“Try.”
“Well — Amy was there, wasn’t she?”
“At the Tingley Building last evening? Yes.”
“What time did she get there?”
“Five minutes past seven.”
“And what happened?”
“As she entered the office someone who was hiding behind the screen hit her on the head with an iron weight and knocked her unconscious. She remained unconscious for an hour. When Mr. Goodwin arrived, at eight minutes past eight, she was trying to descend the stairs, but collapsed again. He brought her here, after investigating upstairs and finding Tingley’s body. She says that when she entered the office her uncle was not in sight, so it is supposed that he was already dead.”
Carrie shook her head. “He wasn’t.”
Wolfe’s brows went up. “He wasn’t?”
“No. And Amy didn’t kill him.”
“Indeed. Were you there?”
“Of course I wasn’t there. But if she had been knocked unconscious, could she have murdered a man? Even if she would?”
“Probably not. But you are postulating that she is telling the truth. The police aren’t so gallant. What if she’s lying? What if someone hit her after she had killed her uncle? What if she killed him soon after her arrival?”
“Oh, no,” Carrie declared triumphantly, “she couldn’t! That’s just it! Because we know he was alive at eight o’clock!”
Wolfe gazed at her, with his lips pushed out. Then he poured beer, drank, used his handkerchief, leaned back, and leveled his eyes at her again. “That’s interesting,” he murmured. “How do you know that?”
“He was talking on the telephone.”
“At eight o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“To you?”
“No,” Miss Yates interposed. “To me. At my home. Miss Murphy was there and heard it.”
“Are you sure it was Mr. Tingley?”
“Certainly. I’ve known him all my life.”
“What were you talking about?”
Gwendolyn answered, “A private matter.”
Wolfe shook his head. “The police will soon pull you off that perch, madam. It’s murder. I, of course, have no authority, but, since we’ve gone this far...”
“It’s about the quinine. One of the girls reported to me that she had seen Miss Murphy doing something suspicious. Yesterday afternoon, just before closing time. Sneaking some of a mix into a little jar and concealing it. I asked Miss Murphy for an explanation and she refused to give any. Told me that she had nothing to say—”
“I couldn’t—”
“Let me finish, Carrie. After she had gone home I went to Mr. Tingley’s office and was going to tell him about it, but I don’t think he even heard what I said. I had never seen him so upset. Philip, his adopted son, had just been there, and I suppose that was it, but he didn’t say anything about Philip. I left at a quarter after six and went home to my flat on Twenty-third Street. I always walk; it’s only a seven minutes’ walk. I took off my hat and coat and rubbers and put my umbrella in the bathtub to drain, and ate some sardines and cheese—”
She stopped, and grunted. “The police asking me questions all night seems to have got me into a habit. I don’t suppose you care what I ate. About half past seven Miss Murphy came. She said she had been thinking it over and had decided she ought to tell me about it. What she told me made me madder than I’ve ever been in my life. Mr. Tingley suspected me of putting that quinine in! Me!”
“That isn’t fair, Miss Yates,” Carrie protested. “It was only—”
“Rubbish!” Gwen snapped. “He had you spying on me, didn’t he?”
“But he—”
“I say he had you spying on me!” Miss Yates turned to Wolfe. “Since this trouble started, we’ve kept a sharp eye on the mixers and filling benches, and I’ve sent a sample of every mix in to Mr. Tingley, including even Carrie’s. And, behind my back, she was sending him samples of my mixes!”
“I was obeying orders,” Carrie said defensively. “Could I help it?”
“No. But he could. If he were alive I’d never forgive him for that — but now — I’ll try to. I’ve given my whole life to that factory. That’s the only life I’ve got or ever have had, and he knew it. He knew how proud I was of every jar that left that place, and yet he could set a spy on me—”
“So,” Wolfe said, “you phoned Mr. Tingley to give him the devil.”
She nodded.
“How do you know it was eight o’clock?”
“Because I looked at my watch. I called his home first, but he wasn’t there, so I tried the office.”
“Did he corroborate Miss Murphy’s story?”
“Yes. He admitted it. He didn’t even apologize. He said he was the head of the business, and no one, not even me, was above suspicion. He told me that to my face!”
“Not precisely to your face.”
“Well, he said it!” She blew her nose again. “I hung up. I had a notion to go and have it out with him, but I decided to wait till morning. Anyway, I was played out — I had been under a strain for a month. Carrie stayed and I made some tea. I couldn’t blame her, since she had only done what he told her to. We were still there talking at ten o’clock when a policeman came.”
“With the news of the murder.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t tell about the phone call.”
“No,” Miss Yates said. “I didn’t want them to know about the quinine.”
“But we’ll have to tell them now,” Carrie said. She was sitting on the edge of her chair with her fingers twisted into knots. “Since they’ve arrested Amy. Won’t we?”
Wolfe grimaced. “Not for that reason,” he said grumpily. “It would do Miss Duncan more harm than good. They think she’s lying, anyhow. Do as you please. For myself, I shall tell them nothing.”
They discussed it. Wolfe drank more beer. I covered a yawn, feeling that my substitute for Guthrie Judd had turned pretty sour on us. If Tingley had been alive at eight o’clock, Judd couldn’t very well have killed him between 7:30 and 7:35, nor could the other man, the one in the raincoat, between 7:40 and 7:47. Of course, either of them could have returned just after eight, but, since I arrived at 8:08, that would have been cutting it fine, and besides, Cliff would have seen them unless they entered by another way. Unless Cliff was lying, or Amy was, or these two tidbit mixers were...
When they finally left, their intentions still appeared to be in a state of heads or tails. I offered to take them back to 23rd Street, which seemed only fair under the circumstances, and they accepted. That is, Gwendolyn did; Carrie said she was bound for the subway, so with her I went on to 34th and unloaded her at the express station.
When I got back I found that company had arrived. Leonard Cliff and Amy Duncan were there in the office with Wolfe. Cliff looked so grim and harassed. Amy was worse, if anything. She was puffy under the eyes and saggy at the jaws. The soft in-curves I had liked in her cheeks weren’t there. Wolfe, himself, turned a black scowl on me.
I sat down. “My God,” I said, “it could be worse, couldn’t it? What if they charged you and tossed you in the coop?”
“Miss Duncan,” Wolfe growled, “is under bond. The thing has become ridiculous. Mr. Cramer states that the knife handle bears her fingerprints.”
“No!” I raised the brows. “Really? How about the chunk of iron? The weight.”
“None. Clean.”
“Ha. I thought so. She forgot to remove her prints from the knife, but after banging herself on the bean with the weight she carefully wiped it off—”