“You demonstrate love,” Wolfe said dryly, “by killing your beloved’s surviving parent. Is that it?”
“Yes,” Talbott asserted. “Under certain conditions. Here was the situation. Sigmund Keyes was the most celebrated and successful industrial designer in America, and—”
“Nonsense!” Broadyke exploded, without asking permission to say.
Talbott smiled. “Sometimes,” he said, as if offering it for consideration, “a jealous man is worse than any jealous woman. You know, of course, that Mr. Broadyke is himself an industrial designer—in fact, he practically invented the profession. Not many manufacturers would dream of tooling for a new model—steamship, railroad train, airplane, refrigerator, vacuum cleaner, alarm clock, no matter what—without consulting Broadyke, until I came along and took over the selling end for Sigmund Keyes. Incidentally, that’s why I doubt if Broadyke killed Keyes. If he had got that desperate about it he wouldn’t have killed Keyes, he would have killed me.”
“You were speaking,” Wolfe reminded him, “of love as a motive for murder under certain conditions.”
“Yes, and Broadyke threw me off.” Talbott cocked his head. “Let’s see—oh, yes, and I was doing the selling for Keyes, and he couldn’t stand the talk going around that I was mostly responsible for the big success we were having, but he was afraid to get rid of me. And I loved his daughter and wanted her to marry me, and will always love her. But he had great influence with her, which I did not and do not understand—anyway, if she loved me as I do her that wouldn’t have mattered, but she doesn’t—”
“My God, Vic,” Dorothy protested, “haven’t I said a dozen times I’d marry you like that”—she snapped her fingers—”if it weren’t for Dad? Really, I’m crazy about you!”
“All right,” Talbott told Wolfe, “there’s your motive. It’s certainly old-fashioned, no modern industrial design to it, but it’s absolutely dependable. Naturally that’s what the police thought until they ran up against the fact that I was somewhere else. That got them bewildered and made them sore, and they haven’t recovered their wits, so I guess my good friends here are right that they’re being stupid and ineffective. Not that they’ve crossed me off entirely. I understand they’ve got an army of detectives and stool pigeons hunting for the gunman I hired to do the job. They’ll have to hunt hard. You heard Miss Keyes call me a fool, but I’m not quite fool enough to hire someone to commit a murder for me.”
“I should hope not.” Wolfe sighed. “There’s nothing better than a good motive. What about the alibi? Have the police given up on that?”
“Yes, the damn idiots!” Pohl blurted. “That switchboard girl—”
“I asked Mr. Talbott,” Wolfe snapped.
“I don’t know,” Talbott admitted, “but I suppose they had to. I’m still trembling at how lucky I was that I got to bed late that Monday night—I mean a week ago, the night before Keyes was killed. If I had been riding with him I’d be in jail now, and done for. It’s a question of timing.”
Talbott compressed his lips and loosened them. “Oh, boy! The mounted cop saw Keyes riding in the park near Sixty-sixth Street at ten minutes past seven. Keyes was killed near Ninety-sixth Street. Even if he had galloped all the way he couldn’t have got there, the way that bridle path winds, before seven-twenty. And he didn’t gallop, because if he had the horse would have shown it, and he didn’t.” Talbott twisted around. “You’re the authority on that, Wayne. Casanova hadn’t been in a sweat, had he?”
“You’re telling it,” was all he got from Wayne Safford.
“Well, he hadn’t,” Talbott told Wolfe. “Wayne is on record on that. So Keyes couldn’t have reached the spot where he was killed before seven-twenty-five. There’s the time for that, twenty-five minutes past seven.”
“And you?” Wolfe inquired.
“Me, I was lucky. I often rode in the park with Keyes at that ungodly hour—two or three times a week. He wanted me to make it every day, but I got out of it about half the time. There was nothing social or sociable about it. We would walk our horses side by side, talking business, except when he felt like trotting. I live at the Hotel Churchill. I got in late Monday night, but I left a call for six o’clock anyway, because I hadn’t ridden with Keyes for several days and didn’t want to get him sore. But when the girl rang my phone in the morning I was just too damn sleepy, and I told her to call the riding academy and say I wouldn’t be there, and to call me again at seven-thirty. She did so, and I still didn’t feel like turning out but I had to because I had a breakfast date with an out-of-town customer, so I told her to send up a double orange juice. A few minutes later a waiter brought it up. So was I lucky? Keyes was killed uptown at twenty-five past seven at the earliest, and probably a little later. I was in my room at the Churchill, nearly three miles away, at half-past seven. You can have three guesses how glad I was I left that seven-thirty call!”
Wolfe nodded. “You should give the out-of-town customer a discount. In that armor, why did you take the trouble to join this gathering?”
“A switchboard girl and a waiter, for God’s sake!” Pohl snorted sarcastically.
“Nice honest people, Ferdy,” Talbott told him, and answered Wolfe, “I didn’t.”
“No? You’re not here?”
“Sure I’m here, but not to join any gathering. I came to join Miss Keyes. I don’t regard it as trouble to join Miss Keyes. As for the rest of them, except maybe Broadyke—”
The doorbell rang again, and since additional gatecrashers might or might not be desirable, I upped myself in a hurry, stepped across and into the hall, intercepted Fritz just in time, and went to the front door to take a look through the panel of one-way glass.
Seeing who it was out on the stoop, I fastened the chain bolt, pulled the door open the two inches the chain would permit, and spoke through the crack. “I don’t want to catch cold.”
“Neither do I,” a gruff voice told me. “Take that damn bolt off.”
“Mr. Wolfe is engaged,” I said politely. “Will I do?”
“You will not. You never have and you never will.”
“Then hold it a minute. I’ll see.”
I shut the door, went to the office, and told Wolfe, “The man about the chair,” which was my favorite alias for Inspector Cramer of Homicide.
Wolfe grunted and shook his head. “I’ll be busy for hours and can’t be interrupted.”
I returned to the front, opened to the crack again, and said regretfully, “Sorry, but he’s doing his homework.”
“Yeah,” Cramer said sarcastically, “he certainly is. Now that Talbott’s here too you’ve got a full house. All six of ’em. Open the door.”
“Bah. Who are you trying to impress? You have tails on one or more, possibly all, and I do hope you haven’t abandoned Talbott because we like him. By the way, the phone girl and the waiter at the Churchill—what’re their names?”
“I’m coming in, Goodwin.”
“Come ahead. This chain has never had a real test, and I’ve wondered about it.”
“In the name of the law, open this door!”
I was so astonished that I nearly did open it in order to get a good look at him. Through the crack I could use only one eye. “Well, listen to you,” I said incredulously. “On me you try that? As you know, it’s the law that keeps you out. If you’re ready to make an arrest, tell me who, and I’ll see that he or she doesn’t pull a scoot. After all, you’re not a monopoly. You’ve had them for a full week, day or night, and Wolfe has had them only an hour or so, and you can’t bear it! Incidentally, they’re not refusing to see you, they don’t know you’re here, so don’t chalk that against them. It’s Mr. Wolfe who can’t be disturbed. I’ll give you this much satisfaction: he hasn’t solved it yet, and it may take till midnight. It will save time if you’ll give me the names—”
“Shut up,” Cramer rasped. “I came here perfectly friendly. There’s no law against Wolfe having people in his office. And there’s no law against my being there wi
th them, either.”
“There sure isn’t,” I agreed heartily, “once you’re in, but what about this door? Here’s a legal door, with a man on one side who can’t open it, and a man on the other side who won’t, and according to the statutes—”
“Archie!” It was a bellow from the office, Wolfe’s loudest bellow, seldom heard, and there were other sounds. It came again. “Archie!”
I said hastily, “Excuse me,” slammed the door shut, ran down the hall and turned the knob, and popped in.
It was nothing seriously alarming. Wolfe was still in his chair behind his desk. The chair Talbott had occupied was overturned. Dorothy was on her feet, her back to Wolfe’s desk, with her brows elevated to a record high. Audrey Rooney was standing in the corner by the big globe, with her clenched fists pressed against her cheeks, staring. Pohl and Broadyke were also out of their chairs, also gazing at the center of the room. From the spectators’ frozen attitudes you might have expected to see something really startling, but it was only a couple of guys slinging punches. As I entered Talbott landed a right hook on the side of Safford’s neck, and as I closed the door to the hall behind me Safford countered with a solid stiff left to Talbott’s kidney sector. The only noise besides their fists and feet was a tense mutter from Audrey Rooney in her corner. “Hit him, Wayne; hit him, Wayne.”
“How much did I miss?” I demanded.
“Stop them!” Wolfe ordered me.
Talbott’s right glanced off of Safford’s cheek, and Safford got in another one over the kidney. They were operating properly and in an orderly manner, but Wolfe was the boss and he hated commotion in the office, so I stepped across, grabbed Talbott’s coat collar and yanked him back so hard he fell over a chair, and faced Safford to block him. For a second I thought Safford was going to paste me with one he had waiting, but he let it drop.
“What started it so quick?” I wanted to know.
Audrey was there, clutching my sleeve, protesting fiercely, “You shouldn’t have stopped him! Wayne could have knocked him down! He did before!” She sounded more bloodthirsty than milkthirsty.
“He made a remark about Miss Rooney,” Broadyke permitted himself to say.
“Get him out of here!” Wolfe spluttered.
“Which one?” I asked, watching Safford with one eye and Talbott with the other.
“Mr. Talbott!”
“You did very well, Vic,” Dorothy was saying. “You were fantastically handsome with the gleam of battle in your eye.” She put her palms against Talbott’s cheeks, pulled his head forward, and stretched her neck to kiss him on the lips—a quick one. “There!”
“Vic is going now,” I told her. “Come on, Talbott, I’ll let you out.”
Before he came he enfolded Dorothy in his arms. I glanced at Safford, expecting him to counter by enfolding Audrey, but he was standing by with his fists still doubled up. So I herded Talbott out of the room ahead of me. In the hall, while he was getting his hat and coat, I took a look through the one-way panel, saw that the stoop was clear, and opened the door. As he crossed the sill I told him, “You go for the head too much. You’ll break a hand that way someday.”
Back in the office someone had righted the overturned chair, and they were all seated again. Apparently, though her knight had been given the boot, Dorothy was going to stick. As I crossed to resume my place at my desk Wolfe was saying, “We got interrupted, Miss Rooney. As I said, you seem to be the most vulnerable, since you were on the scene. Will you please move a little closer—that chair there? Archie, your notebook.”
VI
At 10:55 the next morning I was sitting in the office—not still, but again—waiting for Wolfe to come down from the plant rooms on the roof, where he keeps ten thousand orchids and an assortment of other specimens of vegetation. I was playing three-handed pinochle with Saul Panzer and Orrie Cather, who had been phoned to come in for a job. Saul always wore an old brown cap, was undersized and homely, with a big nose, and was the best field man in the world for everything that could be done without a dinner jacket. Orrie, who would be able to get along without a hairbrush in a few years, was by no means up to Saul but was a good all-round man.
At 10:55 I was three bucks down.
In a drawer of my desk were two notebookfuls. Wolfe hadn’t kept the clients all night, but there hadn’t been much left of it when he let them go, and we now knew a good deal more about all of them than any of the papers had printed. In some respects they were all alike, as they told it. For instance, none of them had killed Sigmund Keyes; none was heartbroken over his death, not even his daughter; none had ever owned a revolver or knew much about shooting one; none could produce any evidence that would help to convict Talbott or even get him arrested; none had an airtight alibi; and each had a motive of his own which might not have been the best in the world, like Talbott’s, but was nothing to sneeze at.
So they said.
Ferdinand Pohl had been indignant. He couldn’t see why time should be wasted on them and theirs, since the proper and sole objective was to bust Talbott’s alibi and nab him. But he came through with his facts. Ten years previously he had furnished the hundred thousand dollars that had been needed to get Sigmund Keyes started with the style of setup suitable for a big-time industrial designer. In the past couple of years the Keyes profits had been up above the clouds, and Pohl had wanted an even split and hadn’t got it. Keyes had ladled out a measly annual five per cent on Pohl’s ante, five thousand a year, whereas half the profits would have been ten times that, and Pohl couldn’t confront him with the classic alternative, buy my share or sell me yours, because Pohl had been making bad guesses on other matters and was deep in debt. The law wouldn’t have helped, since the partnership agreement had guaranteed Pohl only the five per cent and Keyes had given the profits an alias by taking the gravy as salary, claiming it was his designing ability that made the money. It had been, Pohl said, a case of misjudging a man’s character. Now that Keyes was dead it would be a different story, with the contracts on hand and royalties to come for periods up to twenty years. If Pohl and Dorothy, who inherited, couldn’t come to an understanding, it would be up to a judge to make the divvy, and Pohl would get, he thought, at least two hundred thousand, and probably a lot more.
He denied that that was a good motive for murder—not for him, and anyway it was silly to discuss it, because that Tuesday morning at 7:28 he had taken a train to Larchmont to sail his boat. Had he boarded the train at Grand Central or One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street? Grand Central, he said. Had he been alone? Yes. He had left his apartment on East Eighty-fourth Street at seven o’clock and taken the subway. Did he often ride the subway? Yes, fairly frequently, when it wasn’t a rush hour. And so on, for fourteen pages of a notebook. I gave him a D minus, even granting that he could cinch it that he reached Larchmont on that train, since it would have stopped at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street at 7:38, ten minutes after it left Grand Central.
With Dorothy Keyes the big question was how much of the Keyes profits had been coming her way. Part of the time she seemed to have the idea that her father had been fairly liberal with the dough, and then she would toss in a comment which indicated that he had been as tight-fisted as a baby hanging onto another baby’s toy. It was confusing because she had no head for figures. The conclusion I reached was that her take had averaged somewhere between five hundred and twenty thousand a year, which was a wide gap. The point was, which way was she sitting prettier, with her father alive and making plenty of dough and shelling it out, or with him dead and everything hers after Pohl had been attended to? She saw the point all right, and I must say it didn’t seem to shock her much, since she didn’t even bother to lift her brows.
If it was an act it was good. Instead of standing on the broad moral principle that daughters do not kill fathers, her fundamental position was that at the unspeakable hour in question, half-past seven in the morning, she couldn’t even have been killing a fly, let alone her father. She was never out o
f bed before eleven, except in emergencies, as for instance the Tuesday morning under discussion, when word had come sometime between nine and ten that her father was dead. That had roused her. She had lived with her father in an apartment on Central Park South. Servants? Two maids. Wolfe put it to her: would it have been possible, before seven in the morning, for her to leave the apartment and the building, and later get back in again, without being seen? Not, she declared, unless someone had turned a hose on her to wake her up; that accomplished, possibly the rest could be managed, but she really couldn’t say because he had never tried.
I gave her no mark at all because by that time I was prejudiced and couldn’t trust my judgment.
Frank Broadyke was a wow. He had enthusiastically adopted Talbott’s suggestion that if he, Broadyke, had undertaken to kill anyone it would have been Talbott and not Keyes, since it implied that Keyes’ eminence in his profession had been on account of Talbott’s salesmanship instead of Keyes’ ability as a designer. Broadyke liked that very much and kept going back to it and plugging it. He admitted that the steady decrease in his own volume of business had been coincident with the rise of Keyes’, and he further admitted, when the matter was mentioned by Dorothy, that only three days before the murder Keyes had started an action at law against him for damages to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars, complaining that Broadyke had stolen designs from Keyes’ office which had got him contracts for a concrete mixer and an electric washing machine. But what the hell, he maintained, the man he would naturally have it in for was Vic Talbott, who had stampeded the market with his high-pressure sales methods—and his personality. Ask any reputable industrial designer; ask all of them. Keyes had been a mediocre gadget contriver, with no real understanding of the intricate and intimate relationship between function and design. I see from my notebook that he permitted himself to say that four times altogether.
He had been doing his best to recover lost ground. He partook, he said, of the nature of the lark; the sunrise stirred and inspired him; that was his time of day. All his brilliant early successes had been conceived before the dew was dry in shady places. In the afternoon and evening he was no better than a clod. But eventually he had got lazy and careless, stayed up late and got up late, and it was then his star had begun to dim. Recently, quite recently, he had determined to light the flame again, and only a month ago he had started getting to his office before seven o’clock, three hours before the staff was due to arrive. To his satisfaction and delight, it was beginning to work. The flashes of inspiration were coming back. That very Tuesday morning, the morning Keyes was killed, he had greeted his staff when they arrived by showing them a revolutionary and irresistible design for an electric egg beater.
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