Saul made a report, a brief one, with me off the wire. Wolfe took it with no remarks but grunts, told Saul to come to the office at six that afternoon, and added: “That confounded woman is a nincompoop. Has Mr. Cramer reached you? Of course not. Now you may let him. Let him find you. Tell him about Mr. Naylor but make no reference to Miss Livsey or Mr. Hoff. Leave them out. They have concocted a story that can’t be disproven except by your word. It would be two to one, and Mr. Cramer would keep you for hours and perhaps days, accomplishing nothing.
You’d better go to see him and finish with him so you can be here at six o’clock.” Wolfe hung up and glowered at me.
“Archie. At least we’ve been hired to do a job and we know what the job is.
After lunch go back down there and use your eyes, ears, and tongue as the occasion suggests and your capacities permit.” He glanced at the wall clock.
“Get Durkin, Gore, Gather, and Keems. I want them all here at six o’clock. If they’re working and need an inducement give them one. That woman is going to regret this.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Seven
A week went by. Seven days and seven nights. They brought us to another Monday, the last day of March, and they brought us nowhere else at all.
It was the longest dry spell we have ever had on a murder case. When I finished breakfast that second Monday morning and put on my coat and hat to go downtown for the start of another week at the office of Naylor-Kerr, Inc., if Wolfe had intercepted me to tell me to type for him a summary of the headway made during the week, it wouldn’t have delayed me more than ten seconds. I could merely have stepped into the office for a blank sheet of paper and handed it to him-or, if he wanted it in triplicate, three sheets. That would have covered the accomplishments not only of me, but of everybody-Wolfe himself, Saul Panzer, Bill Gore, Orrie Gather, Fred Durkin, Johnny Keems, and Inspector Cramer with his entire army.
The cops had done everything they were supposed to do and then some. Their scientists, with microscopes and chemicals, had demonstrated that Naylor’s body had been carried in the tonneau, on the floor, of the car that had run over him, proving that he had been either killed or stunned somewhere else and transported to Thirty-ninth Street for the last act. The theory was that the body had been where the murderer didn’t want it to be, so he had needed to take it somewhere else, and why not Thirty-ninth Street again if it was as suitably deserted as it had been before? He could choose a moment when no one was in sight for dumping it out of the car, and if someone appeared before he could back the car up and run over it he could merely decide not to add that touch, and step on the gas.
Naturally the curiosity of the cops was aroused by the fact that the murderer had thought it undesirable for people to know where Naylor was killed and what with, so a few platoons worked on that. In their effort to find out where the car had been the scientists used the microscope on every particle of dust and dirt from the tires, and even from underneath the chassis. Purley told me that one of them had sold himself on the notion that the car had been in Passaic, New Jersey, but had found no other buyers. Otherwise no results.
Something over two hundred units of personnel of the stock department were conversed with, anywhere from one to five times. Rosa Bendini and her husband, Gwynne Ferns, Sumner Hoff, Hester Livsey, and Ben Frenkel were among the most popular but were by no means the only ones. The assumption was that the murderer of Naylor had also killed Waldo Moore, but it was not allowed to exclude other possibilities, and since at least half of the people on the thirty-fourth floor might conceivably have felt murderous about either one or the other, there was plenty of territory to move around in. It would have been a good training school, Purley told me, for any rookie wanting to learn how to trace movements and check alibis, there were so many different kinds.
That operation was not confined to the thirty-fourth floor. Up on the thirty-sixth, on the executive and directorial level, the approach was of course somewhat different, since vice-presidents and directors are more sensitive and bleed easier than typists or heads of sections, but the job was actually just as thorough, especially when the days and nights stretched into a week without even one measly little lead. The police elite who worked on it found the normal tangle of jealousies and rivalries, and inclinations to trip and shove, but it all added up to nothing really helpful, including the movement-tracing and alibi-checking. The most promising angle, on the face of it, was Kerr Naylor’s attempt to have Jasper Pine booted out and himself made president, but that too produced no bacon because, first, Naylor had been after the president’s job for years and was getting nowhere, and second, Pine had been in bed asleep the night Naylor was killed, as Wolfe and Cramer and I had learned from Cecily.
Not satisfied with all the wonderful raw material at Naylor-Kerr, the cops had tried other places too. They had broadened out to include everybody either Moore or Naylor had been known to associate with, getting the same amount of nothing that they got on William Street. On Wolfe’s hint that there might be something phony about Sumner Hoff’s account of his movements from six to eight o’clock, they had questioned both Hoff and Hester several times, and had also tried other lines of inquiry, with no result. By Saturday afternoon, eight days after Naylor’s death, they had got so desperate that Lieutenant Rowcliff himself invited me to go along for their third examination of Naylor’s papers and effects, but I found them just as uninteresting as the cops had, except for a document of forty-six handwritten pages in which Naylor had set down his program for the firm of Naylor-Kerr, Inc., if and when he became president. His list of executives and directors that he intended to get rid of might have been helpful if the list hadn’t been so damn long.
Meanwhile all Wolfe was doing was getting upset. True, he was paying five operatives besides me-Panzer, Gore, Durkin, Keems, and Gather-but that wasn’t costing him anything since it would all go on the client’s bill. And what do you suppose the last four were doing? It might be supposed, naturally, that they were developing some subtle and intricate plan which Wolfe had cooked up with his celebrated finesse and imagination. Haha. They were tailing Hester and Sumner, which was exactly what they would have been doing if Naylor-Kerr, wanting to hire an investigator, had picked an agency at random from the Red Book. That was how far Wolfe’s genius had got him on this case. As for Saul Panzer, I had not heard his instructions, but I knew he had the photograph which Hester Livsey had sent us at Wolfe’s request, and I suspected he was going around town asking people to guess who it was.
The reports covering Hester’s and Sumner’s movements from Gore, Durkin, Keems, and Gather weren’t even worth filing. But our four men were having fun, because the subjects were also being tailed by the cops and that made it more sociable.