I thought, Now he’ll never have to answer for lying to the police. I thought that, because at the moment there was no other thought worth thinking.
Wolfe’s eyes had closed. They opened. “And Dunbar Whipple was in custody from nine o’clock to midnight?”
“You know damn well he was.”
“When will he be released?”
“Nuts.”
Wolfe nodded. “It’s embarrassing, certainly. You know the annals of homicide. It’s conceivable that another hand killed Peter Vaughn; it’s even conceivable that there was no connection between his death and Susan Brooke’s; but you don’t believe it, and neither do I. You don’t dare hold him. Confound it. This will make—”
Cramer smacked the chair arm. “Damn it, don’t sit there and smirk at me! Talk! When did you last see Vaughn?”
“You don’t mean ‘smirk.’ I am not doing what you think ‘smirk’ means. I’m reacting not to your discomfiture but to my own vexation. Now you need a murderer; but so do I. Coming here with a startling piece of news and barking at me is futile, and you know it.” He leaned back, shut his eyes, and tightened his lips.
Cramer sat and regarded him and breathed.
Wolfe straightened up and cocked his head. “Mr. Cramer. I have no information for you. Don’t explode; let me explain. We — I am including Mr. Goodwin — have seen and spoken with Mr. Vaughn twice. Last Friday evening he was here for less than an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Brooke. None of them gave us any information that you did not already have. Day before yesterday, Tuesday morning, he came alone and spoke with Mr. Goodwin, again for less than an hour. I wasn’t present, but Mr. Goodwin has reported to me. Mr. Vaughn had disclosed certain facts you don’t know about, but it is my considered opinion that they have no bearing on his death. There are—”
“That’s for me to say.”
“It is not. There are two points. First, in our talks with Mr. Vaughn, Mr. Goodwin and I were the agents of Mr. Oster, and therefore the communications were privileged. Second, even if they weren’t privileged we would reserve them, because we have reason to believe that they have no connection with his death. If the event should prove us wrong we would of course be called to account. However—”
“I’m calling you to account here and now.”
“Pfui. You know you can’t. However, we’ll give you one bit of information, privileged or not, which probably is connected with his death. He called on the telephone shortly after five o’clock yesterday and spoke with Mr. Goodwin. Archie, the possibly relevant portion of the conversation, beginning with his saying that he might have something to tell you later.”
I told it, to Cramer. “He said, ‘Listen, something I wasn’t going to mention, but I guess I will. I may have something important to tell you a little later. Can I get you there this evening?’ I said, ‘Yes, but I’m here now. Shoot.’ He said, ‘Well, I— No, I won’t. I wouldn’t want to— No. Maybe I just imagined it, but I’m going to find out. I may ring you this evening.’ I said, ‘How are you going to find out?’ He said, ‘Oh, ask a few questions. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. It’s probably nothing.’”
“Who was he—”
“No,” Wolfe snapped. “Mr. Goodwin is my agent. Archie, did he give you any hint of whom he was going to question or about what?”
“No.”
“Have you any notion about it?”
It was obvious he wanted another no, so I supplied it. He turned to Cramer. “Nor have I; but I suspect that his contemplated action led to his death, and so we report the conversation. If you can learn whom he expected to question before I do, you’ll get the murderer.”
“Damn you,” Cramer said, icy again. “Damn you. You already know.”
“I do not. I haven’t even a conjecture. I have some information you don’t have, but I am convinced that it has no bearing on the identity of the murderer. I have no conjecture on that either. That was our last word from Mr. Vaughn; he didn’t call again. Before, I had an advantage: you thought Dunbar Whipple was the culprit, and I didn’t. Now I have no advantage whatever. We’re up the same stump.”
“You don’t say your word of honor.”
“I use that phrase only when I must, to satisfy you. This time I wouldn’t crook a finger to satisfy you. I wish you would leave. I need to discuss the situation with Mr. Goodwin.”
“Go right ahead. I won’t interrupt.”
“Indeed you won’t. What effect do you think automation will have on Homo sapiens?”
“Go to hell,” Cramer said and got up and walked out. I went to the door but didn’t stick my head into the hall until the front door slammed, and then only to see that he was outside. I returned to my desk, sat, and said, “All right, discuss.”
He said, “Ggrrrrhh.”
“Then I’ll discuss. You told him that what Vaughn told me Tuesday had no bearing on his death. You got me to say that I had no notion about whom Vaughn was going to question or what about, when you know darned well I had. Yesterday you weren’t interested in what Vaughn told me on the phone, that Mrs. Brooke could imitate Susan’s voice. If it turns out that she killed Susan and Vaughn how will you react to my discomfiture?”
“I have assumed she didn’t.”
“I know you have. I haven’t. There has been no sign whatever that Vaughn ever had any contact with anyone involved, except the Brookes. Who else could he possibly have been going to ask a few questions?”
“I don’t know. But as for Mrs. Brooke, in addition to the lack of acceptable motive, she couldn’t have made that telephone call, mimicking Miss Brooke, unless she knew of the eight-o’clock rendezvous, and that’s unlikely; and if she didn’t make the call, who did? Possibly, of course, Miss Brooke; but by no means certainly; I still question it. But the chief point about Mrs. Brooke: returning home, she told Mr. Vaughn that she had seen Mr. Whipple entering the building. Consider it. She is in the apartment, having wiped her fingerprints from the club with which she has just killed her sister-in-law; any idiot would do that. She scoots; any idiot would do that too. Outside, on the street, does she stand there until she sees Mr. Whipple arrive and enter? Nonsense. Then does she catch a glimpse of him, arriving, as she flees? Possibly; but if so, would she tell Mr. Vaughn that she saw him arrive? I don’t believe it.”
I looked at it for five seconds. “What else?”
“Nothing ponderable.”
“Okay.” I stood up. “I’m taking a leave of absence without pay. Two hours or two days, I don’t know.”
He nodded. “With luck it will be two hours. Your time would be better spent on Mr. Vaughn, even with Mr. Cramer’s legion underfoot.” He reached for the little stack of mail.
I blew.
I never, in these reports, skimp any step that counts, forward or backward. If I score a point, or if I get my nose pushed in, I like to cover it. But it would be a waste of time and space to tell you, for instance, how the Park Avenue hallman reacted to the fact that this time I could talk, or how Dolly Brooke took the news, news to her, that Peter Vaughn was dead. What matters is that it wasn’t a step in either direction, except for me personally, since Wolfe had already crossed her off. In less than two hours I got the kind of alibi you do get sometimes, the kind you file under finished business. At seven-forty Wednesday evening Kenneth and Dolly Brooke had sat down to dinner at the table of another couple in the same apartment house; a little before nine two other couples had joined them for an evening of bridge; and they had quit around one o’clock. I checked it with all three of the women, two in person and one on the phone, and with two of the men. When I got back to the old brownstone, Wolfe was in the dining room, halfway through lunch, and one glance at my face told him how it stood. I took my seat, and Fritz came, and I helped myself to a healthy portion of broiled shad that had been marinated in oil and lemon juice seasoned with bay leaf, thyme, and Oregano, and three ladles of pureed sorrel. I took only three ladles because at bedtime I would go to the kitchen, heat the leftover sorrel, spread it on a couple of slices of Fritz’s bread, and sprinkle it with nutmeg. Serve with a glass of milk. Have a spoon handy to salvage the purée that dribbles onto the plate when you bite.