Somewhat to my surprise I found the apartment at whose door we knocked was that of Harry Franklin. A servant admitted us, ushered us to the living room where we found Sackler smoking one of Franklin’s fat cigars and conversing amiably with his host.
Wolfe grinned happily at Sackler.
“Well, Rex,” he said. “It’s taken one hell of a long time but at last Joey’s got his hand on a buck before you.”
Sackler raised his eyebrows. “What buck are you referring to?”
“The ten grand reward for Agatha Parry’s killer. We got Parry.”
Rather to my surprise Sackler didn’t wince. He regarded us blandly and said, “And what the devil do you want Parry for?”
“Murder, of course,” said Wolfe. “You been looking for him, I’ve been looking for him, but Joey found him all right.”
“Well,” said Sackler, “I hope Joey’s happy with him. I found him rather dull myself.”
I was a little taken aback. Upon receipt of our news I had expected Sackler to beat his breast, tear his hair and call upon heaven to witness the injustice I had done him. But he was taking it as calmly as a weather report.
Franklin stood up. “I guess I should congratulate you,” he said to me. “I’m glad Parry will be brought to justice. I think it was pretty smart of you to find him.”
“So do I,” I said modestly.
Sackler sighed and puffed deeply on his cigar. Wolfe looked at him, nettled. “You’re a bum sport, Rex,” he said. “You should congratulate Joey, too.”
“Why?”
“He’s tracked down a killer and earned a ten grand reward.”
“He hasn’t,” said Sackler quietly. He paused for a moment and added, “I have”
Franklin stared at Sackler. Wolfe looked suspiciously at me. I was aware of a faint empty sensation at the pit of my stomach. I had seen Sackler pull rabbits out of a vacuous hat before.
Then I pulled myself together. He simply couldn’t do it this time. I had the whole thing in the bag.
“Would you mind explaining that last crack?” I said politely.
Sackler’s courteous tone matched my own. He said, “Not at all.” He stood up, crushed out his cigar and helped himself to another from a humidor on the taboret.
“First,” he said, “I must tell the inspector that Parry came to me on the day of the killing and told me he was going to run away from his wife.”
Wolfe glared at him. “You’re an accessory,” he yelled. “An accessory before the fact of murder.”
“I would be,” Sackler conceded, “if Parry was a murderer. He isn’t.”
The empty feeling in my stomach became more noticeable.
“During that interview,” said Sackler, “Parry told me that although his wife had money he was leaving all his savings, some thirty thousand dollars, behind in her bank account as a sort of conscience fund.”
“That was an obvious lie,” I said. “He told you that so you’d believe everything was on the level when he asked you for advice about how to keep under cover.”
Sackler shook his head. “It wasn’t an obvious lie, Joey. It wasn’t even a lie. I checked with Mrs. Parry’s bank yesterday. The money was deposited before Parry disappeared.”
“Well,” said Wolfe, “suppose this is all true. What does it prove?”
“It proves,” went on Sackler, “that Parry didn’t rifle his wife’s bureau looking for cash and jewels with which to scram. If he’d wanted that he wouldn’t have sunk all his dough in her account. If he’d planned to kill her he wouldn’t have done it either.”
“If that’s true,” I said, “how do you account for the forged draft Franklin got?”
“By arguing that Parry never forged a draft.”
“That’s nuts,” snapped Franklin. “I showed the draft to the police. It wasn’t Mrs. Parry’s signature written on that draft, at all.”
“And it wasn’t Parry’s, either,” said Sackler.
“Then whose was it?” Franklin exploded.
Sackler drew a deep breath and looked at him. “Yours,” he said quietly and drew deeply on his cigar.
Franklin was suddenly pale. I was apprehensive, and Inspector Wolfe was annoyed.
“Damn it, Rex,” he yelled. “If you’ve something to tell us, do so. Stop being mysterious.”
“All right,” said Sackler, flashing his most superior smile. “Let’s go back to the beginning. We find Mrs. Parry dead, her husband missing. Naturally everyone leaps to the conclusion that the absent husband is guilty. Since I believed he’d actually left cash behind for his wife, I simply couldn’t believe he’d killed her. Much less rifled her bureau for money and jewels with which to escape.”
“So,” said Wolfe, “who else had any motive?”
“I didn’t know right away,” said Sackler. “But it occurred to me that if Franklin and Mrs. Parry were engaged in various financial deals, there might have been a money motive. I looked into it.”
“And found what?” I said, having clear visions of ten grand slipping from my little fist.
“I first found out the name of the broker with whom Franklin dealt on behalf of Mrs. Parry. I visited the broker and learned that on the afternoon of the killing she had visited him and asked for a statement of her account. It showed vast profits.
“Now,” went on Sackler, “that broker’s statement was not found in the house by the police or anyone else. It was a natural conclusion that it had been taken, taken by the person who ransacked Mrs. Parry’s bureau. Parry, himself, would certainly have no use for it.”
Franklin said, “If you’re accusing me that’s not much evidence.”
“Not in itself,” said Sackler. “If you hadn’t badly overplayed the hand I might have been stuck. But you insisted on making sure that the guilt was fastened on Parry, as soon as you found out your luck in having him take a powder from his wife on the very night you killed her.
“So you fixed up that phoney draft and swore you’d given Parry money on it. You convinced Wolfe, all right, and Joey, here. But you didn’t quite convince me. And you knew you didn’t. Then you overplayed again. In order to convince me as thoroughly as you’d convinced everyone else, you sent in that ham, Wainwright.”
“Wainwright?” I said.
“That exhibitionist who called himself Sligo.”
I blinked and said, “I don’t get it.”
Slacker grinned. “You told me yourself that you thought you’d seen that mug somewhere before. You had — in many places. He was made up to look like a hood. That dollar tossing routine was swiped from the movies. Do you get it now?”
I got it slowly. “You mean he was a tenth rate actor, make up as a hood?”
“Right. He was so phoney it stuck out a mile. I checked by phone with several second class actor’s agencies. I’ve identified him as an out of work ham, named Wainwright. Wolfe can pick him up and sweat him afterwards.”
“Yes,” I said. “But why should Franklin send him in to make that phoney play?”
“He was still trying to make me believe Parry was guilty, that Parry had sent this hood to call me off the case.”
“You mean Franklin was robbing Mrs. Parry? She found out, faced him with it and he killed her? Then, learning that Parry had scrammed, Franklin tried to pin it on him?”
“It’s pretty obvious circumstantially,” said Sackler. “Parry, reading of the murder, was too damned scared to come forward. The newspapers flatly stated he was the murderer.”
Franklin took a step forward. He uttered two ugly words and his right hand thrust itself into his coat pocket. Sackler moved hastily behind a chair. Wolfe and I stepped forward. Wolfe grabbed his right arm just as the automatic came into view. I threw an arm around his throat, held him tight as Wolfe disarmed him.