“That’s horrible,” Martha Kirk said. “To accuse Hattie of stealing!”
“He’s not accusing her, Martha darling,” Ferris told her. “He’s eliminating. Detectives spend practically all their time eliminating.”
“Could it be a book?” Raymond Dell asked. “My Tamburlaine is gone.”
“It’s not the right shape for a book,” I said. “Six inches by three and two inches thick.”
“Where is it?” Tammy Baxter asked.
“In my overcoat pocket.” I sent my eyes around. “Oh, I left it in the parlor.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake.” Martha Kirk turned her hands up — a dancer’s hands. “I’m not a detective, but when I want to know what’s in a package I open it. Shall I bring it?”
“No, thank you, Miss Kirk. Miss Annis told me not to open it. She’s dead, but as far as I’m concerned it’s still her property. Unless you want to claim it?”
“Me? Why should I? It’s not mine.”
“Miss Baxter?”
Tammy shook her head. “No.”
“Mr. Dell?”
“I am minus nothing.” He had finally finished the orange. “Nothing but my illusions, my ambitions, and my hopes. They could not be contained in the package you describe.”
“Mr. Ferris?”
His eyes were still only half open. “How can I claim it unless I know what’s in it?”
“Have you missed anything recently?”
“No. Not even an illusion.”
“Mr. Hannah?”
He shook his head. “I guess we’re all eliminated. Why, did Hattie tell you it belonged to one of us?”
“No, it was just a notion I got. — By the way, Mr. Dell, that remark you made yesterday about snooping. I snoop only within reason. I could have opened the package and tried whatever is in it for fingerprints. If I found some I could have come and got hold of samples from you people — for instance, from the coffee cups. That would have been snooping. Instead, I just came and asked you.” I pushed my chair back and stood. “I apologize again for coming before breakfast, and many thanks for the coffee and the cooperation. You said second floor front, Mr. Ferris?”
“Correct. One flight up. If you find a will leaving it to anyone but us or one of us, burn it.”
“I’ll do that.” I went.
I took my time mounting the stair, trying each step for creaks, in case developments called for silent descent. The fifth from the top didn’t creak but it croaked unless you stepped on the inside end. The upper hall had three doors, one toward each end and one about the middle. The one at the rear end was standing open — Raymond Dell’s, since he had told Stebbins that his room was above the kitchen. The one in the middle was shut; probably a closet. The one at the front was also shut, and I went and opened it and entered. There was a massive walnut bed, a big old rolltop desk, a worn and faded carpet with big flowers, some chairs; and a hundred or so pictures of men and women all over the walls, most of them in costume, and all of them actors from a mile off.
Of course staying there was no good; I might as well have stayed at home. A floor and ceiling were between me and the parlor, and if he or she took the bait quick, on leaving the kitchen, he could be in and out of the parlor without my hearing or seeing a thing. There was no place to lurk in the lower hall. Only one place would do. I left, closed the door, went to the landing, and listened. Voices came up, dominated by the boom of Raymond Dell. With that for cover I descended, remembering the fifth step, saw that the hall was clear, made the door to the parlor, opened it, entered, and shut the door gently.
There were three possibilities: a closet if there was one, the upright piano at the right wall, and the sofa itself. One of the other two doors was probably a closet, but I wanted a better view than a keyhole, and with the blinds down there wasn’t much light. To be covered by the sofa I would have had to shift its angle. The thought struck me that one of them might already have dived in and out again, and I felt the pocket of my coat. Still there. I went and huddled at the end of the piano, squeezing into the corner, and decided it would do. It would have to. If he looked around first it would cramp my style, but anyhow there would be something to discuss. I straightened up, listened to my ears, and kept an eye on two doors, since the one at the far corner might be to a passage to the kitchen. It was so dark that I could barely see the hands of my wrist watch. 9:42.
I might have been able to hear their voices, at least Dell’s, if it hadn’t been for the street sounds. Morning crosstown traffic in the Forties can be heard even when it can’t be seen. So I quit trying. I learned later that the historic gathering I had assembled soon broke up, but the only sign I got was footsteps in the hall a couple of times. They went on by. I was rubbing one eye and beginning to think he wasn’t going to bite, that I had wasted a lot of typewriter paper and carefully selected items from Fritz’s hoard of paper and string, when the door to the hall started to open, and I squeezed into the corner fast.
V
He certainly wasn’t noisy. I have good ears, but the door closing was just a faint whisper, and so was his crossing to the sofa. But when a package is a tight fit in a pocket it isn’t easy to get it out with no noise at all, especially if you’re in a hurry, and I heard that, which was the main point. I moved and spoke: “Did you want me?”
It wasn’t he, it was she, and she was quick. She made a dash for the door and got there before I did, but it opened in, and of course that was hopeless. I was against it before she had the knob turned. “You rat,” she said, not too loud.
I stretched an arm to reach for the wall switch and turned on the light. “I admit I’m surprised,” I said. “If I had made book on it you would have been at the bottom.”
“You lied,” she said. “Yesterday. You said she hadn’t been there.”
“Sure. Because she might have had reasons for not wanting you to know. Apparently she did.”
“She did not! She told me she was going!”
“Maybe. Or maybe you followed her. Anyway, the point isn’t why I lied, it’s why you sneaked in and snitched that package.” I put out a hand. “I’ll take it.”
She backed up a step. “You will not. It’s not yours, it’s hers. That’s why I came and got it. You have no right to it!”
“Have you?”
“As much as you have. More. This is her house. It belongs here.”
I shot out a hand, grabbed her wrist, whirled her off balance, and with the other hand got the package.
“Coward,” she said. “If I were a man...”
“I wish you were. For instance, Noel Ferris. I don’t like the way he answers the phone. Look, Miss Baxter. I may be a rat and a coward, but I’m not a goof. If you felt that I had no right to the package because it belongs here, why didn’t you say so? The three men could have held me while you came and got it, or at least they could have tried. But you sneaked in when the coast was clear, or you thought it was. Of course you knew I would miss it, so the point was that I wouldn’t know who had taken it. Why?”
“I’m a woman,” she said.
“Right. No argument. And?”
“I’m a woman, that’s all.” She put out a hand and was going to touch me but let it drop. “You have a reputation for knowing all about women, Mr. Goodwin.”