The Rubber Band/The Red Box 2-In-1 by Rex Stout Page A

apartment with a key, he stopped me to ask questions, and I answered what occurred to me. He stayed out in the hall and I locked the door on the inside. I went through the place. The package isn’t there. I came out and the detective followed me downstairs to the sidewalk. I phoned from a drug store. I don’t think he tried to follow me, but I made sure it didn’t work if he did.”
    Wolfe nodded. “Satisfactory. And your bundle?”
    Saul got the box from under his arm and put it on the desk. “I guess it’s flowers. It has a name on it, Drummond, the Park Avenue florist. It was on the floor of the hall right at the door of the apartment, apparently been delivered, addressed Miss Clara Fox. My instructions were to search only the apartment, so I hesitated to open this box, because it wasn’t in the apartment. But I didn’t want to leave it there, because it was barely possible that what you want was in it. So I brought it along.”
    “Good. Satisfactory again. May we open it, Miss Fox?”
    “Certainly.”
    I got up to help. Saul and I pulled off the fancy gray tape and took the lid off. Standing, we were the only ones who could see in. I said:
    “It’s a thousand roses.”
    Clara Fox jumped up to look. I reached in the box and picked up an envelope and took a card from the envelope. I squinted at it—it was scrawly writing—and read it out:
    “Francis Horrocks?”
    She nodded. “That’s my acquaintance. The man that ejected me from the Marquis of Clivers. He’s a young diplomat with a special knowledge of the Far East. Aren’t they beautiful? Look, Hilda. Smell. They are
very
nice.” She carried them to Wolfe. “Aren’t they a beautiful color, Mr. Wolfe? Smell.” She looked at Mike Walsh, but he was asleep again, so she put the box back on the desk and sat down.
    Wolfe was rubbing his nose which she had tickled with the roses. “Saul. Take those to the kitchen and have Fritz put them in water. Remain there. You must see my orchids, Miss Fox, but that can wait. Mr. Walsh! Archie, wake him, please.”
    I reached out and gave Walsh a dig, and he jerked up and glared at me. He protested, “Hey! It’s too warm in here. I’m never as warm as this after supper.”
    Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “If you please, Mr. Walsh. Miss Fox has been giving us some details, such as your recognition of the Marquis of Clivers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “Sure.” Walsh pulled the tips of his fingers across his eyes, and stretched his eyes open. “What about it?”
    “Did you recognize the Marquis of Clivers as George Rowley?”
    “Sure I did. Who says I didn’t?”
    “As yet, no one. Are you positive it was the same man?”
    “Yes. I told you at the table, I’m always positive.”
    “So you did. Among other things. You told me that through ancient habit, and on your post as a night watchman, you carry a gun. You also told me that you suspected Harlan Scovil of being an Englishman, and that all English blood was bad blood. Do you happen to have your gun with you? Could I see it?”
    “I’ve got a license.”
    “Of course. Could I see it? Just as a favor?”
    Walsh growled something to himself, but after a moment’s hesitation he leaned forward and reached to his hip and pulled out a gat. He looked at it, and rubbed his left palm caressingly over the barrel, and then got up and poked the butt at Wolfe. Wolfe took it, glanced at it, and held it out to me. I gave it a mild inspection. It was an old Folwell .44. It was loaded, the cylinder full, and there was no smell of any recent activity around the muzzle. I glanced at Wolfe and caught his little nod, and returned the cannon to Mike Walsh, who caressed it again before he put it back in his pocket.
    Clara Fox said, “Who’s wasting time now, Mr. Wolfe? You haven’t told us yet—”
    Wolfe stopped her. “Don’t begin again, Miss Fox. Please. Give me a chance to earn my share of that million. Though I must confess that my opinion is that