“That won’t do,” Wolfe said bluntly. “Don’t try any dodging now.”
“I’m not. I am telling you—”
“A lie, Mr. Judd. It’s no good. You three were to meet at Tingley’s office Tuesday evening, not Wednesday morning. And you went there—”
I missed the rest. The doorbell rang, and I went to attend to it, because Fritz wasn’t being permitted to exert himself. A peep through the glass showed me a phiz only too well known, so I slipped the chain on before I opened the door to the extent of the six inches which the chain permitted.
“We don’t need any,” I said offensively.
“Go to hell,” I was told gruffly. “I want to see Guthrie Judd. He’s here.”
“How do you know?”
“So informed at his home. Take off that damn’ chain—”
“He might have got run over on the way. Be seated while I find out.”
I went to the office and told Wolfe, “Inspector Cramer wants to see Judd. Was told at his home that he had come here.”
Judd, quick on the trigger, spoke up: “I want your assurance.”
“You won’t get it,” Wolfe snapped. “Bring Mr. Cramer in.”
I went back out and slipped the chain and swung the door open, and Cramer made for the office with me following.
After using grunts for greetings he stood and spoke down to Judd: “This is a confidential matter. Very confidential. If you want to come—”
Judd glanced at Wolfe from the corner of his eye. Wolfe cleared his throat.
Judd said, “Sit down. Go ahead.”
“But I warn you, Mr. Judd, it is extremely—”
“He has answered you,” Wolfe said. “Please make it as brief as possible.”
“I see.” Cramer looked from one to the other. “Like that, huh? Suits me.” He sat down and placed the leather bag on the floor in front of him, and hunched over and released the catches and opened it. He straightened up to look at Judd. “A special-delivery parcel-post package addressed to me by name was delivered at police headquarters about an hour ago.” He bent and got an object from the bag. “This was in it. May I ask, have you ever seen it before?”
Judd said, “No.”
Cramer’s eyes moved. “Have you, Wolfe? You, Goodwin?”
Wolfe shook his head. I said, “Not guilty.”
Cramer shrugged. “As you see, it’s a metal box with a lock. On the top the letters ‘GJ’ have been roughly engraved, probably with the point of a knife. The first thing about it is this: A box of this description, including the ‘GJ’ on its top, was left to you by Arthur Tingley in his will. The police commissioner asked you about it this afternoon, and you stated you knew nothing of such a box and had no idea what it might contain. Is that correct, Mr. Judd?”
“It is,” Judd acknowledged. “Hombert told me the will said the box would be found in the safe in Tingley’s office, and it wasn’t there.”
“That’s right. The second thing is the lock has been forced. It was like that when the package was opened. The third thing is the contents.” Cramer regarded Judd. “Do you want me to keep right on?”
“Go ahead.”
“Very well.” Cramer lifted the lid.
“Item one, a pair of baby shoes.” He held them up for inspection.
“Item two, a printed statement of condition of your banking firm. As of June 30, 1939. A circle has been made, with pen and ink, around your name, and a similar circle around the sum of the total resources, $230,000,000 and something.”
He returned the folder to the box and produced the next exhibit. “Item three, a large manila envelope. It was sealed, but the wax has been broken and the flap slit open. On the outside, in Arthur Tingley’s handwriting, is this inscription: ‘Confidential. In case of my decease, to be delivered intact to Mr. Guthrie Judd. Arthur Tingley.’ ”
Judd had a hand extended. “Then it’s mine.” His tone was sharp and peremptory. “And you opened it—”
“No, sir; I didn’t.” Cramer hung onto the envelope. “It had already been opened. It is unquestionably your property, and eventually no doubt it will be surrendered to you, but we’ll keep it for the present. Under the circumstances. It contains the birth certificate of ‘Baby Philip,’ dated September 18, 1911, four pages from the records of the Ellen James Home regarding the sojourn in that institution of a young woman named Martha Judd, and a written statement, holograph, dated July 9, 1936, signed by Arthur Tingley. Also, a certificate of the legal adoption of Philip Tingley by Arthur Tingley, dated May 11, 1915. If you wish to inspect these documents now, in my presence—”
“No,” Judd snapped. “I demand the immediate surrender of the box and its contents to me.”
Cramer shook his head. “For the present, sir—”
“I’ll replevy.”
“I doubt if you can. Evidence in a murder case—”
“That has nothing to do with Tingley’s murder.”
“I hope it hasn’t.” Cramer sounded as if he meant it. “I’m only a cop and you know what you are. A man in your position and a thing like this. It was too hot for the district attorney and he wished it onto me. So it’s a job, and that’s that. You have a sister named Martha. Was she at the Ellen James Home in the year 1911?”
“It would have been sensible of you,” Judd said icily, “to follow the district attorney’s example.” He aimed a finger at the box. “I want that, and demand it.”
“Yeah, I heard you before. I can get tough, you know, even with you. Let’s try this. You said it wasn’t you that entered the Tingley Building at seven-thirty yesterday evening. Do you still say that?”
“Yes.”
“We’re taking your chauffeur down to headquarters.”
Judd made a contemptuous noise.
“Also Philip Tingley. You might as well come down off your horse. Somebody’s going to talk; don’t think they won’t. If you expect—”
The phone rang. I answered it, and learned that Sergeant Foster wished to speak to Inspector Cramer. Cramer came to my desk to take it. About all he did for two minutes was listen and grunt. At the end he said, “Bring him here to Nero Wolfe’s place,” and hung up.
“If you don’t object,” he said to Wolfe.
“To what?” Wolfe demanded.
“A little talk with Philip Tingley. They found him over in his kitchen tied up and gagged.”...
I have got, and always will have, a soft spot in my heart for Philip Tingley. Consider the situation from his standpoint when he entered Nero Wolfe’s office at seven o’clock that Wednesday evening. Two burly detectives were right behind him. He was surrounded by the enemy. His jaw was swollen, his head must have been fuzzy, and he was wobbly on his pins. He knew I was stronger than he was. And yet, by gum, the minute he caught sight of me he power-dived at me as if all he asked was to plant one bomb! That’s the spirit that wins ball games.
The dicks jumped for him. I hastily arose, but they got him and held him.
“What the hell?” Cramer inquired.
“It’s a private matter,” I explained, sitting down. “It was me that fixed his jaw and tied him up. That has no bearing—”
I got on my feet again. With one mighty, spasmodic heave of his bony frame Philip had busted loose and was on the move. But not toward me; he had changed his objective. What he was after was the metal box on Cramer’s knees. He not only grabbed for it, but he got it. The dicks went for him again, this time with more fervor. One of them retrieved the box and the other one slammed him down. I went to help, and we picked him up and shoved him into a chair. Panting like a polar bear on a hot day, he glared at us, but quit trying.