“I can tell you one name now. Bill Magnus. William Magnus. I have his address and phone number at the office. He could give you other names. I saw him last week. Many people have wanted to see me, since Susan—”
“The meeting took place and Miss Brooke was there?”
“Yes.”
“Can Mr. Goodwin call you in the morning and get Mr. Magnus’s address?”
“I had better call him. I’m never sure just when I’ll be there.”
“Will you do so?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ve talked with Magnus,” Oster said. “So have the police, naturally. You won’t get anything conclusive, one way or the other.”
Wolfe was swallowing beer. It was turning into a big beer night, three bottles instead of the usual one or two. He put the glass down and licked his lips. “There’s always a chance of a hint, and Mr. Goodwin is good at hints. I can’t say about you, but the police were surely satisfied to have it that Miss Brooke made that call, and I am not. If there’s any—”
The phone rang, and I turned and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s resi—”
“Saul, Archie. I’ve got a slice of maybe bacon.”
“We could use some. We have company. Hold it.”
“Sure.”
I pressed a button, rose, detoured around the chairs, passing only eight inches from Miss Tiger’s shoulder, went to the kitchen, and got at the phone on my breakfast table.
“Goodwin speaking.”
“You sound more like Lieutenant Rowcliff.”
“I do not. I don’t stutter. Well?”
“It cost twenty bucks. Some garage attendants have delusions of grandeur. The Brookes have two cars, Herons, a sedan and a station wagon. Mr. Brooke uses the wagon every day, Monday to Friday; he drives to his laboratory in Brooklyn. He returned it to the garage that Monday evening, March second, around midnight. Mrs. Brooke came and got the sedan that evening between seven and eight. His guess is about a quarter to eight. She brought it back about an hour later, maybe an hour and a half.”
“Saul, I love you, except at the poker table. Will he tell her?”
“No. He would deny he told me. I had to swear he wouldn’t be quoted. I merely wanted the information, you know?”
“Yeah. How much chance is there that he made it up to give you your money’s worth?”
“Now listen. Wouldn’t I have said so?”
“I withdraw it. Of course you have the color and license number. How was she dressed?”
“He didn’t notice.”
With Saul you don’t ask silly questions, such as was she alone going and coming. “All right,” I said, “she may not be a murderer, but she’s a damn liar. He’s finishing up a three-bottle session with an integrated audience. One of them is a brown girl, golden brown, whom you’d better never meet if you don’t want to be glued. I don’t want to be rude, but I have to get back in there. Where are you?”
“A booth. Sixty-fourth and Lexington.”
“Where will you be?”
“Home in bed. It’s nearly midnight.”
“If we don’t ring you tonight we will in the morning. Stand by, huh?”
He said he would. I cradled the phone and sat a minute looking at it. It was the kind of thing Wolfe hates and I’m not too fond of myself. Trying to find someone or ones who had seen that car in Harlem that evening, granting it had been there, was a job for an army. Facing her with it as a known fact without naming the source would be a waste of breath. I got up, said a word aloud that needn’t be in the record, went to the hall, and found that the party was over. Two of them were on their way to the front, and the others were filing out of the office, all but Paul Whipple, who was having a word with Wolfe at his desk.
I went to help with coats and hats, and deliberately selected Maud Jordan’s, letting one of the others serve Miss Tiger. I didn’t want to give her the impression that I was at her beck, let alone her call. Then Paul Whipple came, and I had his ready for him. He was the last one out.
When I went to the office Wolfe had his reading light on and had opened The Minister and the Choir Singer. That was as it should be; he would stay to keep me company while I took things out and straightened up. To go to bed, leaving the mess to me, would sort of imply that I was merely a menial, so he stayed to collaborate. As I entered he looked a question.
I nodded. “Saul. Mrs. Brooke forgets things. Monday evening, March second, around a quarter to eight, she got her car from the garage and brought it back an hour or more later. Saul shelled out twenty dollars to the garage attendant and promised not to reveal the source. No one with her.”
He growled. “Confound her.”
“Yes, sir. I told Saul we’d ring him tonight or in the morning. Any instructions?”
“It’s past bedtime. Ask Saul to come at eleven. If Miss Kallman hasn’t called by ten o’clock you should call her.”
“Right. Do you want to see Magnus?”
“No. You will.”
Meaning he only did the tricky ones. He raised his book, and I started collecting glasses. Miss Tiger’s was still two-thirds full. Wasting good gin, Follansbee’s.
Chapter 9
A problem like Dolly Brooke’s lie is plain ornery. Even if we could get the garage man to play along and he said it to her face, a big if, she could say that he was mistaken, it had been another evening, or that she had gone on a personal errand which she preferred to keep to herself; and if she had actually driven to 128th Street and killed Susan Brooke it wouldn’t help any to let her know we had caught her in a lie just to show her how smart we were. You might like to know how Nero Wolfe would handle such a problem, but I can’t tell you in this particular case because he didn’t handle it at all. Luck did. The luck rang the doorbell of the old brownstone at five minutes to ten Tuesday morning.
But first William Magnus. Rae Kallman phoned while I was at my breakfast table in the kitchen, on my fourth homemade Creole pork sausage and my third Creole fritter. She had discovered that she had Magnus’s phone number in a notebook at home, and she had called him early, to get him before he left. By now he had gone for a day at school. He would have no free time until four-thirty, and we could expect him a little before five. As I resumed with the sausage and fritters I considered the fact that Miss Kallman was cooperating beyond the call of duty; she had promised only to supply his address and phone number. Sometimes — not often, but it does happen — such a little detail has a point. Had she wanted to brief him, and if so, why? A corner of my mind was still considering it in the office as I opened the morning mail.
When luck rang the doorbell at 9:55 I didn’t know it was luck, even after I went to the hall and saw him on the stoop. Peter Vaughn was merely the long and lanky specimen who was still trying to hang on to the notion that he had been going to marry Susan Brooke after she got rid of her kink. As a candidate for the tag, at least 100 to 1. But when I opened the door and saw him closer, it was obvious that something really sharp was biting him. His bony face looked even narrower, and he had to unclamp his jaw to speak, to say that he knew Wolfe wasn’t available at that hour, but he would rather see me anyway. That was grease, or it wasn’t. I took him to the office and moved a chair up to face mine. He sat, clamped his jaw again, and rubbed his eyes, which were red and puffy, first with his fingertips and then with the heels of his palms.
“I haven’t slept for four nights,” he said.
I nodded. “You look it.” Four nights had passed since he had been there with his future in-laws. If I had been Wolfe I would have asked if he had eaten. Being me, I asked, “How about a drink? Or coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He tried to eye me, but it was mostly blinks. “I know a couple of men who know about you, and it’s because of what they said that I would rather see you than Wolfe. They said you’re tough but straight, and you’re more human than Wolfe.”