“Oh, come, Mr. Kearns.” Wolfe was disgusted. “It is established that her cab stood at the mouth of the alley leading to your house for more than half an hour, having come at your bidding. If you omitted that detail in your statement to the police I may have to supply it. Haven’t you spoken with Miss Bram since?”
“No.” He was still motionless. “Her phone doesn’t answer. She’s not at home. I went there.” He passed his tongue across his lower lip. I admit I have never seen a squirrel do that. “I couldn’t tell the police her cab was there last evening because I didn’t know it was. I wasn’t there.”
“Where were you? Consider that I know you had ordered the cab for eight o’clock and hadn’t cancelled the order.”
“I’ve told the police where I was.”
“Then your memory has been jogged.”
“It didn’t need jogging. I was at the studio of a man named Prosch, Carl Prosch. I went there to meet Miss Arden and look at a picture she was going to buy. I got there at a quarter to eight and left at nine o’clock. She hadn’t come, and—”
“If you please. Miss Phoebe Arden?”
“Yes. She phoned me at half past seven and said she had about decided to buy a painting, a still life, from Prosch, and was going to his studio to look at it again, and asked me to meet her there to help her decide. I was a little surprised because she knows what I think of daubers like Prosch, but I said I would go. His studio is on Carmine Street, in walking distance from my house, and I walked. She hadn’t arrived, and I had only been there two or three minutes when she phoned and asked to speak to me. She said she had been delayed and would get there as soon as she could, and asked me to wait for her. My thought was that I would wait until midnight rather than have her buy a still life by Prosch, but I didn’t say so. I didn’t wait until midnight, but I waited until nine o’clock. I discussed painting with Prosch a while, until he became insufferable, and then went down to the street and waited there. She never came. I walked back home.”
Wolfe grunted. “Can there be any doubt that it was Miss Arden on the phone? Both times?”
“Not the slightest. I couldn’t possibly mistake her voice.”
“What time was it when you left Mr. Prosch and went down to the street?”
“About half past eight. I told the police I couldn’t be exact about that, but I could about when I started home. It was exactly nine o’clock.” Kearns’s hands moved. Back to normal. “Now I’ll hear what you have to say.”
“In a moment. Miss Bram was to come at eight o’clock. Why didn’t you phone her?”
“Because I thought I would be back. Probably a little late, but she would wait. I didn’t phone her after Miss Arden phoned that she was delayed because she would be gone.”
“Where was she to drive you?”
“To Long Island. A party. What does that matter?” He was himself again. “You talk now, and I want the truth!”
Wolfe picked up his glass, emptied it, and put it down. “Possibly you are entitled to it, Mr. Kearns. Unquestionably a man of your standing would feel keenly the ignominy of having a wife in jail — the woman to whom you have given your name, though she doesn’t use it. You may know that she came to this house at twenty minutes past nine last evening.”
“I know nothing. I told you she won’t see me.”
“So you did. She arrived just as Mr. Goodwin was leaving the house on an errand and they met on the stoop. No doubt you know that Mr. Goodwin is permanently in my employ as my confidential assistant — permanently, that is, in the sense that neither of us has any present intention of ending it or changing its terms.”
Kearns was fidgeting again. I was not. He spoke. “The paper said he had left your employ. It didn’t say on account of my wife, but of course it was.”
“Bosh.” Wolfe’s head turned. “Archie?”
“Bosh,” I agreed. “The idea of quitting on account of Miss Holt never entered my head.”
Kearns hit the chair arm. “Mrs. Kearns!”
“Okay,” I conceded. “Mrs. Waldo Kearns.”
“So,” Wolfe said, “your wife’s first contact was with Mr. Goodwin. They sat on the stoop and talked. You know, of course, that Miss Bram’s cab was there at the curb with Miss Arden’s body in it.”
“Yes. What did my wife say?”
“I’ll come to that. Police came along in a car and discovered the body, and reported it, and soon there was an army. A policeman named Cramer talked with Mr. Goodwin and your wife, I went to the door and invited them to enter — not Mr. Cramer — and they did so. We talked for half an hour or so, when Mr. Cramer came with Miss Bram, and they were admitted. Mr. Cramer, annoyed by the loquacity of Miss Bram, and wishing to speak with your wife privately, took her away. You demanded the truth, sir, and you have it. I add one item, also true: since your wife had engaged Mr. Goodwin’s services, and through him mine also, what she told us was confidential and can’t be divulged. Now for—”
Kearns bounced out of the chair, and as he did so the doorbell rang. Since a man who might have stuck a knife in a woman might be capable of other forms of violence, I was going to leave it to Fritz, but Wolfe shot me a glance and I went to the hall for a look. On the stoop was a tall guy with a bony face and a strong jaw. Behind me Kearns was yapping but had drawn no weapon. I went to the front and opened the door.
“To see Mr. Wolfe,” he said. “My name is Gilbert Irving.”
The temptation was too strong. Only twelve hours ago I had seen a confrontation backfire for Cramer, when he had brought Judy Bram in to face Mira, but this time the temperament was already in the office, having a fit, and it would be interesting to see the reaction, and possibly helpful. So I told him to come in, took his Homburg and put it on the shelf beside the floppy black number, and steered him to the office.
Kearns was still on his feet yapping, but when Wolfe’s eyes left him to direct a scowl at me he turned his head. I ignored the scowl. I had disregarded another rule by bringing in a visitor without consulting Wolfe, but as far as I was concerned Mira was still my client and it was my case. I merely pronounced names. “Mr. Gilbert Irving. Mr. Wolfe.”
The reaction was interesting enough, though not helpful, since it was no news that Kearns and Irving were not pals. Perhaps Kearns didn’t actually spit at him because it could have been merely that moisture came out with his snort. Two words followed immediately. “You bastard!”
Irving must have had lessons or practice, or both. His uppercut, with his right, was swift and sure, and had power. It caught Kearns right on the button and sent him straight up a good six inches before he swayed against the corner of Wolfe’s desk.
VIII
To do him justice, Kearns handled it as well as could be expected, even better. He surprised me. He didn’t utter a peep. The desk saved him from going down. He stayed propped against it for three seconds, straightened with his hand on it for support, moved his head backward and forward twice, decided his neck was still together, and moved. His first few steps were wobbly, but by the time he reached the door to the hall they were steadier, and he made the turn okay. I went to the hall and stood, as he got his hat from the shelf and let himself out, pulling the door shut without banging it, and re-entered the office as Irving was saying, “I should beg your pardon. I do. I’m sorry.”
“You were provoked,” Wolfe told him. He gestured at the red leather chair. “Be seated.”
“Hold it.” I was there. “I guess I should beg your pardon, Mr. Irving, for not telling you he was here, and now I just beg it again. I have to tell Mr. Wolfe something that can’t wait. It won’t take long.” I went and opened the door to the front room. “If you’ll step in here.”