“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“No other sample jars were found?”
“No.”
“Then it’s still there. It ought to be. It must be... Archie, go and get it. Find it and bring it here. Mr. Cramer will telephone his men there to help you.”
“Huh,” Cramer grunted. “I will?”
“Certainly you will.”
“As for me,” I put in, “I’m a wonder at finding things, but I get better results when I know what I’m looking for.”
“Pfui! What was it I spit out yesterday at lunch?”
“Oh, is that it? Okay.” I beat it, then.
It was only a three-minute ride to Tingley’s, and I figured it might take longer than that for Wolfe to get Cramer to make the phone call, so I took a taxi to East 29th Street and picked up the roadster and drove it on from there. The entrance door at the top of the stone steps was locked, but just as I was lifting my fist to beat a tattoo I heard the clatter of feet inside, and in a moment the door opened and a towering specimen looked down at me.
“You Goodwin?” he demanded.
“I am Mr. Goodwin. Old Lady Cramer—”
“Yeah. You sound like what I’ve heard of you. Enter.”
I did so, and preceded him up the stairs. In Tingley’s office an affair with a thin little mouth in a big face was awaiting us, seated at a table littered with newspapers.
“You fellows are to help me,” I stated.
“Okay,” the one at the table said superciliously. “We’d just as soon have the exercise. But Bowen did this room. If you think you can find a button after Bowen—”
“That will do, my man,” I said graciously. “Bowen’s all right as far as he goes, but he lacks subtlety. He’s too scientific. He uses rules and calipers, whereas I use my brain. For instance, since he did that desk, it’s a hundred to one that there’s not an inch of it unaccounted for, but what if he neglected to look in that hat?” I pointed to Tingley’s hat still there on the hook. “He might have, because there’s nothing scientific about searching a hat; you just take it down and look at it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Thin Mouth said. “Explain some more.”
“Sure; glad to.” I walked across. “Do you ask why Tingley would put an object in his hat? It was the logical place for it. He wanted to take it home with him, and meanwhile he wanted to keep it hidden from someone who might have gone snooping around his desk and other obvious places. He was not an obvious man. Neither am I.” I reached up and took the hat from the hook.
And it was in the hat!
That made up for all the bad breaks that had come my way over a period of years. Nothing like that will ever happen again. It was so utterly unexpected that I nearly dropped it when it rolled out of the hat, but I grabbed and caught it and had it — a midget-sized jar, the kind they used for samples in the factory. It was about two-thirds full with a label on it marked in pencil, “11-14-Y.”
“You see,” I said, trying my damnedest not to let my voice tremble with excitement, “it’s a question of brains.”
They were gawking at me, absolutely speechless. I got out my penknife and, with a tip of a blade, dug out a bit of the stuff in the jar and conveyed it to my mouth. My God, it tasted sweet — I mean bitter!
I spat it out. “I’m going to promote you boys,” I said indulgently. “And raise your pay. And give you a month’s vacation.”
I departed. I hadn’t even taken off my coat and hat...
It was too bad dinner had to be delayed the first day that Fritz was back on the job after his grippe, but it couldn’t be helped. While we were waiting for Carrie Murphy to come, I went to the kitchen and had a glass of milk and tried to cheer Fritz up by telling him that grippe often leaves people so that they can’t taste anything.
At half past seven Wolfe was at his desk and I was at mine with my notebook. Seated near me, with a dick behind his chair, was Philip Tingley. Beyond him were Carrie Murphy, Miss Yates, and another dick. Inspector Cramer was at the other end of Wolfe’s desk, next to Guthrie Judd. None of them looked very happy, Carrie in particular. It was her Wolfe started on, after Cramer had turned the meeting over to him.
“There shouldn’t be much in this,” Wolfe said bluntly. What he meant was he hoped there wouldn’t be, that close to dinnertime. “Miss Murphy, did you go to Miss Yates’s apartment yesterday evening to discuss something with her?”
Carrie nodded.
“Did she make a telephone call?”
“Yes.”
“Whom did she call and at what time?”
“Mr. Arthur Tingley. It was eight o’clock.”
“At his home or his office?”
“His office.” She stopped to swallow. “She tried his home first, but he wasn’t there, so she called the office and got him.”
“She talked with him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Wolfe’s eyes moved: “Miss Yates. Is Miss Murphy’s statement correct?”
“It is,” said Gwendolyn firmly.
“You recognized Tingley’s voice?”
“Certainly. I’ve been hearing it all my life—”
“Of course you have. Thanks.” Wolfe shifted again. “Mr. Philip Tingley. Yesterday afternoon your father — your brother asked you to be at his office at seven-thirty in the evening. Is that right?”
“Yes!” Philip said aggressively.
“Did you go?”
“Yes, but not at seven-thirty. I was ten minutes late.”
“Did you see him?”
“I saw him dead. On the floor behind the screen. I saw Amy Duncan there, too, unconscious, and I felt her pulse and—”
“Naturally. Being human, you displayed humanity.” Wolfe made a face. “Are you sure Arthur Tingley was dead?”
Philip grunted. “If you had seen him—”
“His throat had been cut?”
“Yes, and the blood had spread—”
“Thank you,” Wolfe said curtly. “Mr. Guthrie Judd.”
The two pairs of eyes met in midair.
Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Well, sir, it looks as if you’ll have to referee this. Miss Yates says Tingley was alive at eight o’clock and Philip says he was dead at seven-forty. We’d like to hear from you what shape he was in at seven-thirty. Will you tell us?”
“No.”
“If you don’t you’re an ass. The screws are all loose now. There is still a chance this business will be censored for the press if I feel like being discreet. But I’m not bound, as law officers are, to protect the embarrassing secrets of prominent people from the public curiosity. I’m doing a job and you can help me out a little. If you don’t—” Wolfe shrugged.
Judd breathed through his nose.
“Well?” Wolfe asked impatiently.
“Tingley was dead.” Judd bit it off.
“Then you did enter that building and go to that office? At half past seven?”
“Yes. That was the time of the appointment. Tingley was on the floor with his throat cut. Near him was a young woman I had never seen, unconscious. I was in the room less than a minute.”
Wolfe nodded. “I’m not a policeman, and I’m certainly not the district attorney, but I think it is quite likely that you will never be under the necessity of telling this story in a courtroom. They won’t want to inconvenience you. However, in the event that a subpoena takes you to the witness stand, are you prepared to swear to the truth of what you have just said?”
“I am.”
“Good.” Wolfe’s gaze swept to Miss Yates. “Are you still positive it was Tingley you talked to, Miss Yates?”
She met his eyes squarely. “I am.” Her voice was perfectly controlled. “I don’t say they’re lying. I don’t know. I only know if it was someone imitating Arthur Tingley’s voice, I’ve never heard anything to equal it.”