“Certainly I am. Not more than two or three minutes before—”
“All right. Don’t mind me, I have these spells. You followed Miss Duncan to Tingley’s?”
Cliff nodded. “And wondered what in the name of heaven she was doing there, since I didn’t know she was Tingley’s niece. I dismissed my taxi. It was raining even harder than before, so I ducked into the opening of the driveway tunnel. You know the rest. When she came out—”
“What time was that?”
“Exactly eleven minutes past eight. I had just looked at my watch a moment before. When she stumbled and nearly fell I started toward her, but backed up into the tunnel again. Under the circumstances it would have been extremely embarrassing — anyway, I followed her to Eighth Avenue, wondering what could have happened to her, the way she was walking, wondering even if she was drunk—” Cliff halted, bit his lip, and shook his head. His voice shook a little: “If I had only known — but I didn’t. She took a taxi and so did I. After she went into her apartment with the driver, and he came out again pretty soon, I stuck around over an hour, and at ten o’clock I left and went home.”
Fox grunted. “If you had stayed ten minutes longer you’d have seen me arrive. Did you put everything that happened in that letter to Collins?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t enter the building at all?”
“I just said that I put everything in the letter.”
“Don’t get touchy. I want all there is. Did you leave the tunnel at all between Miss Duncan’s arrival and departure?”
“No. It was a cold rain and I had no umbrella or raincoat — only a cloth topcoat.”
“You were there an hour. Could anyone have entered or left by that door without you seeing them?”
“No. I was thinking she might come out any minute, in spite of her having dismissed her taxi.”
“How sure are you that the man in the raincoat was Philip Tingley?”
“Well — I told Collins on the phone, a hundred to one. When I saw him there in the anteroom — he has a very unusual face, but of course it was dark Tuesday evening and the street light wasn’t very close. What decided me was his walk when he got up to go inside.”
“I see. That’ll probably do for him. But on the GJ55 you’ll have to be prepared to get your back to the wall and show your teeth. And what about Judd himself? You saw him.”
“The driver held an umbrella over him.” Cliff hesitated. “It could have been Judd. When he came out he dived for the car and I didn’t see his face at all.”
“You saw him,” Fox insisted. “For the — uh — pressure. You saw him.”
Cliff considered. “I might,” he agreed, “be willing to stretch a point for the pressure. But what if it goes beyond pressure?” He appealed with an upturned palm. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Fox. As unpleasant as it would be, I am prepared to be a witness at a murder trial if there’s no decent way of avoiding it. This may sound sappy to you, but what I would dislike more — I mean, to have Miss Duncan know I was watching her and following her—”
“I thought you two were happily reunited.”
“We are — that is—”
“Then don’t worry. To have it known that you were tailing her to learn if you had a rival, and if so what he looked like, may make you ridiculous in the eyes of two billion people — roughly the population of the world — but not in hers. She’ll think it’s wonderful.”
“Honestly — you think she will?”
Fox groaned. “And you an able, shrewd, cool-headed executive — you must be and you look it. It’s amazing what can happen to a brain without impairing it in other respects.” He glanced at his watch and got up. “But you’re busy. I guess we understand each other. One thing, I am tentatively putting you in Miss Duncan’s class and assuming that you did not go upstairs Tuesday evening and murder Arthur Tingley.” He smiled. “Say ninety to one. But sometimes a long shot wins. I mention it only—”
He stopped because a buzz had caused Cliff to reach for his phone; and stood with the blank polite look one assumes when forced to listen to one end of a conversation which is none of one’s business. From what he heard it appeared that Mr. Cliff’s presence was being not only requested, but insisted upon, by someone strongly disinclined to take no for an answer; and from the expression on Cliff’s face as he pushed the phone back, it seemed that this new interference with his busy day was extremely unwelcome.
But the expression evidently was meant for Fox, and certainly the tone of voice was when Cliff spoke: “So,” he said with biting contempt, “you give it to them first, and then come to appeal to me to help Miss Duncan!”
“It?” Fox’s eyes opened in astonishment. “Them?”
“Yes, them. The police. Don’t think you can make a monkey of me on this too. Inspector Damon wants me to call at headquarters immediately. He already has my signed statement covering everything he could want to ask about — unless you’ve told him about that letter and phone call and your damned deductions.” Cliff set his jaw. “I’m denying it! You wanted it to help Miss Duncan, did you?”
“I did,” said Fox quietly. “Quit going off half-cocked, or Damon will make a monkey of you too. Did he say specifically that he wanted—”
“He said nothing specific, but—”
“But you lunged for me anyhow. Steady up. You don’t seem to realize that you’re right plunk in the middle of a murder case in the borough of Manhattan, city of New York, you were at the scene when the crime was committed or darned close to it, and you have concealed that fact from the police — and also what you saw there. I didn’t ‘give it to them’ before I came here, and for the present I don’t intend to. I have no idea what Damon wants to ask you about, but he’ll certainly keep on asking you things until this case is solved, and under the circumstances you’d better play them close to your chin.” Fox had his coat and hat. “Good luck and watch your step.”
He turned and went.
There were at least three things which required doing with as little delay as possible, and when, down on the street, he struck off in the direction of Grand Central and took to the subway again, he seemed to be aiming for one of them; but instead of emerging at Wall Street he stayed on the train for two more stations, got out and walked to Battery Place, and took an elevator to the top of the building numbered 17. The door he entered had painted on it: U.S. WEATHER BUREAU. He told a man with friendly eyes behind spectacles:
“I was going to phone for some information, but came instead, because I want to establish a fact beyond any attack by fire, flood or famine. What time did it begin raining, say in Greenwich Village, last Tuesday evening?”
He left ten minutes later, with the fact established as firmly as a fact well can be. The rain had started at 6:57. Up to that moment there had been no downfall, not even what is officially called a trace, in any part of Manhattan. The man with the friendly eyes had permitted Fox to scan the record and reports for himself. Fox, with a crease in his brow which betokened utter dissatisfaction with the state of things inside his skull, descended to the street, entered a Bar & Grill, and consumed four cheese sandwiches with lettuce and four cups of coffee like a man in a dream. The waiter, who liked to study faces, finally decided that this customer had just dropped his entire wad in a broker’s office and was contemplating suicide, and would have been chagrined to know that in fact he was merely trying to remember what was wrong with the rain starting at 6:57 Tuesday evening. The crease was still on Fox’s brow as he paid for his meal and left, took the Seventh Avenue subway to 14th, and walked to 320 Grove Street.
Mr. Olson, the janitor, was hanging around the vestibule. He watched Fox punch the button marked “Duncan” several times, but said nothing until he was addressed: