“To get what?”
“Cookies. I eat cookies. In my locker in the corridor.”
“Okay. You eat cookies. And saw what?”
“I saw her opening that door. Rucker and Dill. After all what happened I remembered it and I told a cop—”
“Did she go inside?”
Pete shook his head. “She saw me and she shut the door.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No, she didn’t have anything to say.”
“Did you?”
“No, I went to my locker and got the cookies, and she must have gone away because when I came back she wasn’t there. Then when I got back on the floor and saw—”
Cramer turned to the young woman. “What’s your name?”
“None of your business!” she snapped.
“Yes, sir,” the dick said. “She won’t co-operate.”
“What do you mean, I won’t co-operate?” She was indignant, but I wouldn’t have said she looked scared. “I admit I opened the door and looked in, don’t I? I got into the corridor by mistake and I was looking for a way out. And why should I have to tell you my name and get my name in the papers—”
“Why didn’t you get out the way you got in?”
“Because I got in away around at the other side, and I just thought... hey! Hello there!”
Everyone looked the way she was looking, which resulted in all of us looking at Fred Updegraff. Fred himself turned red and was turning redder, as he met her gaze.
“Well,” he said, and seemed to think he had said something.
“It was you,” she said, “there with the door open, stooping down there peeking in when you heard me.”
“Sure,” Fred acknowledged, “sure it was me.”
“The Rucker and Dill door?” Cramer demanded.
“Yes.”
“Were you looking for a way out too?”
“No.”
“What were you looking for?”
“I was—” Fred swallowed it. He looked red and flustered, and then all of a sudden he looked relieved. There was no telling what sort of idea had popped into his head that relieved him and pleased him so much, but he certainly showed it. He spoke louder as if he didn’t want anyone to miss it: “I was looking at Miss Tracy! I’ve been doing that all week. My name is Fred Updegraff and I’m an exhibitor here. I was looking at Miss Tracy!” It sounded as if he almost thought he was singing it.
Cramer was unimpressed. “I’ll have a talk with you later, Mr. Updegraff.” He turned to the sergeant. “Purley, you stay here with Mr. Updegraff and Goodwin and this young woman and this man Pete. Murphy, come with me and Miss Tracy. The rest of you can go if you want—”
“Just a minute.” Hewitt, who hadn’t sat down again, moved a step. “I am Lewis Hewitt.”
“So I understand,” Cramer grunted.
“And I have responsibilities here as the Honorary Chairman of the Committee. Without any wish to interfere with the performance of your duties, I feel that Miss Tracy, who is only a young girl, should properly be protected from any undue annoyance or unpleasantness—”
“Allow me, Hewitt,” W. G. Dill had got up and walked over. He faced Cramer. “I’m Miss Tracy’s employer and I suppose I ought to look after her. If you don’t mind I’ll go along with her.”
I was keeping tabs on Anne, knowing that the best time to get the lowdown on a woman is when she’s under stress. I thought she was doing fine. After four straight days in a glaring spotlight as the star attraction of a flower show, with such by-products as having her picture taken with Billy Rose and dining out with Lewis Hewitt, here she was kerplunk in the mire with murder-mud ready to splatter all over her, and so far she had done nothing to forfeit my respect, even when I had explained how you could pull a trigger with your toes. But at this juncture she wasn’t so hot. She might have spoken up with something suitable about being armored in her virtue and not needing to be looked after by any sourpuss employer or millionaire orchid fancier, but all she did was deadpan W. G. Dill without opening her trap. I began to suspect she either had depths I hadn’t plumbed or was a bit limited in the mental area — but don’t get me wrong, I was still faithful. Even as a deadpan, the sight of her face — for the mental side of life you can go to the library.
She went off with Cramer. Cramer informed both Hewitt and Dill that it wasn’t necessary for them to protect her against annoyance, and took her and Murphy through the door that had been indicated to an inner room. But not without another brief delay.
“Mr. Cramer! If you please?”
It was Nero Wolfe speaking. I concealed a grin. Of course he was going to request, or demand, depending on which he thought would work best, that I be allowed to drive him home. I hoped Cramer would say yes. Then, after we got in the sedan and he started raving, I would let him rave, and when he was through I would stick my little dagger in his ribs and give it a twist. It wasn’t often I had a chance like that.
Cramer had turned. “What do you want?”
“I want,” Wolfe said, “to finish a discussion I was having with Mr. Hewitt about orchids.”
“Go ahead—”
“And not in a menagerie. In decent privacy. We can find a room somewhere.”
“Go ahead. I said the rest of you could go—”
“And Mr. Goodwin must be present to take notes. He will be available when you want him. You can’t legally detain him, anyhow, unless you are prepared—”
Cramer snorted in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake. Discuss orchids. All I want is Goodwin when I want him.”
He crossed the sill with the other two, and the door was closed behind them. I glared at Wolfe without any attempt to cover it, and Purley Stebbins gazed at him suspiciously. Neither of us was making any impression on Wolfe, who had got up from his chair and was speaking to Lewis Hewitt in an undertone. Hewitt, frowning, nodded without enthusiasm, and moved toward the door to the anteroom with Wolfe at his heels.
“Come, Archie,” Wolfe said.
Purley blocked me. “Where you going?”
“The other end of the anteroom,” Hewitt said. “A room there.”
Purley hated it. He did hate it. Me detained and going through doors like that. He didn’t even smile when I playfully stuck a thumb in his ribs as I went by.
The room at the other end of the anteroom wasn’t much more than a cubbyhole, with one window, a couple of small wooden tables, and four wooden chairs. The sad woman in the anteroom came in and turned on the light and went out again and closed the door. Wolfe scowled at the skimpy chairs and darted a glance at me, but I ignored it because I was in no mood to lug in the comfortable seat he had left in the other room. He compressed his lips and sat down, taking care to center himself on what seat there was.
“Sit down, Mr. Hewitt,” he invited.
Hewitt stood. “This is an odd performance.” He looked at me and back at Wolfe. “What you can possibly have to say to me so confidential as to require—”
“I have,” Wolfe said brusquely. “I assure you.”
“About orchids? That seems hardly—”
“Not orchids. Murder. I know who shot that man.”
Hewitt’s eyes opened wide. “You know who shot him?”
“I do.”
“But my dear Mr. Wolfe.” Hewitt was displeased but courteous. “That is scarcely a matter to discuss confidentially with me. The proper authorities—”
“I prefer to discuss it with you first. I suggest that we keep our voices as low as possible. It’s quite possible that a policeman has his ear at the door—”
“Bosh! This melodramatic—”
“Please, Mr. Hewitt. Don’t sneer at melodrama; that’s only a point of view. I wish to give you a fresh point of view on the death of Harry Gould. The shot was fired by my assistant, Mr. Goodwin. — Please let me finish. First to establish the fact. Archie?”