“We’re doing the best we can,” Guild said patiently. “So you do think she did it?”
“The murder?” I shook my head. “I haven’t got that far yet. How about Nunheim? Did the bullets match up?”
“They did—from the same gun as was used on the dame—all five of them.”
“He was shot five times?”
“He was, and close enough to burn his clothes.”
“I saw his girl, the big red-head, tonight in a speak,” I told him. “She’s saying you and I killed him because he knew too much.”
He said: “Hm-m-m. What speak was that? I might want to talk to her.”
“Studsy Burke’s Pigiron Club,” I said, and gave him the address. “Morelli hangs out there too. He tells me Julia Wolf’s real name is Nancy Kane and she has a boy friend doing time in Ohio—Face Peppler.”
From the tone of Guild’s “Yes?” I imagined he had already found out about Peppier and about Julia’s past. “And what else did you pick up in your travels?”
“A friend of mine—Larry Crowley, a press agent—saw Jorgensen coming out of a hock-shop on Sixth near Forty-sixth yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t seem to get excited about my news. I’m—”
Mimi opened the door and came in with glasses, whisky, and mineral water on a tray. “I thought you’d like a drink,” she said cheerfully. We thanked her.
She put the tray on the table, said, “I don’t mean to interrupt,” smiled at us with that air of amused tolerance which women like to affect towards male gatherings, and went out.
“You were saying something,” Guild reminded me.
“Just that if you people think I’m not coming clean with you, you ought to say so. We’ve been playing along together so far and I wouldn’t want—”
“No, no,” Guild said hastily, “it’s nothing like that, Mr. Charles.” His face had reddened a little. “I been—The fact is the Commissioner’s been riding us for action and I guess I been kind of passing it on. This second murder’s made things tough.” He turned to the tray on the table. “How’ll you have yours?”
“Straight, thanks. No leads on it?”
“Well, the same gun and a lot of bullets, same as with her, but that’s about all. It was a rooming-house hallway in between a couple stores. Nobody there claims they know Nunheim or Wynant or anybody else we can connect. The door’s left unlocked, anybody could walk in, but that don’t make too much sense when you come to think of it.”
“Nobody saw or heard anything?”
“Sure, they heard the shooting, but they didn’t see anybody doing it.” He gave me a glass of whisky.
“Find any empty shells?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Neither time. Probably a revolver.”
“And he emptied it both times—counting the shot that hit her telephone—if, like a lot of people, he carried an empty chamber under the hammer.”
Guild lowered the glass he was raising towards his mouth. “You’re not trying to find a Chinese angle on it, are you,” he complained, “just because they shoot like that?”
“No, but any kind of angle would help some. Find out where Nunheim was the afternoon the girl was killed?”
“Uh-huh. Hanging around the girl’s building—part of the time anyhow. He was seen in front and he was seen in back, if you’re going to believe people that didn’t think much of it at the time and haven’t got any reason for lying about it. And the day before the killing he had been up to her apartment, according to an elevator boy. The boy says he came down right away and he don’t know whether he got in or not.”
I said: “So. Maybe Miriam’s right, maybe he did know too much. Find out anything about the four-thousand difference between what Macaulay gave her and what Clyde Wynant says he got from her?”
“No.”
“Morelli says she always had plenty of money. He says she once lent him five thousand in cash.”
Guild raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Yes. He also says Wynant knew about her record.”
“Seems to me,” Guild said slowly, “Morelli did a lot of talking to you.”
“He likes to talk. Find out anything more about what Wynant was working on when he left, or what he was going away to work on?”
“No. You’re kind of interested in that shop of his.”
“Why not? He’s an inventor, the shop’s his place. I’d like to have a look at it some time.”
“Help yourself. Tell me some more about Morelli, and how you go about getting him to open up.”
“He likes to talk. Do you know a fellow called Sparrow? A big fat pale fellow with a pansy voice?”
Guild frowned. “No. Why?”
“He was there—with Miriam—and wanted to take a crack at me, but they wouldn’t let him.”
“And what’d he want to do that for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because she told him I helped knock Nunheim off—helped you.”
Guild said: “Oh.” He scratched his chin with a thumbnail, looked at his watch. “It’s getting kind of late. Suppose you drop in and see me some time tomorrow—today.”
I said, “Sure,” instead of the things I was thinking, nodded at him and Andy, and went out to the living-room.
Nora was sleeping on the sofa. Mimi put down the book she was reading and asked: “Is the secret session over?”
“Yes.” I moved towards the sofa.
Mimi said: “Let her sleep awhile, Nick. You’re going to stay till after your police friends have gone, aren’t you?”
“All right. I want to see Dorothy again.”
“But she’s asleep.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wake her up.”
“But—” Guild and Andy came in, said their goodnights, Guild looked regretfully at the sleeping Nora, and they left.
Mimi sighed. “I’m tired of policemen,” she said. “You remember that story?”
“Yes.”
Gilbert came in. “Do they really think Chris did it?”
“No,” I said.
“Who do they think?”
“I could’ve told you yesterday. I can’t today.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mimi protested. “They know very well and you know very well that Clyde did it.” When I said nothing she repeated, more sharply: “You know very well that Clyde did it.”
“He didn’t,” I said.
An expression of triumph brightened Mimi’s face. “You are working for him, now aren’t you?” My “No” bounced off her with no effect whatever.
Gilbert asked, not argumentatively, but as if he wanted to know: “Why couldn’t he?”
“He could’ve, but he didn’t. Would he have written those letters throwing suspicion on Mimi, the one person who’s helping him by hiding the chief evidence against him?”
“But maybe he didn’t know that. Maybe he thought the police were simply not telling all they knew. They often do that, don’t they? Or maybe he thought he could discredit her, so they wouldn’t believe her if—”
“That’s it,” Mimi said. “That’s exactly what he did, Nick.”
I said to Gilbert: “You don’t think he killed her.”
“No, I don’t think he did, but I’d like to know why you don’t think so—you know—your method.”
“And I’d like to know yours.”
His face flushed a little and there was some embarrassment in his smile. “Oh, but I—it’s different.”
“He knows who killed her,” Dorothy said from the doorway. She was still dressed. She stared at me fixedly, as if afraid to look at anybody else. Her face was pale and she held her small body stiffly erect.
Nora opened her eyes, pushed herself up on an elbow, and asked, “What?” sleepily. Nobody answered her.