with you, and he wants a full report, in writing. You know what reports are, it depends on who’s writing them. Before I write this one I want to know what Wolfe has done or is doing to get the FBI on his neck. I want the whole picture.”
    When you are shown something that needs a good look it helps to have your hands doing something, like lighting a cigarette, but I don’t smoke, or blowing your nose. I picked up the carton of milk, pried the flap open, and poured, carefully. One thing was obvious. He could have either phoned me to come to his office, or have come to Wolfe’s house, but he hadn’t because he suspected that our line was tapped and the house was watched. Therefore he didn’t want the FBI to know that he was making contact, and he had gone to a lot of trouble to make it. He was telling me about the FBI and Perazzo and the Commissioner, which was ridiculous for a police inspector talking to a private detective. Therefore he didn’t want us to lose our licenses, and therefore something was biting him, and it was desirable to find out what it was. In such a situation, before spilling it, especially to a cop, I should ring Wolfe and put it up to him, but that was out. My standing instructionswere that in any emergency I was to use my intelligence guided by experience.
    I did so. I sipped some milk, put the glass down, and said, “If you can break a rule so can I. It’s like this.”
    I gave him the whole crop—the talk with Mrs. Bruner, the hundred-grand retainer, the evening with Lon Cohen, my talk with Mrs. Bruner and Sarah Dacos, my day on Evers Electronics and Ernst Muller and Julia Fenster, my sleeping on the couch in the office. I didn’t report it all verbatim, but I covered all the points and answered questions along the way. By the time I finished the milk glass was empty and he had a cigar between his teeth. He doesn’t smoke cigars, he merely mangles them.
    He removed the cigar and said, “So the hundred grand is his, no matter what happens.”
    I nodded. “And a check for me, personally. Didn’t I mention that?”
    “You did. I’m not surprised at Wolfe. With his ego, there’s no one and nothing he wouldn’t take on if you paid him. But I’m surprised at you. You know damn well the FBI can’t be bucked. Not even by the White House. And you’re hopping around pecking at people’s scabs. You’re asking for it and you’ll get it. You’re off
your
hinges.”
    I poured milk. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “From any angle, you’re dead right. An hour ago I would have said amen. But you know, I feel different about it now. Did I mention something Mr. Wolfe said last night? He said some sting may have stirred someone to action. All right, they were stung into needling Perazzo, and he was stung into calling the Commissioner, and he was stung into calling you, and you were stung into getting me here without company and treating me to a quart of milk, which is completely incredible.If one incredible thing can happen, so can another one. Will you answer a question?”
    “Ask it.”
    “You don’t exactly love Nero Wolfe, and you certainly don’t love me. Why do you want to make a report to the Commissioner that will make it tough to take our licenses?”
    “I haven’t said I do.”
    “Nuts.” I tapped the milk carton. “This says it. Getting me here the way you did says it. Why?”
    He left the chair and moved. He tiptoed to the door, smooth and silent considering his age and bulk, jerked the door open, and stuck his head out. Evidently he wasn’t as sure he was loose as I was that I was. He shut the door and went to the bathroom, and I heard