“And?”
“And I act like one. Calling you a rat and a coward, that was silly. Of course I know you’re not, I know you’re a very smart man, and you’re honorable and anything but a coward.” She put her hand out again, and that time touched my arm. “It’s just that I think I may know something about what’s in the package on account of what Hattie told me yesterday morning. She said she was going to take it to Nero Wolfe. You say she left it with you and told you something in confidence. If you ask me why I sneaked in here and took it, can’t I ask you why you set a trap? Why you told us it was here in your pocket and then sneaked in and hid?”
She talked too much. I had caught her in the very act, and she was turning it into a debating match. I decided to give her a test. “We could keep this up all day,” I said. “I’ll call Purley Stebbins, the police sergeant who was here yesterday, and he’ll come or we’ll go and see him. Let him decide about the package. Where’s the phone?”
That did it, and I should have been tickled but wasn’t. I believe I haven’t mentioned that the idea had occurred to me at our first meeting that it might be interesting to know her better, to learn about such details as her table manners and her reactions to dance music, and a girl is not available for that kind of investigation if she is in the coop on a murder charge. Even before she spoke, the expression on her face was a big hint.
She spoke. “I’d rather not,” she said. “Hattie hated cops.”
“Hattie is dead.”
“Yes, but...” She touched my arm. “You said yourself it’s still her property and she certainly wouldn’t want us to give it to the police. She trusted me, didn’t she? When she told me she was going to see Nero Wolfe? Can’t you trust me, Mr. Goodwin? Don’t you think I’m fit to be trusted?”
I skipped that. She was unquestionably a woman. “All right,” I said, “there’s an alternative. I’m not too fond of cops myself. We’ll go and put it up to Nero Wolfe. Get your coat and hat.”
She considered it, twisting her mouth, her head tilted, regarding me. “You won’t give me the package if I promise to come later?”
“Of course not.”
“All right. I’ll go. My coat’s up in my room.”
I opened the door and she passed through and headed for the stairs. Since I would have at least six minutes, the world record minimum for a human female to get a coat and put it on, I thought I might as well take a look at Hattie Annis’ desk, so I went up. The door was standing open, and Paul Hannah appeared on the sill as I approached.
“Oh, there you are,” he said. “I was thinking about those questions Ferris asked. You didn’t answer them.”
“I made a stab at it.” I entered and crossed to the desk. The top was rolled up, the pigeonholes were stuffed full, and stacks of papers and magazines and miscellaneous items left no room on the surface. It would have taken an hour for a quick once-over or four hours for a real job, not counting the drawers. I pulled out the contents of a pigeonhole. “Which question especially?” I asked.
“All of them. I don’t get any of it.”
“I’m not sure I do. That’s why I’m snooping. I’ll let you know if I find anything that helps.”
“I won’t be here. I’m leaving for the theatre. Rehearsal.”
“Good luck and don’t trip on anything. If Clement Brod’s around give him my regards.”
He said he would, and went. Opening the six drawers of the desk, none of them locked, and finding that they were stuffed too, I went back to the surface and pigeonholes. There were theatre programs, newspaper clippings, pictures cut out of magazines, cancelled checks — something of everything except letters. Not a single letter. My watch told me that the six minutes had stretched to ten, which was surely enough, when Tammy Baxter’s voice came: “Mr. Goodwin! Where are you?”
She was below, at the foot of the stairs, in the same fur coat and fuzzy little turban as the day before. I descended and got my coat and hat from the parlor and put the package in the pocket, and we left, heading west. She was a good woman walker, neither trotting nor jiggling. When we had flagged a taxi on Ninth Avenue and I had climbed in after her and given the hackie the address, I asked, “Do you drive a car?”
“Certainly,” she said. “Who doesn’t?”
So that was no help. You can’t steal a car and run it over somebody if you don’t know how to drive. If you think I’m piling it on, that I didn’t really suspect she might have killed Hattie Annis, you are wrong. If there’s a formula for ruling people out as incapable of murder under any provocation I don’t know what it is, and there were four marks against her. But that aspect of the situation was soon to be disposed of. As the taxi rolled to the curb in front of the old brownstone a man got out of a parked car just ahead. It was Albert Leach.
I should have caught on immediately. I should have let Tammy Baxter scramble out by herself instead of giving her a hand. I certainly was a sap that it didn’t dawn on me when Leach flashed the leather fold with his credentials and said, “I’m arresting you on suspicion of being in possession of counterfeit United States currency.”
My brows went up. “No warrant this time?”
“No warrant is needed if the suspicion is based on reasonable grounds.”
“You ought to know. I’m not up on Federal law. But since we’re outdoors and you have already searched my room, I suppose ‘possession’ means having it on my person?”
“It does.”
“Okay, that’s easily settled.” I stretched my arms wide. “Go to it.”
“Not here.” He touched my shoulder. “Come along.”
“I respectfully decline. I’m too heavy for you to carry, so you’ll have to drag me. People have been known to plant things on people, and here I have witnesses — this lady and the cab driver. If you undress me and I catch cold I hereby agree not to hold the United States responsible.” I stretched my arms again.
He turned and called, “Come here, Ziegler!” and a man climbed out of the car and joined us. “Stand by,” Leach said, and moved. He didn’t pat or feel; he simply stuck his hand in my pocket and pulled out the package. He backed up, squatted, put the package on the sidewalk, untied the string, and opened the wrapping. He stared a second at the neat white stack of paper, then picked it up and flipped through it, first at one end and then the other.
“Don’t soil it, please,” I said. “That’s good bond.” I stretched my arms. “Try again. You’ve barely started.”
He stood up. “I warned you yesterday, Goodwin. It doesn’t pay to play games with us. You’ll regret this. Come on, Ziegler.” He turned and headed for the car, with the makings of the package.
“Hey!” I called. “I want that!”
He ignored me, and it wasn’t worth an argument, since I could make another one at a cost of under fifteen cents. When they had got in and rolled away, the hackie called to me, “What’s he? FBI?”
“Yes,” I told him. “Foiled By Intelligence — What’s the idea?”
Tammy Baxter was opening the door of the cab. “I’m going,” she said. “I might as well. The package is gone.”
“But you’re not. Nothing doing. There is still something to discuss. We’ll go in and discuss it here, or you can discuss it later with Stebbins. Take your pick.”
She hesitated, then swung the door shut. “Okay,” I told the driver, “your flag’s up,” and he fed gas and was off. Tammy turned to me: “What was that in the package? Just blank paper?”
I eyed her. “Show me your credentials,” I said.
“What? What credentials?”
“Nuts. Maybe you’re right. You might as well go. Then I can go in and ring a man I know on the Gazette and give him an item he’ll appreciate. Human interest. That Archie Goodwin was ambushed on the sidewalk in front of Nero Wolfe’s house by two T-men and a T-woman and arrested for possession of counterfeit United States currency, and only his quick wit and presence of mind saved him. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know there is a T-woman. I didn’t. A picture of you would help. A picture of you would decorate any story. The gorgeous glamorous T-woman. Wait here a second while I go in and get my camera.”