CHAPTER Fifteen
The next morning, Thursday, the arena of the stock department was a different place as far as I was concerned. Whenever I showed my face, coming and going, the change could be seen, felt, and tasted. Wednesday morning I had been a combination of a new male, to be given the once over and labeled, and an intruder from outside who could be expected to regard the lovely little darlings merely as units of personnel. Thursday morning I was a detective after a murderer. That’s what they all thought, and they all showed it. Whether Kerr Naylor had started another ball rolling, or whether it was just seepage from various leaks, I didn’t know, but the reaction that greeted me wherever I went left no doubt of the fact.
The bits of tobacco in the folder had not been disturbed. That was no great disappointment, since I had no good reason to suppose that anyone in the place was sitting on tacks, and I left the set-up intact. At ten o’clock I got Jasper Pine on the phone and gave him a report of the Mr. and Mrs. Harold Anthony episode.
I also said, “Your wife came to see us last night.” “I know she did,” he replied, and let it go at that. It was a fair guess that his position was that there was no point in asking what she had said because she had already said everything to him about everything. When I told him that the whole department apparently had me tagged as a bloodhound he said grimly that in that case I might as well act like one and gave me the run of the pasture.
My first gallop was out of the pasture entirely, up to the Gazetee office to see Lon Cohen, having first called him. I had a healthy curiosity not only about Pine’s attitude toward his wife’s fondness for pets, but also about her and Moore. Wanting the low-down, I came away, after a session with Lon and talks with a couple of legmen, satisfied that I had it. Either Pine had years ago adopted the philosophy that a wife’s personal habits are none of a husband’s business, and really didn’t give a damn, and Mrs. Pine had completely lost interest in Moore early in 1946, except to see that he got a job, or the Gazetee boys were living in a dream world, which didn’t seem likely.
I bought them a lunch at Pietro’s and then returned to William Street. There was nothing in my office for me, no message from Wolfe or Pine or even Kerr Naylor, and the drawer of the cabinet hadn’t been touched. I was still without a bridle and could pick my own directions. Across the arena to Miss Livsey’s room was, I thought, as good as any.
Her door was open and she was inside, typing. I entered, shut the door, lowered myself onto the chair at the end of her desk, and inquired, “What thoughts have you got about Rosa Bendini?” “What on earth,” she inquired back, “have you been doing with your face?” She was gazing at it.
“You may think,” I said, “that you’re changing the subject, but actually you’re not. There’s a connection. It was Rosa’s husband who embroidered my face. What’s your opinion of her in ten thousand words?” “Does it hurt?” “Come on, come on. Being sweet and womanly when you haven’t even started to forget that Moore? Quit stalling.” She showed a hint of color, very faint, but the first I had seen of it. “I’m not stalling,” she denied. “If you can’t feel it you ought to look in a mirror and see it. What about Rosa Bendini?” I grinned at her to show her that the muscles worked, no matter how it looked.
“So you’re asking me instead. Okay. She calls Moore Wally. She says that he never had any intention of marrying you, and that you went crazy-these are her words-when you found out that he was still seeing her, and that you have never recovered. I may add that I don’t believe everything I hear, because if you have never recovered you must be crazy now, and on that I vote no.” The color had gone. She had held her working pose in front of her typewriter, her fingertips resting on the frame of the machine, implying that I had just dropped in to say hello and would soon drop out again, but now her torso and head came square to me to meet my eyes straight. The tone of her voice matched the expression of her eyes.
“You should have asked me to give you a list of the best ones to go to for gossip, but maybe you didn’t need to, because, if you had, Rosa would have been near the top, and you’ve already found her yourself. When you’ve found the others, please don’t bother repeating it to me. I have a lot of work to do.” Her body pivoted back to its working position, she looked at the paper in the machine and then at her notebook, and her fingers hit the keys.
I had my choice of several remarks, among them being that Rosa had found me, not me her, but it would have had to be a loud yawp to carry over the din of the typewriter, so I saved my breath and departed.
The day was more than half gone and I hadn’t made a beginning on the names I had got from Rosa. I returned to my room, got the head of the reserve pool on the phone, said I would like to have a talk with Miss Gwynne Ferris of his section, and asked if he would send her to see me. He said he was sorry, Miss Ferris was busy at the moment taking dictation from a section head whose secretary was absent for the day, and would a little later do? I told him sure, any time at his and her convenience, and as I pushed the phone back I became aware that my doorway was being darkened.
The darkener was a tall bony young man with a lot of undisciplined hair that could have used a comb or even a barber’s scissors. He looked like a poet getting very deep into something, and since his eyes were unmistakably fastened on me, evidently I was what was being probed.
“May I come in, Mr. Truett?” he inquired in a rumble like low thunder from the horizon.
When I told him yes he entered, closed the door, crossed to a chair in three huge strides, sat, and informed me, “I’m Ben Frenkel. Benjamin Frenkel. I understand you’re here looking for the murderer of Waldo Moore.” So if I didn’t have Gwynne Ferris I had the next best thing, the intense young man who, according to Rosa, had been beckoned and promised by her until he didn’t know which way was south.
Meeting his gaze, I had to concentrate to keep from being stared right out through the window behind me. “I wouldn’t put it like that, Mr. Frenkel,” I told him, “but I don’t mind if you do.” He smiled sweetly and sadly. “That will do for my purpose,” he stated. “I wouldn’t expect you to commit yourself. I’ve been here before, several times, since I heard this morning what you are here for, but I didn’t find you in. I wanted to tell you that I am under the strong impression that I killed Moore. I have had that impression ever since the night it happened-or I should say the next day.” He stopped. I nodded at him encouragingly. “It’s still your turn, Mr. Frenkel.
That’s too vague. Is it just an impression, or can you back it up?” “Not very satisfactorily, I’m afraid.” He was frowning, a cloud on his wide brow for his thunder rumble. “I was hoping you would straighten it out and I would be rid of it. Can I tell you about it confidentially?” “That depends. I couldn’t sign up to keep a confession of murder confidential-” “My God, I’m not confessing!” “Then what are you doing?” He took a deep breath, held it a couple of seconds, and let it out. “My hatred for Waldo Moore,” he said, “was one of the strongest feelings I have ever had in my life. Possibly the strongest. I won’t tell you why, because I have no right to drag in another person’s name. I doubt if any man ever hated another one as I hated him. It went on for months, and Iwas frightened at it, literally frightened. I have always had a profound interest in the phenomenon of death.