“No, it’s in the rear. I’m at the front.”
“Did you hear any unusual sounds that evening between eight and nine o’clock?”
“No. The first unusual sounds were after the police came.”
“I presume Mr. Whipple knew that you lived there, on the floor above. He told me that he stayed in the apartment until the police arrived — more than half an hour after he discovered the body. It might be thought that at that crisis the impulse to confer with an associate, a friend, so near at hand, would be irresistible. But he didn’t?”
“No, he didn’t. I’m glad he didn’t.”
“Why glad?”
“Because I know — I think I would have gone down and put my fingerprints on the club.”
“Pfui. You think he would have let you?”
“He wouldn’t have known. He would have stayed in my room.”
“Then I’m as glad as you are that he didn’t go to you. This job is knotty enough without that. Archie, the glasses are empty.”
As I went to the bar for a bottle of beer and took it to him, a couple of them made remarks that can be skipped, and Miss Kallman got up to help. They all took refills except Miss Tiger. Her glass was still two-thirds full, with the ice gone, but she didn’t even want more ice. By the time the others had been served, Henchy had downed most of his refill, and I put the bourbon bottle on the stand between him and Oster, and he emptied his glass, picked up the bottle, and poured. It was twelve-year-old Big Sandy, which is worth stealing a little time for. As for me, I went to the kitchen and got a glass of milk. I would like to be loyal to Miss Tiger and say that what she didn’t want I didn’t want, but the truth is that ever since the time I missed an important point because I had had four martinis to be sociable I have limited myself to one dose when I’m working. When I returned to the office with the milk, Oster was speaking:
“...so I didn’t object, but it was immaterial. What does it matter who knew of the phone call or the message? Say I saw the message on Whipple’s desk. I would know that he probably wouldn’t be at the apartment until nine o’clock, but I would also know that Susan wouldn’t either. Therefore I wouldn’t go there at eight o’clock, to see her or kill her before Whipple came. Therefore it’s immaterial.”
Wolfe nodded and put his glass down. “Obviously, if it were that simple, but it isn’t. The telling point is that if you saw the message you knew it was fairly certain that Whipple wouldn’t arrive until around nine o’clock. During the two hours between six and eight you might have learned — no matter how, there are various possibilities — that Miss Brooke had changed her plans and would get there earlier. You might even have met her, by design or accident, and gone to the apartment with her on some pretext.”
“Possible.” Oster pursed his lips, considering it, then jerked his chin up, and I thought he had decided to take charge. But he only said, “Are you going to ignore the fact that someone besides Miss Tiger knew about the message?”
“No. I was keeping that for later, but if you want it now...” Wolfe’s eyes went right. “He means you, of course, Miss Jordan. You left the office at five-thirty. How did you spend the next three hours?”
There was a flash in her eyes that I didn’t know she had. “I didn’t spend it killing anybody,” she snapped.
“Good. Nor, I hope, at any other mischief. You must have told the police; why not tell me? Miss Tiger did.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you. What I told them. I stopped at three places on the way home to buy some things — a book, and stockings, and cream and bread and pickles — and went home and cooked my supper, and ate it, and read the book until I went to bed.”
“What book?”
“The Group. By Mary McCarthy.”
Wolfe made a face. He had read two chapters and ditched it. “Where do you live?”
“I have a little apartment on Forty-seventh Street near Lexington Avenue. I’m alone in the world.”
“At least you’re aware of it. Many people aren’t. Now, madam, a point we haven’t dealt with yet. What is your feeling about a Negro marrying a white woman?”
The flash again. “That’s none of your business.”
“My personal business, no. But it’s of urgent concern to me as the man hired by Mr. Whipple to find out who killed Susan Brooke. If you have a reason to refuse to answer, I—”
“I have no reason. It’s impertinent, that’s all. Everyone at the ROCC knows how I feel about it, and other people too. Anyone has a right to marry anyone. It’s a right Marrying the woman of your choice or the man of your choice is a God-given right.”
“Then you didn’t resent the relationship between Mr. Whipple and Miss Brooke?”
“It was none of my business. Except I thought if she married him all her money would be devoted to the cause, and that would be wonderful.”
“We all thought that,” Cass Faison said. “Or nearly all.”
“Not me,” Adam Ewing said. “I’m the exception. From the public-relations viewpoint, I thought it would be unwise. I knew it would be. I can say here exactly how I feel, I’ve said it to bigger crowds than this, and some of them mixed. Sex and money are at the bottom of all the opposition to civil rights, just as they’re at the bottom of everything else. Black and white marrying is like a red rag to a bull.” He gestured. “But I wouldn’t kill a woman to stop it. I’m not a killer. Let the opposition do the killing.”
“I’m an exception too,” Beth Tiger said. “I didn’t think it would be wonderful.”
“You agree with Mr. Ewing?”
“That’s not it. I just say I didn’t think it would be wonderful. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Miss Kallman?”
Rae Kallman shook her head but didn’t open her mouth.
“Does that mean you disapproved?”
“No. It means I said to Susan what I had to say. She was the only one I had any right to say it to, and she’s dead. The police couldn’t drag it out of me, and neither can you.”
“Then I won’t try. Mr. Henchy?”
He cleared his throat. If I had been with him on the bourbon, I would have had to clear mine twice. “On the whole, I approved. Marriage is a very personal matter, but insofar as the interests of the organization were concerned I was in agreement with Mr. Faison. I thought the advantages would outweigh the disadvantages. In my position I must be realistic. Miss Brooke was a very wealthy woman.” He reached for his glass.
“And you, Mr. Oster?”
The lawyer cocked his head. “You know, Wolfe, I’m sitting here taking it in. I’m giving you all the rope you want. But asking me how I feel about a Negro marrying a white woman — how remote can you get? I’ll send you a copy of a magazine with an article I wrote four years ago. Every civilized strain of mankind on earth is the result of interbreeding. Evidently nature approves of it, so I do. I’m not going to indict nature.”
“You had no special feeling about this particular instance?”
“Certainly not.”
Wolfe poured beer, emptying the bottle. He put it down and looked left and right. “I admit,” he said, “that much of what has been said has probably been a waste of time. I hope it has, for in spite of Miss Jordan’s conviction I will not discard the guess that the telephone call was not made by Miss Brooke. I like it; its attractions are many and manifest.” His eyes settled on my assistant bartender. “Miss Kallman, you said that Miss Brooke had a five-o’clock meeting that day. Do you know where it was to be held?”
“It was at NYU, but I don’t know which building or room.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes, easily.”
“And the names of some of the people who were there?”