The Rubber Band by Rex Stout Page A

quiet, but I kept him tight.
    He said, “It’s me now, is it?”
    Wolfe spoke across the room at him. “You called me an idiot, Mr. Walsh. I return the compliment. What is worse, you are hot-headed. But you are an old man, so there is humanity’s debt to you. You may go where you please, but I must warn you that every step you take may be a dangerous step.
    Furthermore, when you talk, every word may be dangerous not only to you but to Miss Fox and Miss Lindquist. I strongly advise you to adopt the precautions—”
    “I’ll do me own precautions.”
    “Mike!” Clara Fox came, her hand out. “Mike, you can’t be thinking …what Mr. Wolfe says is right. Don’t desert us now. Turn him loose, Mr. Goodwin. Shake hands, Mike.”
    He shook his head. “Did you see him grab me, and all I was doing was walking out on me own feet? I hate the damn detectives and always have, and what was he doing at your office? And if you’re my enemy, Clara Fox, God help you, and if not then you can be my friend. Not now. When he turns me loose I’ll be going.”
    Wolfe said, “Release him, Archie. Good night, Mr. Walsh.”
    I let my muscles go and stepped back, Mike Walsh put a hand up to feel his ribs, turned to look at me, and then to Wolfe. He said, “But I’m no idiot. Show me that back way.”
    Clara Fox begged him, “Don’t go. Mike.”
    He didn’t answer her. I started for the kitchen, and he followed me after stopping in the hall for his hat and coat. I told Fred to see him through the court and the fence and the passage leading to 34th Street, and switched on the basement light for them. I stood and watched them go down. I hadn’t cared much for Wolfe’s hot number anyhow, and now it looked like worse than a flop, with that wild Irishman in his old age going out to do his own precautions. But I hadn’t argued about letting him go, because I knew that kind as well as Wolfe did and maybe better.
    When I went back to the office Clara Fox was still standing up. She asked, “Did he really go?”
    I nodded. “With bells on.”
    “Do you think he meant what he said?” She turned to Wolfe. “I don’t think he meant it at all. He was just angry and frightened and sony. I know how he felt. He felt that Harlan Scovil was killed because we started this business, and now he doesn’t want to go away and hide. I don’t either. I don’t want to run away.”
    “Then it is lucky you won’t have to.” Wolfe emptied his glass, returned it to the tray, and slid the tray around to the other side of the pen block. That meant that he had decided he had had enough beer for the day, and therefore that he would probably open only one more bottle before going upstairs, provided he went fairly soon. He sighed. “You understand, Miss Fox, this is something unprecedented. It has been many years since any woman has slept under this roof. Not that I disapprove of them, except when they attempt to function as domestic animals. When they stick to the vocations for which they are best adapted, such as chicanery, sophistry, self-adornment, cajolery, mystification and incubation, they are sometimes splendid creatures. Anyhow … you will find our south room, directly above mine, quite comfortable. I may add that I am foolishly fond of good form, good color, and fine texture, and I have good taste in those matters. It is a pleasure to look at you.
    You have unusual beauty. I say that to inform you that while the idea of a woman sleeping in my house is theoretically insupportable, in this case I am willing to put up with it.”
    “Thank you. Then I’m to hide here?”
    “You are. You must keep to your room, with the curtains drawn. Elaborate circumspection will be necessary and will be explained to you. Mr. Goodwin will attend to that. Should your stay be prolonged, it may be that you can join us in the dining room for meals; eating from a tray is an atrocious insult both to the food and the feeder; and in that case, luncheon is punctually at