Zoltan opened his mouth and closed it again. “Yes,” he said.
VIII
Sergeant Purley Stebbins shifted his fanny for the nth time in two hours. “She’s not coming,” he muttered. “It’s nearly eight o’clock.” His chair was about half big enough for his personal dimensions.
We were squeezed in a corner of the kitchen of John Piotti’s little restaurant on 14th Street between Second and Third Avenues. On the midget table between us were two notebooks, his and mine, and a small metal case. Of the three cords extending from the case, the two in front went to the earphones we had on, and the one at the back ran down the wall, through the floor, along the basement ceiling toward the front, back up through the floor, and on through a table top, where it was connected to a microphone hidden in a bowl of artificial flowers. The installation, a rush order, had cost Wolfe $191.67. Permission to have it made had cost him nothing because he had once got John Piotti out of a difficulty and hadn’t soaked him beyond reason.
“We’ll have to hang on,” I said. “You never can tell with a redhead.”
The exposed page of my notebook was blank, but Purley had written on his. As follows:
It was in my head. If I had had to write it down I would certainly have made one “p.m.” do, but policemen are trained to do things right.
“Anyhow,” Purley said, “we know damn well who it is.”
“Don’t count your poisoners,” I said, “before they’re hatched.” It was pretty feeble, but I was tired and still short on sleep.
I hoped to heaven he was right, since otherwise the operation was a flop. So far everything had been fine. After half an hour of rehearsing Zoltan had been wonderful. He had made the five calls from the extension in my room, and when he was through I told him his name should be in lights on a Broadway marquee. The toughest job had been getting Inspector Cramer to agree to Wolfe’s terms, but he had no good answer to Wolfe’s argument that if he insisted on changing the rules Zoltan wouldn’t play. So Purley was in the kitchen with me, Cramer was with Wolfe in the office, prepared to stay for dinner, Zoltan was at the restaurant table with the hidden mike, and two homicide dicks, one male and one female, were at another table twenty feet away. One of the most elaborate charades Wolfe had ever staged.
Purley was right when he said we knew who it was, but I was right too — she hadn’t been hatched yet. The reactions to Zoltan’s calls had settled it. Helen Iacono had been indignant and after a couple of minutes had hung up on him, and had immediately phoned the District Attorney’s office. Peggy Choate had let him finish his spiel and then called him a liar, but she had not said definitely that she wouldn’t meet him, and the DA or police hadn’t heard from her. Carol Annis, after he had spoken his lines, had used only ten words: “Where can I meet you?” and after he had told her where and when: “All right, I’ll be there.” Lucy Morgan had coaxed him along, trying to get him to fill it all in on the phone, had finally said she would keep the appointment, and then had rushed downtown and rung our doorbell, told me her tale, demanded that I accompany her to the rendezvous, and insisted on seeing Wolfe. I had to promise to go to get rid of her. Nora Jaret had called him assorted names, from liar on up, or on down, and had told him she had a friend listening in on an extension, which was almost certainly a lie. Neither we nor the law had heard a peep from her.
So it was Carol Annis with the corn-silk hair, that was plain enough, but there was no salt on her tail. If she was really smart and really tough she might decide to sit tight and not come, figuring that when they came at her with Zoltan’s story she would say he was either mistaken or lying, and we would be up a stump. If she was dumb and only fairly tough she might scram. Of course they would find her and haul her back, but if she said Zoltan was lying and she had run because she thought she was being framed, again we would be up a stump. But if she was both smart and tough but not quite enough of either, she would turn up at nine o’clock and join Zoltan. From there on it would be up to him, but that had been rehearsed too, and after his performance on the phone I thought he would deliver.
At half past eight Purley said, “She’s not coming,” and removed his earphone.
“I never thought she would,” I said. The “she” was of course Peggy Choate, whose hour had been seven-thirty. “I said you never can tell with a redhead merely to make conversation.”
Purley signaled to Piotti, who had been hovering around most of the time, and he brought us a pot of coffee and two fresh cups. The minutes were snails, barely moving. When we had emptied the cups I poured more. At 8:48 Purley put his earphone back on. At 8:56 I asked, “Shall I do a count down?”
“You’d clown in the hot seat,” he muttered, so hoarse that it was barely words. He always gets hoarser as the tension grows; that’s the only sign.
It was four minutes past nine when the phone brought me the sound of a chair scraping, then faintly Zoltan’s voice saying good evening, and then a female voice, but I couldn’t get the words.
“Not loud enough,” Purley whispered hoarsely.
“Shut up.” I had my pen out. “They’re standing up.”
There came the sound of chairs scraping, and other little sounds, and then:
Zoltan: Will you have a drink?
Carol: No. I don’t want anything.
Zoltan: Won’t you eat something?
Carol: I don’t feel... maybe I will.
Purley and I exchanged glances. That was promising. That sounded as if we might get more than conversation.
Another female voice, belonging to Mrs. Piotti: We have good Osso Buco, madame. Very good. A specialty.
Carol: No, not meat.
Zoltan: A sweet perhaps?
Carol: No.
Zoltan: It is more friendly if we eat. The spaghetti with anchovy sauce is excellent. I had some.
Carol: You had some?
I bit my lip, but he handled it fine.
Zoltan: I’ve been here half an hour, I wanted so much to see you. I thought I should order something, and I tried that. I might even eat another portion.
Carol: You should know good food. All right.
Mrs. Piotti: Two spaghetti anchovy. Wine? A very good Chianti?
Carol: No. Coffee.
Pause.
Zoltan: You are more lovely without a veil, but the veil is good too. It makes me want to see behind it. Of course I—
Carol: You have seen behind it, Mr. Mahany.
Zoltan: Ah! You know my name?
Carol: It was in the paper.
Zoltan: I am not sorry that you know it, I want you to know my name, but it will be nicer if you call me Zoltan.
Carol: I might some day. It will depend. I certainly won’t call you Zoltan if you go on thinking what you said on the phone. You’re mistaken, Mr. Mahany. You didn’t see me go back for another plate, because I didn’t. I can’t believe you would tell a vicious lie about me, so I just think you’re mistaken.