Heath was beside her, gripping her arm. She jerked away and bumped into Delia Devlin, also out of her chair. Carol Berk said something, and so did Leddegard. Heath spoke to Wolfe. “This is a joke, and it’s not funny.”
Wolfe’s brows went up. “It’s not my joke, sir.”
“You asked us to come here.” His voice was soft but very sour, and his glassy eyes looked about ready to pop out of his round pudgy face. “Miss Goheen has been making a fool of you, and there—”
“I have not!” Fifi was back, at his elbow. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she told Wolfe. “You know, there’s something about you, fat as you are.” She reached to pick up the glass of beer and Scotch. “Open your mouth and I’ll — hey! Where you going?”
She got no reply. Out of his chair and headed for the door, Wolfe kept on, turning left in the hall, toward the kitchen.
That ended the party. They made remarks, especially Leddegard and Heath, and I was sympathetic as I wrangled them into the hall and on to the front. I went out and stood on the stoop as they descended to the sidewalk and headed for Tenth Avenue, just to see, but by the time they had gone fifty paces no furtive figures had sneaked out of areaways along the line, so I thought what the hell and went back in. A glance in the office showed me it was empty, and I went on to the kitchen.
Fritz was pouring something thick into a big stone jar. Wolfe stood watching him, a slice of sturgeon in one hand and a glass of beer in the other. His mouth was occupied.
I attacked head on. “I admit,” I said, “that she was set to toss it at you, but I was there to help wipe it off. What good does it do to duck? There are at least eighty-six things you have to know before you can even start, and you had them there and didn’t even try. My vacation starts next Monday. And what about your rule on not eating at bedtime?”
He swallowed. He drank beer, put the glass and the sturgeon on the table, reached to a shelf for a Bursatto melon, got a knife from the rack, cut the melon open, and began spooning the seeds onto a plate.
“The precise moment,” he said. “Do you want some?”
“Certainly not,” I said coldly. The peach-colored meat was so juicy there was a little pool in each half, and a breeze from the open window carried the smell to me. I reached for one of the halves, got a spoon, scooped out a bite — and another …
Wolfe never talks business during meals, but this was not a meal. In the middle of his melon he remarked, “For us the past is impossible.”
I darted my tongue to catch a drop of juice. “Oh. It is?”
“Yes. It would take an army. The police and the FBI have already had four days for it. The source of the poison. Mrs. Kremp. Mrs. Rackell’s surmise of the motive. Mr. Heath is presumbably a Communist, but what about the others? Anyone might be a Communist, just as anyone might have a hidden carcinoma.”
He scooped a bite of melon and dealt with it. “What of the motives suggested by that fantastic female buffoon? Are any of them authentic, and if so which one or ones? That alone would need a regiment. As for the police and the FBI, we have nothing to bargain with. Are they all Communists? Were they all in on it? Must we expose not one murderer but five? All those questions and others would have to be answered. How long would it take?”
“A year ought to do it.”
“I doubt it. The past is hopeless. There’s too much of it.”
I raised my shoulders and let them drop. “Okay, you don’t have to rub it in. So we cross it off. Do I draw a check to Rackell for his three grand tonight or wait till morning?”
“Have I asked you to draw a check?”
“No, sir.”
He picked up the slice of sturgeon and took a bite. He never skimped on his chewing, and it took him a good four minutes to finish. Meanwhile I disposed of my melon.
“Archie,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“How does Mr. Heath feel about Miss Goheen?”
“Well.” I considered. “There are different ways of putting it. I would say something like you would feel about a dish of stewed terrapin with sherry — within your sight and smell — if you thought you knew how it would taste but had never had any.”
He grunted. “Don’t be fanciful. It’s a serious question in a field where you are qualified as an expert and I’m not. Is his appetite deeply aroused? Would he take a risk for her?”
“I don’t know how he is on risks, but I saw how he looked at her and how he reacted when she touched him. Also I saw Delia Devlin, and so did you. I would say he would try crossing a high shaky bridge with a wind blowing, but not unless it had rails.”
“That was the impression I got. We’ll have to try it.”
“Try what?”
“A shove. A dig in their ribs. If their past is too much for us, their future isn’t, or shouldn’t be. We’ll have to try it. If it doesn’t work we’ll try again.” He was scowling. “The best I can give it is one chance in twenty. Confound it, it requires the cooperation of Mrs. Rackell, so I’ll have to see her again; that can’t be helped.”
He scooped a bite of melon. “You’ll need some instructions. I’ll finish this, and we’ll go to the office.”
He put the bite where it belonged and concentrated on his taste buds.
IV
It didn’t work out as scheduled. The program called for getting Mrs. Rackell to the office at eleven o’clock the next morning, Thursday, but when I phoned a little before nine the maid said it was too early to disturb her. At ten she hadn’t called back, and I tried again and got her. I explained that Wolfe had an important confidential question to put to her, and she said she would be at the office not later than eleven-thirty. Shortly before eleven she phoned again to say that she had called her husband at his office, and it had been decided if the question was important and confidential they should both be present to consider it. Her husband would be free for an hour or so after lunch but had a four-o’clock appointment he would have to keep. We finally settled for six o’clock, and I called Rackell at his office and confirmed it.
Henry Jameson Heath was on the front page of the Gazette again that morning, not in connection with homicide. Once more he had refused to disclose the names of contributors to the fund for bail for the indicted Communists and apparently he was going to stick to it no matter how much contempt he rolled up. The day’s installment on the Rackell murder was on page seven, and there wasn’t enough meat in it to feed a cricket. As for me, after an hour at the phone, locating Saul Panzer and Fred Durkin and Orrie Cather and passing them the word, I might as well have gone to the ball game. Wolfe had given me plenty of instructions, but I couldn’t act on them until and unless the clients agreed to string along.
Mrs. Rackell arrived first, at six on the dot. A minute later Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, and she started in on him. She had the idea that he was responsible for Fifi Goheen’s slanderous lie about her dead nephew, since it had been uttered in his office, and what did he propose to do about it? Why didn’t he have her arrested? Wolfe controlled himself fairly well, but his tone was beginning to get sharp when the doorbell rang and I beat it to the front to let Rackell in. He jogged past me to the office on his short legs, nodded at Wolfe, kissed his wife on the cheek, dropped onto a chair, wiped his long narrow face with a handkerchief, and asked wearily, “What is it? Did you get anywhere with them?”
“No.” Wolfe was short. “Not to any conclusion.”
“What’s this important question?”
“It’s blunt and simple. I need to know whether you want the truth enough to pay for it, and if so how much.”
Rackell looked at his wife. “What’s he talking about?”
“We haven’t discussed it,” Wolfe told him. “We’ve been considering a point your wife raised, which I regard as frivolous. This question of mine — perhaps I should call it a suggestion. I have one to offer.”