Wolfe leaned back, clasped his fingers at the highest point of his central mound, took in a bushel of air and let it out, and grumbled, “I may have gone about this wrong. Of course one of you has lied.”
“You’re damn right,” Jarrell said, “and I know which one.”
“If Susan lied,” Roger objected, “so did Wyman. What about this Green?”
I would walk on his toes too, some day when I could get around to it.
“It was a mistake,” Wolfe declared, “to get you all on record regarding your whereabouts at that hour. Now you are all committed, including the one who took the gun, and he will be more reluctant than ever to speak. It would be pointless to hammer at you now; indeed, I doubt if hammering would have helped in any case. The time for hammering was Wednesday afternoon, the moment Mr. Jarrell found that the gun was gone. Then there had been no murder, with its menace of an inexorable inquisition.”
He looked them over. “So here we are. You know how it stands. I said that I shall have to inform the police if the possibility that Mr. Jarrell’s gun was used to kill Mr. Eber becomes a probability. It is nearer a probability, in my mind, now than it was an hour ago — now that all of you have denied taking the gun, for one of you did take it.”
His eyes went over them again. “When I speak to a man, or a woman, I like to look at him, but I speak now to the one who took the gun, and I can’t look at him because I don’t know who he is. So, speaking to him, I close my eyes.” He closed them. “If you know where the gun is, and it is innocent, all you have to do is let it reappear. You need not expose yourself. Merely put it somewhere in sight, where it will soon be seen. If it does not appear soon I shall be compelled to make one of two assumptions.”
He raised a finger, his eyes still closed. “One. That it is no longer in your possession and is not accessible. If it left your possession before Eber was killed it may have been used to kill him, and the police will have to be informed. If it left your possession after he was killed and you know it wasn’t used to kill him — and, as I said, that can be demonstrated — you will then have to expose yourself, but that will be a trifle since it will establish the innocence of the gun. I don’t suppose Mr. Jarrell will prosecute for theft.”
Another finger went up. “Two. My alternative assumption will be that you killed Eber. In that case you certainly will not produce the gun even if it is still available to you; and every hour that I delay telling the police what I know is a disservice to the law you and I live under.”
He opened his eyes. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen. As you see, it is exigent. There is nothing more to say at the moment. I shall await notice that the gun has been found, the sooner the better. The conference is ended, except for one of you. Mr. Foote has suggested that the record of the man who took Mr. Eber’s place, Mr. Alan Green, should be looked into, and I agree. Mr. Green, you will please remain. For the rest of you, that is all for the present. I should apologize for a default in hospitality. That refreshment table is equipped and I should have invited you. I do so now. Archie?”
Orrie Archie Cather Goodwin said, “I asked them, Mr. Wolfe,” and got up and headed for the table. Roger Foote was there as soon as he was, so the bourbon would get a ride. Thinking it might be expected that my nerves needed a bracer, since my record was going to be probed, I went and asked Mr. Goodwin for some scotch and water. The others had left their chairs, but apparently not for refreshment. Jarrell and Trella were standing at Wolfe’s desk, conversing with him, and Corey Brigham stood behind them, kibitzing. Nora Kent stood at the end of the couch, sending her sharp gray eyes around. Seeing that Wyman and Susan were going, I caught Orrie’s eye and he made for the hall to let them out. I took a sip of refreshment, stepped over to Roger Foote, and told him, “Many thanks for the plug.”
“Nothing personal. It just occurred to me. What do I know about you? Nothing. Neither does anybody else.” He went to the table and reached for the bourbon bottle.
I had been considering whether I should tackle Lois or let bad enough alone, and was saved the trouble when she called to me and I went to her, over by the big globe.
“We pretend we’re looking at the globe,” she said. “That’s called covering. I just wanted to tell you that the minute I saw that character, when he let us in, I remembered. One thing I’ve got to ask, does my father know who you are?”
She was pointing at Venezuela on the globe, and I was looking at her hand, which I knew was nice to hold to music. Obviously there was no chance of bulling it; she knew; and there wasn’t time to take Wolfe’s line with Nora and set it up as an assumption. So I turned the globe and pointed to Madagascar.
“Yes,” I said, “he knows.”
“Because,” she said, “he may not be the flower of knighthood, but he’s my father, and besides, he pays my bills. You wouldn’t string me, would you?”
“I’d love to string you, but not on this. Your father knew I was Archie Goodwin when he took me to his place Monday afternoon. When he wants you and the others to know I suppose he’ll tell you.”
“He never tells me anything.” She pointed to Ceylon. “If there was anything I wanted to blackmail you for, this would be wonderful, but if I ever do yearn for anything from you I would want it to pour out, just gush out from an uncontrollable passion. I wouldn’t meet you halfway, because that wouldn’t be maidenly, but I wouldn’t run. It’s too bad—”
“You coming, Lois?”
It was Roger Foote, with Nora beside him. Lois said the globe was the biggest one she had ever seen and she hated to leave it, and Roger said he would buy her one, what with I don’t know, and they went. I stayed with the globe. Jarrell and Trella were still with Wolfe, but Corey Brigham had gone. Then they left too, ignoring me, and while Orrie was in the hall seeing them out I went and sat on one of the yellow chairs, the one Susan had occupied.
I cringed. “Very well, sir,” I said, “you want my record. I was born in the maternity ward of the Ohio State Penitentiary on Christmas Eve, eighteen sixty-five. After they branded me I was taken—”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, sir.” I got up and went to my own chair as Orrie appeared. “Do you want my opinion?”
“No.”
“You’re quite welcome. One will get you twenty that the gun will not be found.”
He grunted.
I replied, “Lois has remembered who I am, and I had to tell her that her father knows. She won’t spread it. One will get you thirty that the gun will not be found.”
He grunted.
I replied, “To be practical about it, the only real question is how soon we call Cramer, and I’m involved in that as much as you are. More. One will get you fifty that the gun will not be found.”
He grunted.
Chapter 9
At nine-thirty Saturday morning, having breakfasted with Lois and Susan and Wyman, more or less — more or less, because we hadn’t synchronized — I made a tour of the lower floor of the duplex, all except the library and the kitchen. It wasn’t a search; I didn’t look under cushions or in drawers. Wolfe’s suggestion had been to put the gun at some spot where it would soon be seen, so I just covered the territory and used my eyes. I certainly didn’t expect to see it, having offered odds of fifty to one, and so wasn’t disappointed.
There was no good reason why I shouldn’t have slept in my own bed Friday night, but Wolfe had told Jarrell (with Trella there) that he would send his secretary back to him as soon as he was through asking him about his past. I hadn’t really minded, since even a fifty-to-one shot has been known to deliver, and if one of them sneaked the gun out into the open that very evening it would be a pleasure to be the one to discover it, or even to be there when someone else discovered it. So I made a tour before I went up to bed.