“No.” Wolfe scowled at me. “Take them to the office... Wait a minute. Dr. Vollmer, if this young woman is in no condition to leave my house it would be cruel and dangerous for her to undergo a police grilling. Do you agree?”
“I do.”
“Good... Miss Duncan, when a policeman comes up here to look at you, keep your eyes closed and moan. Will you do that?”
“Yes. But—”
“No buts. Don’t overdo it, and don’t speak.” He moved. “Come, gentlemen.”
When we got downstairs I waited until they were in the office before opening the front door. There I was greeted by a surprise. It was no squad lieutenant, but Inspector Cramer himself, who shoved in rudely over the sill, with a pair of dicks on his heels. All he had for me was a discourteous remark about answering doorbells as he made for the office. Having to shut the door, I brought up the rear.
Cramer appeared to be having an attack of gout. Not bothering to pass the time of day, he barked at me like a howitzer, “What were you doing down at Twenty-sixth Street?”
I looked at the boss. He murmured, “He’s upset, Archie. Humor him.”
“Humor hell! What time did you get there?”
I looked thoughtful. “Well, let’s see...”
“Quit clowning! You know damn well you’ve always got a timetable!”
“Yes, sir,” I said abjectly. “Arrived at 8:08. Left at 8:24.”
“You admit it!”
“Admit it? I’m proud of it. It was quick work.”
“Yeah.” If glares could kill, I would have been awful sick. “And Wolfe phoned from here at five after nine! You didn’t see the phone right there on Tingley’s desk? I’ve warned you about that. Now, talk! Fast!”
Having received no flag from Wolfe to retain any items for our personal use, I gave Cramer the crop, as far as my activities and observations were concerned, omitting the crumbs that had been gathered in conversation with Cliff and Amy. My candor didn’t seem to make him any more friendly.
When I finished he grunted vulgarly. “So you stood there in that room with a man lying there murdered; and a phone right there and you didn’t use it... Where’s the woman?”
“Upstairs in bed.”
“You can check her out. Doyle, stay here with Mr. Cliff. Foster, come with me — well?”
Doc Vollmer blocked the way. He said firmly, “Miss Duncan should not be disturbed. I speak as her physician.”
“You do.” Cramer eyed him. “I’ll take a look at her. Come, Foster.”
Doc Vollmer, leading the way, went with the forces of law and order. Wolfe heaved a sigh, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Pretty soon steps were heard descending the stairs, and Cramer and Vollmer entered. Wolfe opened his eyes.
“She’s faking,” Cramer declared. “Sure as hell. I’ll send a police doctor.”
“Dr. Vollmer,” Wolfe murmured, “is a competent and reputable physician.”
“Yeah, I know. And a friend of yours. I’ll send a police doctor. And I’m taking Goodwin and Cliff downtown.”
“Where’s that man you had with you?”
“Upstairs. On a chair outside Miss Duncan’s door. He’s going to stay there. And no one but the doctor is going either in or out.”
Wolfe’s bulk became upright. “This is my house, Mr. Cramer,” he said icily, “and you can’t use it for the persecution of innocent and battered females. That man can’t stay here.”
“Try and put him out,” Cramer said grimly. “Next time Goodwin stumbles on a man with his head cut off, maybe he’ll let us know the same day... Come on, you two.”...
At ten o’clock the following morning we didn’t have a guest any more, but we had a client. Having been kept at headquarters until three A.M., I was peevish from lack of sleep. Fritz was on his feet again, but unstable from his grippe. Wolfe was a seething volcano from a sense of outrage. He had had the minor satisfaction of refusing admission to the police doctor the night before, but at eight in the morning they had come with a warrant for Amy Duncan as a material witness and carted her off, and all he could do was grind his teeth. So when I told him, as he sat propped up in bed sipping chocolate and glowering like a thunderhead, that down at headquarters Leonard Cliff had hired him, through me, to go to work, he didn’t even blink an eye. His method of starting the job was customary and characteristic:
“Have Mr. Guthrie Judd here at eleven.”
Before leaving the office I typed what seemed to me to be a nifty visiting card:
Mr. Judd: I respectfully submit the following schedule of events last evening at the Tingley Building:
7:05: Amy Duncan arrives; is knocked on head.
7:30: Guthrie Judd arrives.
7:35: Guthrie Judd leaves.
8:08: I arrive, find Tingley dead.
May I discuss it with you?
I phoned his office in the financial district a little after nine, but was unable to extract any information from anyone even about the weather, which was fine, so I got out the roadster and drove down there.
After a supercilious receptionist condescended to phone someone, and a sap with slick hair made sure I wasn’t Jesse James, I got the envelope dispatched. Then I waited, until finally a retired prize fighter appeared and conducted me through doors and down corridors, and ushered me into a room about the size of a tennis court; and he stayed right at my elbow for the trip across a couple of acres of rugs to where a man sat at an enormous flat-topped desk with nothing on it but a newspaper. On the man’s face was the same totalitarian expression that had goaded me into chalking an X on the door of his car the day before. The corner of the card I had typed was held between the tips of a finger and thumb to avoid germs.
“This impertinence,” he said, in a tone he must have been practicing from boyhood, in case he had ever been a boy. “I wanted to look at you. Take him out, Aiken.”
I grinned at him. “I forgot to bring my chalk. But you’re already down. You’ll discuss it either with me or the police—”
“Bah. The police have already informed me of Mr. Cliff’s false and ridiculous statement. Also, they have just told me on the phone who you are. If you annoy me further I’ll have you jailed. Take him out, Aiken.”
The ex-pug actually put his hand on my arm. It was all I could do to keep from measuring one of the rugs with him. But I merely set my jaw and walked back across the carpet department to the door. He accompanied me all the way to the elevators. As the elevator door opened I said in a kindly tone, “Here, boy,” and flipped a nickel at his face. It got him on the tip of the nose, but luckily his reflex was too slow for him to thank me properly before the door closed.
For the second time in twenty-four hours I had failed to fill an order, and as I went back to where I had parked the roadster and started uptown I was in no mood to keep to the right and stop for lights. It was more than likely that Judd would get away with it. If a man in his position maintained that Cliff had either misread the license number of the car or was lying, there wasn’t much the cops could or would do about it. They might have a try at the chauffeur, but of course Judd would have attended to that.
It was with the idea in mind of a substitute for Judd that I turned west on 26th Street and drove to the Tingley Building. Not something just as good, but anyhow something. But that was a dud, too. The place was silent and deserted, which I suppose was natural in view of what had happened.
I thought I might as well proceed with my search for a substitute, and, after consulting my memo book, drove to 23rd Street and turned east and stopped in front of an old brownstone. The vestibule was clean, with the brass fronts of the mailboxes polished and shining, including the one which bore the name of Yates, where I pressed the button. I entered on the click, mounted one flight, and had my finger on a button at a door in the rear when the door was opened by Gwendolyn herself.