So if you wanted to learn who strangled Cynthia Brown, first you had to find out who had strangled Doris Hatten, and the cops had already been working on that for five months.
As soon as Bill McNab had been sent on his way, Colonel Percy Brown was brought in.
Brown was not exactly at ease, but he had himself well in hand. You would never have picked him for a con man, and neither would I. His mouth and jaw were strong and attractive, and as he sat down he leveled his keen gray eyes at Cramer and kept them there. He wasn’t interested in Wolfe or me. He said his name was Colonel Percy Brown, and Cramer asked him which army he was a colonel in.
“I think,” Brown said in a cool even tone, “it will save time if I state my position. I will answer fully and freely all questions that relate to what I saw or heard or did since I arrived here this afternoon. To that extent I’ll help you all I can. Answers to any other questions will have to wait until I consult my attorney.”
Cramer nodded. “I expected that. The trouble is I’m pretty sure I don’t give a damn what you saw or heard this afternoon. We’ll come back to that. I want to put something to you. As you see, I’m not even wanting to know why you tried to break away before we got here.”
“I merely wanted to phone—”
“Forget it.” Cramer put the remains of his second cigar, not more than a scraggly inch, in the ashtray. “On information received, I think it’s like this. The woman who called herself Cynthia Brown, murdered here today, was not your sister. You met her in Florida six or eight weeks ago. She went in with you on an operation of which Mrs. Orwin was the subject, and you introduced her to Mrs. Orwin as your sister. You two came to New York with Mrs. Orwin a week ago, with the operation well under way. As far as I’m concerned, that is only background. Otherwise I’m not interested in it. My work is homicide, and that’s what I’m working on now.”
Brown was listening politely.
“For me,” Cramer went on, “the point is that for quite a period you have been closely connected with this Miss Brown, associating with her in a confidential operation. You must have had many intimate conversations with her. You were having her with you as your sister, and she wasn’t, and she’s been murdered. We could give you merry hell on that score alone.”
Brown had no use for his tongue. His face said no comment.
“It’ll never be too late to give you hell,” Cramer assured him, “but I wanted to give you a chance first. For two months you’ve been on intimate terms with Cynthia Brown. She certainly must have mentioned an experience she had last October. A friend of hers named Doris Hatten was murdered — strangled. Cynthia Brown had information about the murderer which she kept to herself; if she had come out with it she’d be alive now. She must have mentioned that to you; you can’t tell me she didn’t. She must have told you all about it. Now you can tell me. If you do we can nail him for what he did here today, and it might even make things a little smoother for you. Well?”
Brown had pursed his lips. They straightened out again, and his hand came up for a finger to scratch his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“Do you expect me to believe that during all those weeks she never mentioned the murder of her friend Doris Hatten?”
“I’m sorry I can’t help.”
Cramer got out another cigar and rolled it between his palms, which was wasted energy since he didn’t intend to draw smoke through it. Having seen him do it before, I knew what it meant. He still thought he might get something from this customer and was taking time out to control himself.
“I’m sorry too,” he said, trying not to make it a growl. “But she must have told you something of her previous career, didn’t she?”
“I’m sorry.” Brown’s tone was firm and final.
“Okay. We’ll move on to this afternoon. On that you said you’d answer fully and freely. Do you remember a moment when something about Cynthia Brown’s appearance — some movement she made or the expression on her face — caused Mrs. Orwin to ask her what was the matter with her?”
A crease was showing on Brown’s forehead. “I don’t believe I do,” he stated.
“I’m asking you to try. Try hard.”
Silence. Brown pursed his lips and the crease in his forehead deepened. Finally he said, “I may not have been right there at the moment. In those aisles — in a crowd like that — we weren’t rubbing elbows continuously.”
“You do remember when she excused herself because she wasn’t feeling well?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, this moment I’m asking about came shortly before that. She exchanged looks with some man nearby, and it was her reaction to that that made Mrs. Orwin ask her what was the matter. What I’m interested in is that exchange of looks. If you saw it and can remember it, and can describe the man she exchanged looks with, I wouldn’t give a damn if you stripped Mrs. Orwin clean and ten more like her.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“You didn’t say you’re sorry.”
“I am, of course, if it would help—”
“To hell with you!” Cramer banged his fist on the table so hard the trays danced. “Levy! Take him out and tell Stebbins to send him down and lock him up. Material witness. Put more men on him. He’s got a record somewhere. Find it!”
“I wish to phone my attorney,” Brown said quietly but emphatically.
“There’s a phone down where you’re going,” Levy told him. “If it’s not out of order. This way, Colonel.”
As the door closed behind them Cramer glared at me as if daring me to say that I was sorry too. Letting my face show how bored I was, I remarked casually, “If I could get in the office I’d show you a swell book on disguises; I forget the name of it. The world record is sixteen years — a guy in Italy fooled a brother and two cousins who had known him well. So maybe you ought to—”
Cramer turned from me rudely and said, “Gather up, Murphy. We’re leaving.” He shoved his chair back, stood up, and shook his ankles to get his pants legs down. Levy came back in, and Cramer addressed him. “We’re leaving. Everybody out. To my office. Tell Stebbins one man out front will be enough — no, I’ll tell him—”
“There’s one more, sir.”
“One more what?”
“In the front room. A man.”
“Who?”
“His name is Nicholson Morley. He’s a psychiatrist.”
“Let him go. This is a goddam joke.”
“Yes, sir.”
Levy went. The shorthand dick had collected notebooks and other papers and was putting them into a battered briefcase. Cramer looked at Wolfe. Wolfe looked back at him.
“A while ago,” Cramer rasped, “you said something had occurred to you.”
“Did I?” Wolfe inquired coldly.
Their eyes went on clashing until Cramer broke the connection by turning to go. I restrained an impulse to knock their heads together. They were both being childish. If Wolfe really had something, anything at all, he knew damn well Cramer would gladly trade the seals on the office doors for it sight unseen. And Cramer knew damn well he could make the deal himself with nothing to lose. But they were both too sore and stubborn to show any horse sense.
Cramer had circled the end of the table on his way out when Levy re-entered to report, “That man Morley insists on seeing you. He says it’s vital.”
Cramer halted, glowering. “What is he, a screwball?”