“They all had the same label,” Cramer rumbled.
“All?”
“Yes. There were seven bottles of iodine in that house, counting the kitchen, and they were all the same, size and shape and label.”
“They bought it wholesale,” I explained, “on account of Mister and the bears.”
“That,” Wolfe said, “is precisely the sort of thing you would know, Mr. Cramer. Seven. Not eight. Seven. And of course you had it all analyzed and it was all good iodine.”
“It was. And what the hell is there in that to be sarcastic about? It clears up your point, don’t it? And I might mention another point. The murderer had to leave the terrace, go in the house, between the time the glasses got broken and the time Miss Huddleston cut herself, to switch the iodine bottles.”
Wolfe shook his head. “That offers nothing. They all went in the house during that period. Miss Nichols went for brooms and pans. The nephew went for another tray of supplies. Miss Timms went for a vacuum cleaner. Dr. Brady carried off the debris.”
Cramer stared at him in exasperation. “And you know nothing about it! Jesus. You’re not interested!”
“I didn’t,” Daniel put in. “I didn’t leave the terrace during that period.”
“So far as I know,” Wolfe agreed, “that is correct. But if I were you I wouldn’t brag about it. You went for the iodine. It was the bottle you handed to Dr. Brady that he used. Your jaw is loose again. You bounce, Mr. Huddleston, from wrath to indignation, with amazing agility. Frankly, I doubt if it is possible to suspect you of murdering your sister. If you did it, your facial dexterity surpasses anything in my experience. If you’ll stay and dine with me, I’ll reach a decision on that before the meal is finished. Partridges in marinade. En escabeche.” His eyes gleamed. “They are ready for us.” He pushed back his chair and got himself onto his feet. “So, Mr. Cramer, it seems likely that it is limited to four, which simplifies your task. You’ll excuse me, I’m sure—”
“Yeah,” Cramer said, “glad to.” He was up too. “But you’ll enjoy your partridges alone. Huddleston and Goodwin are going with me.” His glance took us in. “Let’s go.”
Wolfe looked displeased. “I have already cleared away the brush for you. If you insist on seeing them this evening, they can call at your office — say at ten o’clock?”
“No. They’re coming now.”
Wolfe’s chin went up. His mouth opened and then closed again. It was an interesting sight, especially for me, knowing as I do how hard he is to flabbergast, next to impossible, but I can’t truthfully say I enjoyed it, because of who was doing it. So I spoke up:
“I’m staying for the partridges. And I may or may not show up at ten o’clock, depending—”
“To hell with you,” Cramer rumbled. “I’ll deal with you later. We’ll go, Mr. Huddleston.”
Wolfe took a step, and his voice was as close to trembling with rage as it ever got. “Mr. Huddleston is my invited guest!”
“I’ve uninvited him. Come, Mr. Huddleston.”
Wolfe turned to Daniel. He was controlling himself under insufferable provocation. “Mr. Huddleston. I have invited you to my table. You are under no compulsion, legal or moral, to accompany this man on demand. He struts and blusters. Later Mr. Goodwin will drive you—”
But Daniel said firmly, “I guess I’ll go along with him, Mr. Wolfe. After the days I’ve spent trying to get them started on this...”
The partridge was swell, and I ate nearly as much as Wolfe did. Otherwise it was one of the dullest meals I had ever had under Wolfe’s roof. He didn’t say a word, clear to the coffee.
Chapter 6
I described that scene in detail, because if it hadn’t been for that I doubt if the murderer of Bess Huddleston would ever have been caught. One of Cramer’s bunch might possibly have doped it out, but they never in the world would have got enough evidence for an arrest. And Wolfe, with no client and no commitment, was through with it, or would have been if Cramer hadn’t kidnapped a dinner guest right under his nose and made him so damn mad he had to take Amphojel twice that evening.
Twice. The first dose was right after dinner, when he sent me up to his room for the bottle. The second was long after midnight, when I got home after my call on Inspector Cramer downtown. I sneaked quietly up the two flights to my room, but was just starting to undress when the house phone on my table buzzed, and, answering it and getting a summons, I descended to Wolfe’s room and entered. The light was on and he wasn’t in his bed, and, proceeding to his bathroom, I found him taking another shot of Amphojel, with a scowl on his face that would have scared Joe Louis right out of the ring. He was a spectacle anyway, draped in the ten yards of yellow silk that it took to make him a suit of pajamas.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Routine. Questions and a signed statement.”
“He’ll pay for this.” Wolfe made a face like an infuriated gargoyle and put the Amphojel bottle back in the cabinet. “I haven’t had to take this stuff since that hideous experiment with eels in the spring. He’ll pay for it. Go to Riverdale early in the morning. Consult the stableman and learn—”
“I doubt if there is one. The horses are gone. The creditors get two percent.”
“Find him. Wherever he is. I wish to know whether anyone has recently removed anything, any material, from the vicinity of the stable. A small paper bag filled at the manure pile would have been ideal. Question him. If he’s difficult, bring him here. Also — is there a servant on the place?”
I nodded. “The butler. I think he’s hanging on hoping to get paid.”
“Ask him about that bottle that Miss Huddleston found broken in her bathroom. Whatever he knows about it. Ask any other servant who was there at the time. All details possible—”
“The others too? Maryella, Janet, Larry—”
“No. Mention it to no one but the servants. Phone before returning. Before you go, leave phone numbers on my desk — Riverdale, Mr. Huddleston, Dr. Brady — that’s all. He’ll pay for this. Good night.”
So we had a case. We had no client, no retainer, and no fee in sight, but at least we had a case, which was better than sitting around on my tail listening to the radio.
I made six hours’ sleep do me, and before eight o’clock next morning I was up at Riverdale. I didn’t phone in advance, since I had to go anyway to get my car which I had left on the driveway the day before. Greeted at the door by Hoskins, I was told that the stableman was gone and maybe Maryella had his address. I would have preferred asking Janet or even Larry, but Hoskins said they were both late sleepers and Maryella was already eating breakfast, so I got the address from her, and by good luck it wasn’t Bucyrus, Ohio, but merely Brooklyn. Whatever else you want to say about Brooklyn, and so do I, it does have one big advantage, it’s close.
That errand was one of the simplest I have ever performed, once I found the address and the stableman. His name was Tim Lavery and a scar on his cheek made him look mean until he grinned. I started with him cautiously, pretending that my mind was on something else, but soon saw that it wasn’t necessary to sneak up on him, and put it to him straight.
“Sure,” he said, “one day about a month ago, maybe a little more, Doc Brady filled up a box he brought, an empty candy box. I helped him. He said he wanted it for a test. One of his patients had died of tetanus — I forget her name—”
I pretended there was nothing to be excited about. “Where’d he take it from? The stall?”
“No. The pile. I dug into the middle of the pile for him.”
“Who was with him that day? One of the girls?”
Tim shook his head. “He was alone when he did that. They had been riding — I forget who was with him that day — and they went to the house and then he came back alone with that box and said what he wanted.”