"Imported," Charles said. "Carbon steel. The best."
Dora replaced the bread knife. "Two are missing," she said casually. "What are they?"
Clara, at the sink, held up a paring knife she was using to scrape carrots. "This is one," she said.
"And the other?" Dora persisted.
Charles and Clara exchanged a quick glance. "It was an eight-inch chefs knife," he said. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere, but we can't find it."
"It'll probably turn up," Dora said, knowing it wouldn't.
Chapter 12
Mike Trevalyan had frequently urged Dora to use a tape recorder during interviews. Most of the investigators on his staff used them, but she refused.
"It makes witnesses freeze up," she argued. "They see that little black box and they're afraid I'm going to use their words in court, or they might say something they'll want to deny later."
So she worked without a recorder, and didn't even take notes during interviews. But as soon as possible she wrote an account of her conversations in a thick spiral notebook: questions asked, answers received. She also made notes on the physical appearance of the witnesses, their clothing, speech patterns, any unusual gestures or mannerisms.
She returned to the Bedlington after her session with Clara and Charles Hawkins and got to work writing out the details of her meeting with the servants and with Mrs. Eleanor Starrett. That completed, she slowly read over everything in the notebook, all the conversations and her personal reactions to the people involved. Then she phoned Detective John Wenden.
He wasn't in, but she left a message asking him to call her at the Bedlington. She went into the little pantry and poured herself a glass of white wine. She brought it back into the sitting room and curled up in a deep armchair. She sipped her wine, stared at her notebook, and wondered what Mario was doing. Finally she put the empty glass aside and read through her notebook again, searching for inspiration. Zilch.
She went downstairs for an early dinner in the hotel, and had a miserable meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. At that moment, she mournfully imagined, Mario was dining on veal scaloppine sauteed with marsala and lemon juice. Life was unfair; everyone knew that.
She returned to her suite and, fearing Wenden might have called during her absence, phoned him again. But he had not yet returned to his office or called in for messages. So she settled down with her notebook again, convinced those scribbled pages held the key to what actually happened to Lewis Starrett-and why.
When her phone rang, she rushed to pick it up, crossing her fingers for luck.
"Hiya," Wenden said hoarsely. "Quite a surprise hearing from you."
"How so?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.
"The way I came on to you the other night; I thought you'd be miffed."
"Nah," she said. "It's good for a girl's ego. When the passes stop, it's time to start worrying. My God, John, you sound terrible."
"Ah, shit," he said, "I think I got the flu. I have it alclass="underline" sneezing, runny nose, headache, cough."
"Are you dosing yourself?"
"Yeah. Aspirin mostly. I get these things every year. Nothing to do but wait for them to go away."
"Why didn't you call in sick, stay home, and doctor yourself?"
"Because three other guys beat me to it, and the boss got down on his knees and cried. You feeling okay?"
"Oh sure. I'm healthy as a horse. John, I was hoping to see you tonight, but I guess you want to get home."
"Not especially. I feel so lousy I don't even want to think about driving to Queens."
"That's where you live?"
"If you can call it that. What's up?"
"A couple of interesting things. Listen, if you can make it over here, I'll fix you a cup of hot tea with a slug of brandy. It won't cure the flu but might help you forget it."
"On my way," he said. "Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes or so."
She put a kettle on to boil, set out a cup and saucer for him, and then went into the bathroom to brush her hair and add a little lip gloss, wondering what the hell she was doing.
When Wenden arrived, carrying an open box of Kleenex, he looked like death warmed over: bleary eyes, unshaven jaw, his nose red and swollen. And, as usual, his clothes could have been a scarecrow's castoffs.
She got him seated on the couch, poured him a steaming cup of tea, and added a shot of brandy to it. He held the cup with both hands, took a noisy sip, closed his eyes and sighed.
"Plasma," he said. "Thank you, Florence Nightingale."
"You should be in bed," she said.
"Best offer I've had today," he said, then sneezed and grabbed for a tissue.
"Now I know you're not terminal," she said, smiling. "Anything new on the Starrett case?"
"Nothing from our snitches. We've checked the whole neighborhood for three blocks around. No one saw anything or heard anything. We searched every sewer basin and trash can. No knife. We've got fliers out in every taxi garage in the city. The official line is still homicide by a stranger, maybe after an argument, maybe by some nut who objected to Starrett's cigar smoke-who the hell knows."
"Uh-huh. John, did you see the medical examiner's report?"
"Sure, I saw it. I love reading those things. They really make you want to resign from the human race. The things people do to people…"
"Did the report describe the wound that killed Starrett?"
"Of course."
"How deep did it go-do you remember?"
He thought a moment. "About seven and a half inches. Around there. They can never be precise. Tissue fills in. The outside puncture was a slit about two inches long."
Dora nodded. "I think you need another brandy," she said.
"I'll take it gladly," he said, sneezing again, "but why do I need it?"
"I went up to see the Starretts' servants today. We talked in the kitchen. There's a knife rack on the wall. Nice cutlery. Imported carbon steel. One of the knives is missing. An eight-inch chefs knife. We have one at home. It's a triangular blade. Close to the handle it's about two inches wide."
Wenden set his cup back on the saucer. It rattled. "How long has it been missing?" he asked, staring at her.
"I didn't ask them," Dora said. "But when I noticed it, Clara and Charles glanced at each other. I think it probably disappeared at that cocktail party the night Starrett was killed, but the servants didn't want to come right out and say so."
"Why didn't you lean on them?"
"How the hell could I?" she said angrily. "You're a cop; you can lean. I'm just a short, fat, housewife-type from the insurance company. I've got no clout."
"All right, all right," he said. "So I'll lean on them. If the knife disappeared on the night of the murder, that opens up a whole new can of worms."
"It also clears three in this cast of characters," she said. "Olivia and the two servants stayed in the apartment for dinner and presumably were still there when Lewis went for his walk. Did you check the whereabouts of the others at the time of the killing?"
The detective looked at her indignantly. "You think we're mutts? Of course we checked. They all have alibis. None of them are rock solid, but alibis rarely are. Felicia was at a new restaurant down on Spring Street. Confirmed by her date-a twit who wears one earring. Helene and Turner Pierce were at a theatre on West Forty-sixth Street. They have their ticket stubs to prove it. Father Callaway was down at his church, passing out ham sandwiches to the homeless. He was seen there. Eleanor and Clayton Starrett were at a charity bash at the Hilton. Sounds good, but there's not one of them who couldn't have ducked out and cabbed back to East Eighty-third Street in time to chill Lewis. They all knew his nightly routine. Hey, what do I call you?"