Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 41 by The Doorbell Rang Page B

stranded at some wild and lonely spot in the Long Island jungle even if I had been driving.
    It took will power to fasten my mind on the Frank Odell caper, which was merely a stab in the dark blindfolded, ordered by Wolfe only because he preferred the second of the three alternatives. Where my mind wanted to be was on Long Island. In all my experience of Wolfe’s arrangements of circumstances I had never known him to concoct anything as tricky as the programhe was going to rope Lewis Hewitt in for, and I should have been there. Genius is fine for the ignition spark, but to get there someone has to see that the radiator doesn’t leak and no tire is flat. I would have insisted on going if it hadn’t been for Saul Panzer. Wolfe had said that Saul would sit in, and he is the one man I would turn any problem over to if I broke a leg.
    I forced my mind onto Frank Odell. The obvious thing was to ring the New York State Parole Division and ask if they had him listed. But of course not on our phone. If the FBI knew that we were spending time and money on Odell after what Quayle had said about him, they would know it wasn’t just prudence, that we thought there was actually a chance that he was involved, and that wouldn’t do. I decided to play it absolutely safe. If some G-man reads this and thinks I’m overrating his outfit, he isn’t inside far enough to know all the family secrets. I’m not inside at all, but I’ve been around a lot.
    After going to the kitchen to tell Fritz I was leaving and to the hall for my coat and hat, I let myself out, walked to Tenth Avenue and on to the garage, got permission from Tom Halloran to use the phone, dialed the
Gazette
number, and got Lon Cohen. He was discreet. He didn’t ask me how we were making out with Mrs. Bruner and the FBI. He did ask if I knew where he could get a bottle of brandy.
    “I might send you one someday,” I said, “if you earn it. You can start now. About two years ago a man named Frank Odell was sent up for fraud. If he behaved himself and got a reduction he may be out and on the parole list. I’ve gone in for social work and I want to find him, quick, and rehabilitate him. You can get me, the sooner the better, at this number.” I gave it to him. “I’mkeeping my social work secret, so please don’t mention it.”
    He said an hour should do it, and I went out to the floor to give motor vehicles a look. Wolfe buys a new one every year, thinking that reduces the risk of a collapse, which it doesn’t, and he leaves the choice to me. I have been tempted to get a Rolls, but it would be a shame to ditch it after only a year. That day there was nothing on the floor I would have traded the Heron for. Tom and I were discussing the dashboard of a 1965 Lincoln when the phone rang and I went. It was Lon, and he had it. Frank Odell had been released in August and would be on parole until the end of February. He lived at 2553 Lamont Avenue, Bronx, and he had a job at a branch of the Driscoll Renting Agency at 4618 Grand Concourse. Lon said that a good way to start rehabilitating him would be to get him in a poker game, and I said I thought craps would be better.
    I decided to take the subway instead of a taxi, not to save the client money, but because I thought it was about time to do something about tails. There had been two days and nights since the FBI had presumably got interested in us, and twenty-five hours since they had asked Perazzo to take our licenses, and I still had seen no sign that I had company. Of course I had dodged or hadn’t looked. I now decided to look, but not while walking. I waited until I was at the Grand Central subway station and had boarded an uptown express.
    If you think you have a tail on a subway train and want to spot him you keep moving while the train is under way, and at each station you stand close enough to a door so that you might get off. At a rush hour it’s difficult, but it was ten-thirty in the morning and we were going