“But at least another tree. You realize, sir, that if Mr. Delaney starts after us in earnest, the affairs of the United Restaurant Workers of America will be one of his major concerns. For the murder of Philip Holt we all had opportunity, and the means were there at hand; what he will seek is the motive. If there was a vulnerable spot in the operation of your union, financial or otherwise, I suggest that it would be wise for you to disclose it now for discussion.”
“There wasn’t anything.” Korby was pinker. “There’s nothing wrong with my union except rumors. That’s all it is, rumors, and where’s a union that hasn’t got rumors with all the stink they’ve raised? We’re not vulnerable to anything or anybody.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“Any kind you want to name. I’m a crook. All the officers are crooks. We’ve raided the benefit fund. We’ve sold out to the big operators. We steal lead pencils and paper clips.”
“Can you be more specific? What was the most embarrassing rumor?”
Korby was suddenly not listening. He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, opened it up, wiped his face and his baldness, refolded the handkerchief at the creases, and returned it to his pocket. Then his eyes went back to Wolfe.
“If you want something specific,” he said, “it’s not a rumor. It’s a strictly internal union matter, but it’s sure to leak now and it might as well leak here first. There have been some charges made, and they’re being looked into, about kickbacks from dealers to union officers and members. Phil Holt had something to do with some of the charges, though that wasn’t in his department. He got hot about it.”
“Were you the target of any of the charges?”
“I was not. I have the complete trust of my associates and my staff.”
“You said ‘dealers.’ Does that include importers?”
“Sure, importers are dealers.”
“Was Mr. Griffin’s name mentioned in any of the charges?”
“I’m not giving any names, not without authority from my board. Those things are confidential.”
“Much obliged, Jim,” H. L. Griffin said, sounding the opposite of obliged. “Even exchange?”
“Excuse me.” It was Dick Vetter, on his feet. “It’s nearly twelve o’clock and Miss Korby and I have to go. We’ve got to get some lunch and I can’t be late for that conference. Anyway, I think it’s a lot of hooey. Come on, Flora.”
She hesitated a moment, then left her chair, and he moved. But when Wolfe snapped out his name he turned. “Well?”
Wolfe swiveled his chair. “My apologies. I should have remembered that you are pressed for time. If you can give us, say, five minutes?”
The TV star smiled indulgently. “For my autobiography? You can look it up. It’s in print — TV Guide a couple of months ago, or Clock magazine, I don’t remember the date. I say this is hooey. If one of us is a murderer, okay, I wish you luck, but this isn’t getting you anywhere. Couldn’t I just tell you anything I felt like?”
“You could indeed, Mr. Vetter. But if inquiry reveals that you have lied or have omitted something plainly relevant that will be of interest. The magazine articles you mentioned — do they tell of your interest in Miss Korby?”
“Nuts.” Many of his twenty million admirers wouldn’t have liked either his tone or his diction.
Wolfe shook his head. “If you insist, Mr. Vetter, you may of course be disdainful about it with me, but not with the police once they get interested in you. I asked you before if you and Miss Korby are friends, and you asked what that had to do with it, and I said possibly nothing. I now say possibly something, since Philip Holt was hounding her — how savagely I don’t know yet. Are you and Miss Korby friends?”
“Certainly we’re friends. I’m taking her to lunch.”
“Are you devoted to her?”
His smile wasn’t quite so indulgent, but it was still a smile. “Now that’s a delicate question,” he said. “I’ll tell you how it is. I’m a public figure and I have to watch my tongue. If I said yes, I’m devoted to Miss Korby, it would be in all the columns tomorrow and I’d get ten thousand telegrams and a million letters. If I said no, I’m not devoted to Miss Korby, that wouldn’t be polite with her here at my elbow. So I’ll just skip it. Come on, Flora.”
“One more question. I understand that your father works in a New York restaurant. Do you know whether he is involved in any of the charges Mr. Korby spoke of?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Talk about hooey.” He turned and headed for the door, taking Flora with him. I got up and went to the hall and on to the front door, opened it for them, closed it after them, put the chain-bolt on, and returned to the office. Wolfe was speaking.
“... and I assure you, Mr. Rago, my interest runs with yours — with all of you except one. You don’t want the police crawling over you and neither do I.”
The sauce chef had straightened up in the red leather chair, and the points of his mustache seemed to have straightened up too. “Treeks,” he said.
“No, sir,” Wolfe said. “I have no objection to tricks, if they work, but this is merely a forthright discussion of a lamentable situation. No trick. Do you object to telling us what dealings you had with Philip Holt?”
“I am deesappointed,” Rago declared. “Of course I knew you made a living with detective work, everybody knows that, but to me your glory is your great contributions to cuisine — your sauce printemps, your oyster pie, your artichauts drigants, and others. I know what Pierre Mondor said of you. So it is a deesappointment when I am in your company that the only talk is of the ugliness of murder.”
“I don’t like it any better than you do, Mr. Rago. I am pleased to know that Pierre Mondor spoke well of me. Now about Philip Holt?”
“If you insist, certainly. But what can I say? Nothing.”
“Didn’t you know him?”
Rago spread his hands and raised his shoulders and brows. “I had met him. As one meets people. Did I know him? Whom does one know? Do I know you?”
“But you never saw me until two weeks ago. Surely you must have seen something of Mr. Holt. He was an important official of your union, in which you were active.”
“I have not been active in the union.”
“You were a speaker at its picnic yesterday.”
Rago nodded and smiled. “Yes, that is so. But that was because of my activity in the kitchen, not in the union. It may be said, even by me, that in sauces I am supreme. It was for that distinction that it was thought desirable to have me.” His head turned. “So, Mr. Korby?”
The president of URWA nodded yes. “That’s right,” he told Wolfe. “We thought the finest cooking should be represented, and we picked Rago for it. So far as I know, he has never come to a union meeting. We wish he would, and more like him.”
“I am a man of the kitchen,” Rago declared. “I am an artist. The business I leave to others.”
Wolfe was on Korby. “Did Mr. Rago’s name appear in any of the charges you spoke of?”
“No. I said I wouldn’t give names, but I can say no. No, it didn’t.”
“You didn’t say no when I asked about Mr. Griffin.” Wolfe turned to the importer. “Do you wish to comment on that, sir?”
I still hadn’t decided exactly what was wrong with Griffin’s left eye. There was no sign of an injury, and it seemed to function okay, but it appeared to be a little off center. From an angle, the slant I had from my desk, it looked normal.
He lifted his long narrow chin. “What do you expect?” he demanded.
“My expectations are of no consequence. I merely invite comment.”
“On that, I have none. I know nothing about any charges. What I want, I want to see that witness.”
Wolfe shook his head. “As I said, I will not produce the witness — for the present. Are you still skeptical?”