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

you might all of you sell out for a ten dollar bill and call it a good bargain. What have you to go on? Really nothing. The paper which George Rowley signed was entrusted to Rubber Coleman, whom you have been unable to find. The only other basis for a legal claim would be a suit by the man called Turtle-back to recover the value of his horse, and since Mr. Walsh has told us that Turtle-back was over 50 years old in 1895, he is in all likelihood dead. There are only two methods by which you can get anything out of the Marquis of Clivers; one is to attempt to establish a legal claim by virtue of contract, for which you would needa lawyer, not a detective. You have yourself already done the detective work, quite thoroughly. The other method is to attempt to scare the marquis into paying you, through threat of public exposure of his past. That is an ancient and often effective method, technically known as blackmail. It is not—”
    She interrupted him, cool but positive. “It isn’t blackmail to try to collect something from a man that he promised to pay.”
    Wolfe nodded. “It’s a nice point. Morally he owes it. But where’s the paper he signed? Anyway, let me finish. I, myself, am in a quandary. When you first told me the nature of the commission you were offering me, I was prepared to decline it without much discussion. Then another element entered in, of which you are still ignorant, which lent the affair fresh interest. Of course, interest is not enough; before that comes the question, who is going to pay me? I shall expect—”
    Mike Walsh squawked, “Ten per cent!”
    Clara Fox said, “I told you, Mr. Wolfe—”
    “Permit me. I shall expect nothing exorbitant. It happens that my bank account is at present in excellent condition, and therefore my cupidity is comparatively dormant. Still, I have a deep aversion to working without getting paid for it. I have accepted you, Miss Fox, as my client. I may depend on you?”
    She nodded impatiently. “Of course you may. What is the other element that entered in of which I am still ignorant?”
    “Oh. That.” Wolfe’s half-closed eyes took in all three faces. “At twenty-five minutes to six this evening, less than five hours ago, on Thirty-first Street near Tenth Avenue, Harlan Scovil was shot and killed.”
    Mike Walsh jerked up straight in his chair. They all gaped at Wolfe. Wolfe said:
    “He was walking along the sidewalk, and someone going by in an automobile shot him five times. He was dead when a passerby reached him. The automobile has been found, empty of course, on Ninth Avenue.”
    Clara Fox gasped incredulously, “Harlan Scovil!” Hilda Lindquist sat with her fists suddenly clenched and her lower lip pushing her upper lip toward her nose. Mike Walsh was glaring at Wolfe. He exploded suddenly:
    “Ye’re a howling idiot!”
    Wolfe’s being called an idiot twice in one evening was certainly a record. I made a note to grin when I got time. Clara Fox was saying: “But Mr. Wolfe … it can’t … how can …”
    Walsh went on exploding, “So you hear of some shooting,and you want to smell my gun? Ye’re an idiot! Of all the dirty—” He stopped himself suddenly and leaned on his hands on his knees, and his eyes narrowed. He looked pretty alert and competent for a guy seventy years old. “To hell with that. Where’s Harlan? I want to see him.”
    Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Compose yourself, Mr. Walsh. All in time. As you see, Miss Fox, this is quite a complication.”
    “It’s terrible. Why … it’s awful. He’s really
killed?
”
    Hilda Lindquist spoke suddenly. “I didn’t want to come here. I told you that. I thought it was a wild goose chase. My father made me. I mean, he’s old and sick and he wanted me to come because he thought maybe we could get enough to save the farm.”
    Wolfe nodded. “And now, of course …”
    Her square chin stuck out. “Now I’m glad I came. I’ve often heard my father talk about Harlan