“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—”
“That will do, Archie! If you insist on being whimsical—”
“I am not being whimsical. I’m merely agreeing with you that it’s ridiculous.” I sent him back his glare. “I know what you’re doing, and so do you! You’re letting it slide! Your performance with those two women I brought here was pitiful! I’ve got legs and I’m using them. You’ve got a brain and where is it? You’re sore at Tingley because he got killed before you could shake your finger at him and tell him to keep quinine out of his liver pâté. You’re sore at Cramer because he offended your dignity. You’re sore at me because I didn’t get Judd. Now you’re sore at Miss Duncan because while she was lying there unconscious she let someone put her prints on that knife.”
I turned to Amy: “You shouldn’t permit things like that to happen. They annoy Mr. Wolfe.”
Wolfe shut his eyes. There was a long silence. The tip of his forefinger was making little circles on the arm of his chair. Finally his lids went up halfway, and I was relieved to see that the focus was not me but Amy. He leaned back and clasped his fingers above his breadbasket. “Miss Duncan,” he said, “it looks as if we’ll have to go all over it. Are you up to answering some questions?”
“Oh, yes,” she declared. “Anything that will — I feel pretty good. I’m all right.”
“You don’t look it. I’m going on the assumption that you and Mr. Cliff are telling the truth. I shall abandon it only under necessity. I assume, for instance, that when you left your uncle’s employ and later became Mr. Cliff’s secretary you were not coming to terms with the enemy.”
“You certainly may,” Cliff put in. “We knew she had worked in Tingley’s office, but we didn’t know she was his niece. That’s why I was so surprised when I saw she was going there last evening. I couldn’t imagine what she was doing there.”
“Very well. I’ll take all that.” Wolfe went on with Amy: “What would you say if I told you that Miss Murphy was responsible for the quinine?”
“Why—” Amy looked astonished. “I wouldn’t know what to say. I’d ask you how you knew. I couldn’t believe that Carrie would do a thing like that.”
“Did she have a grudge against your uncle?”
“Not that I know of. No special grudge. Of course, nobody really liked him.”
“What about Miss Yates?”
“Oh, she’s all right. She’s a kind of a holy terror with the girls in the factory, but she’s certainly competent.”
“Did you and she get along?”
“Well enough. We didn’t have much to do with each other. I was my uncle’s stenographer.”
“How were her relations with Tingley?”
“As good as could be expected. Of course, she was a privileged character; he couldn’t possibly have got along without her. He inherited her from my grandfather along with the business.”
Wolfe grunted. “Speaking of inheritance. Do you know anything about your uncle’s will? Who will get the business?”
“I don’t know, but I suppose my cousin Philip.”
“His adopted son?”
“Yes.” Amy hesitated, then offered an amendment by a change of inflection: “I suppose he will. The business has always been handed down from father to son. But, of course, Philip—” She stopped.
“Is he active in the business?”
“No. That’s just it. He isn’t active in anything. Except—” She stopped.
“Except—?” Wolfe prodded her.
“I was going to say, except spending money, only for the past year or so he hasn’t had any to spend. Since Uncle Arthur kicked him out. I suppose he’s been giving him enough to keep him from starving. I thought — I had an idea, when my uncle phoned and asked me to come to his office yesterday, and he was so urgent about it, that it was something about Philip.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Well — because the only other time he ever sent for me it was about Philip. He thought that I could — that I had an influence over him.”