“It has already been tested by the police.” Her chin was up and a muscle in the side of her neck was twitching, barely perceptible even by good eyes. “We’re not—we’re associated in our work because we have to be. Personally we don’t—we are not close.”
“But he would like to be?”
“He thinks he—yes.”
“Do you read books?”
She did what everybody does when asked an unexpected and irrelevant question. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. For two seconds exactly the same as if he had asked her if she ate cats. Then she said, “Why—yes. I read books.”
“Do you read much fiction?”
“I read some.”
“Then you may be aware that most competent storytellers, even lesser ones, have an instinctive knowledge of the possibilities of human conduct. They often present two characters who have a strong mutual attachment in secret but who have other people believing that they are hostile. But not the reverse. Not two who have a mutual animus but have others believing that they like or love each other. Storytellers know it can’t be done. So do I. I know I can’t learn if you and Mr. Meer are in fact close by asking you questions and watching your face as you answer them, so I won’t try. I know it’s futile for me to ask you anything at all, but I wanted to see you again and hear you speak, and I would like to ask one specific question, more for what the question will tell you than for what the answer will tell me. Mr. Goodwin got your detailed account of your movements on that Tuesday, May twentieth. I would like one detail of the preceding day, Monday, May nineteenth. In the early afternoon, shortly after lunch, Mr. Meer was with you in your room. Tête-à-tête. What did you talk about? What was said?”
I won’t say I actually enjoyed what happened next, but I appreciated being there to see it. Having seen him walk out on people I don’t know how many times, say a hundred, it kind of evened up to see him once as the walkee instead of the walker. She didn’t glare or clamp her jaw or spit, she just go up and went. I admit he didn’t glare or spit either; he just sat and watched her go. I did too until she was out; then I stepped to the hall to see that she shut the front door. When I stepped back in, he was opening the drawer to get the bottle opener—so he had rung for beer.
“Tell me once more,” I said, “that I understand women better than you do. It gives me confidence. But don’t ask me to prove it. I said two weeks ago that she didn’t open the bag and shake it. I also said she didn’t plant the bomb, but now I don’t know. Did Copes strikingly suggest that she did?”
“Confound Copes,” he growled. “And nothing can be expected from Saul or Fred during the weekend.”
He picked up the top item on the stack of the morning mail. It was a check from Mrs. Odell for $65,000.
17
kenneth Meer was early too. When I answered the doorbell a little before three, I saw his car down at the curb, a dark green Jaguar. He had an oversized brief case, brown leather, under his arm, presumably to save the trouble of locking the car, and when I asked if he wanted to leave it on the hall bench, he said no and took it along to the office. I said before, when I first saw him, that his poorly designed face was tired too young, and now, as he sat in the red leather chair and blinked at Wolfe, his long, pointed nose above his wide square chin looked like an exclamation point with a long line crossing at the bottom instead of a dot.
He kept the brief case on his lap. “I resent this,” he said. He sounded as peevish as he looked. “Why couldn’t I come yesterday—last evening? Why today?”
Wolfe nodded. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Meer. You have it. I hoped to have by now definite information on a point I wanted to discuss with you, but it hasn’t come. However, since you’re here, we may as well consider another point. Your bloody hands. A week after the explosion of that bomb you were in distress, severe enough to take you to that clinic and then to me. Later, when I became professionally involved, the nature of your distress was of course of interest. There were various possibilities: You had yourself put the bomb in the drawer and the burden of guilt was too heavy for you. Or you hadn’t, but you knew or suspected who had, and your conscience was galling you; your imagined bloody hands were insisting, please pass the guilt. Or merely the event itself had hit you too hard; the sight of the havoc and the actual blood on your hands had put you in shock. Those were all valid guesses, but Mr. Goodwin and I didn’t bother to discuss them; we rarely waste time discussing guesses.”
“I like that, please pass the guilt,” Meer said. “I like that.”
“So do I. Mr. Goodwin will too. He once said that I ride words bareback. But the devil of it is that after more than three weeks the guesses are still guesses, and it may possibly help to mention them to you. Have you a comment?”
“No.”
“None at all?”
“No.”
“Does the distress persist? Do you still get up in the middle of the night to wash your hands?”
“No.”
“Then something that has been done or said must have removed the pressure, or at least eased it. What? Do you know?
“No.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I can’t accept that. This morning I was blunt with Miss Lugos and told her I thought she was lying. Now I think you are. There is another point concerning you that I haven’t broached that I’ll mention now. Why did you tell a man that anyone who wanted to know how it happened should concentrate on Helen Lugos?”
Meer didn’t frown or cock his head or even blink. He merely said, “I didn’t.”
Wolfe’s head turned. “Archie?”
“You said it,” I told Meer, “to Pete Damiano. I can’t name the day, but it was soon after it happened. About a month ago.”
“Oh, him.” He grinned, or make it that he probably thought he grinned. “Pete would say anything.”
“That’s witless,” Wolfe said. “You knew it was likely, at least possible, that that would be remembered and you would be asked about it, and you should have had a plausible reply ready. Merely to deny it won’t do. It’s obvious that you’re implicated, either by something you know or something you did, and you should be prepared to deal with contingencies. I am, and I believe one is imminent. I ask you the same question I asked Miss Lugos this morning, in the same terms: In the early afternoon of Monday, May nineteenth, shortly after lunch, you were with Miss Lugos in her room, tête-à-tête. What did you talk about? What was said?”
That got a frown. “You asked her that? What did she say?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember.”
“Pfui. I’ve asked you seven questions and got only no’s and nothings. I’ve apologized to you; now I apologize to myself. Another time, Mr. Meer. Mr. Goodwin will show you out.”
I rose, but stood, because Meer thought he was going to say something. His lips parted twice but closed again. He looked up at me, saw only an impassive mug, got up, tucked the brief case under his arm, and moved. I followed him, but got ahead in the hall, opened the front door, and waited until he was down and at the door of the Jaguar to close it. Back in the office, I asked, “Do we need to discuss any guesses?”
Wolfe grunted. “You might as well have gone before lunch. Shall I apologize to you?”
“No, thanks. The phone number is on your pad, as usual.” I went and got my bag from the hall and let myself out, on my way to the garage for the Heron and then to the West Side Highway, headed for Lily Rowan’s glade in Westchester. That’s what she calls it, The Glade.
18
amory Browning did something Monday morning that had never been done before. He walked down the aisles of the three plant rooms, clear to the potting room, without seeing an orchid. I didn’t actually see him, since he was behind me, but I’m sure he did. With that blaze of color, right and left and overhead, you’d think he would have to be blind. In a way he was.
It was twenty past ten and I had just returned from a walk crosstown to the bank and back, to deposit
the check from the client, when the ring of the doorbell took me to the hall, and there was the next president of CAN. When I went and opened the door, he crossed the sill and went on by and headed for the office, and when I got there he was standing at the end of Wolfe’s desk.
“Where is he?” he demanded.
“Where he always is at this hour, up on the roof. He’ll be down at eleven. You can wait, or maybe I can help.”
“Get him down here. Now.”
The man at the top speaking, but he didn’t look it. I had formerly estimated that he had been pudgy for about five years, but now I would have made it ten.
“It can’t be done,” I said. “With him a rule is a rule. He’s part mule. If it’s really urgent he might talk on the phone.”
“Get him.”
“I’ll try.” I went to the kitchen, sat at the little table where I eat breakfast, reached for the house phone, and pushed the “P” button.
After a two-minute wait, about par, the usual “Yes?”
“Me in the kitchen. Amory Browning is in the office. I once saw a picture somewhere of a dragon snorting fire. That’s him. He ordered me to get you down here now. I told him you might talk on the phone.”
Silence for eight seconds, then: “Bring him.”
“Okay, but have something ready to throw.”
The elevator will take up to 600 pounds, but I thought a little deep breathing would be good for him, so I took him to the stairs, and he surprised me by not stopping to catch up on oxygen at the landings. He wasn’t panting even at the top. As I said, he was behind me down the aisles, but when I opened the door to the potting room I let him by. Wolfe, in his long-sleeved, yellow smock, was at the side bench opening a bale of tree fern. He turned part way and said, “You don’t like to be interrupted at work. Neither do I.”
Browning was standing with his feet apart. “You goddam cheap bully!”
“Not ‘cheap.’ I haven’t earned that reproach. What do you want?”
“Nothing. Calling my secretary a liar. Getting her here on a Saturday morning just to butter your ego by insulting her. I came to tell you that you can tell Mrs. Odell that there will be no more cooperation from anyone at CAN. Tell her if she wants to know why, to call me. Is that plain enough?”
“Yes indeed. Is that what you came for, to tell me that?”
“Yes!”
“Very well, you’ve told me.” Wolfe turned back to the bale of tree fern.
Browning was stuck. Of course with the “Is that plain enough?” he should have whirled and headed for the door. Now what could he do for an exit? He could only just go, and I admit he had sense enough to realize it. He just went, and I followed, and again he didn’t see an orchid. I supposed that on the way down the three flights he would decide on an exit line to use on me, but evidently he was too mad to bother, though I passed him down in the hall and opened the door for him. Not a word. I went to the office and sat to ask myself why I had bothered to deposit the check.
And in three minutes the doorbell rang and I went to the hall and there was Saul Panzer.
It’s moments like that that make life worth living, seeing Saul there on the stoop. If he had just wanted to make a routine report or ask a question or ask for help, he would have phoned. If he had wanted to consult Wolfe, he would have waited until eleven o’clock. And if he had bad news, he would have let his face show it as I came down the hall. So he had something good. I opened the door wide and said, “My god, are you welcome. How good is it?”
“I guess I’m awful obvious,” he said, and stepped in. “I think it’s satisfactory.”
I slammed the door shut. “For a nickel I’d kiss you.” I looked at my wrist: 10:47. “You’d rather tell him, but I don’t want to wait thirteen minutes. Neither do you or you wouldn’t be here yet. We’ll go up.”
It took us about half as long as it had taken Browning and me. I won’t say that we didn’t see an orchid as we passed through the rooms, but we didn’t stop to admire one. Wolfe, still in the yellow smock, was at the sink washing his hands, and Theodore stood there with a paper towel ready for him. Theodore babies him, which is one of the reasons he is not my favorite fellow being.
Wolfe, turning and seeing Saul, was on as quick as I had been. He said, “Indeed,” and ignored the dripping water from his hands. “What?”
“Yes, sir,” Saul said. “Once in a while I do something exactly right and am lucky along with it, and that’s a pleasure. I would enjoy leading up to it, but it’s been a long time since we’ve brought you anything. Dennis Copes’s twin sister, Diana, is the wife of Lieutenant J. M. Rowcliff. They have two children, a boy and a girl. Dennis and Diana see each other quite often—as I said, twins.”
Wolfe took the towel from Theodore, patted with it, dropped it in the bin, took another, rubbed with it, missed the bin. It fluttered to the floor and Theodore picked it up. Wolfe flattened his right palm against his left and made slow circles.
“Are Mr. Rowcliff and Mr. Copes on good terms?”
“No. They see each other very seldom. Apparently never would suit them fine.”
“Mr. Rowcliff and his wife?”
“Three people say they’re happy. I know it’s hard to believe that anybody could stand Rowcliff, but off duty he may be different.”
“Have you caused a stir?”
“No.”
That was Saul. Not “I hope not” or “I don’t think so.” Just “No.”
“More than satisfactory.” Wolfe took the smock off and hung it on a wall hook, got his vest and jacket from a hanger, and put them on. He looked at the clock on the bench: two minutes to eleven. “I want a word with Theodore and I’ll consider this on the way down. Put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator, Archie—and Saul, we’ll probably need you.”
Saul and I went.
I suppose I shouldn’t include what happened next; it’s just too pat. Who will believe it? But Fred deserves to have it in, and it happened. Saul and I had just got to the office, having stopped at the kitchen on the way, and were discussing how it should be handled, when the doorbell rang and I went. It was Fred. I opened the door, and as he entered he blurted, “Is he down yet?” I said he was on the way and he said, “If I hold it in any longer I’ll bust. Copes’s twin sister is married to that sonofabitch Rowcliff.”
All right, it happened. In nineteen days they had got exactly nothing, and here came two of them, practically simultaneous, with the same beautiful slab of bacon. Saul, who had come to the hall and heard him, said, “So we need two bottles of champagne,” and went to the kitchen. I was telling Fred that Saul had beat him by just sixteen minutes, when the elevator door opened and Wolfe was there, and when he saw the look on Fred’s face, he knew what had happened, so I didn’t have to tell him, but I did. He led the way to the office, and Saul came and he and Fred moved yellow chairs up.
Wolfe sat and said, “Get Mr. Cramer.”
He has been known to rush it, and it had been a long dry spell. “You once made a remark,” I said, “about impetuosity. I could quote it verbatim.”
“So could I. If we discussed it all day there would still be only one way to learn if we have it or not. Get him.”
“If he’s not there do you want Rowcliff?”
“No. Only Mr. Cramer.”
I pulled the phone around and dialed, and got first the switchboard, then a sergeant I knew only by name, Molloy, and then Inspector Cramer, and Wolfe took his phone. I stayed on.
Wolfe: “Good morning.”
“Is it?”
“I think so. I have a problem. I must discuss a matter with Mr. Rowcliff as soon as possible, and it will go better if you are present. It relates to the death of Peter Odell. Could you come now?”
“No. I’ll get Rowcliff on another phone.”
“That wouldn’t do. I have a tape recording both of you should hear.”
“A recording of what?”
“You’ll know when you hear it. You won’t like it, but
it may give you a useful hint. It has given me one.”
“I can’t—wait. Maybe I can. Hold it.”
We held it for about two minutes, and then: “Does it have to be Rowcliff?”
“Yes. That’s requisite.”
“I never expected to hear this, you wanting to see Rowcliff. We’ll leave in about ten minutes.”
Click.
We hung up. I asked Wolfe, “The Copes tape?”
He said yes, and I went to the safe for the key to the locked cabinet where we keep various items that would be in the safe if there was room. Wolfe started in on Saul and Fred, asking questions that I thought should have been asked before calling Cramer, but he got nothing that tangled it. Fred had nothing but the bare fact that Copes’s sister was Rowcliff’s wife. Saul, knowing we would need more, had proceeded to get it, but he hadn’t seen Diana herself, only neighbors and a woman who cleaned the Rowcliff apartment once a week, and two men who knew Copes. Almost certainly nothing had got to Rowcliff. However, one problem arose that had to be dealt with; Wolfe rang for beer and had the cap off of the bottle before he remembered that we were probably going to open champagne. He called Fritz in for consultation, and they decided it would be interesting to try eel stewed in stale beer, and Fritz thought he knew where he could get eel the next day. Wolfe told him Saul and Fred would join us for lunch, and it should be a little early if possible—one o’clock.
Lieutenant Rowcliff has it in for all private detectives, but I admit he has a special reason for thinking the world would be better off without me. When he gets hot he stutters, and with me it must be catching, because when he’s working on me and I see that he is getting close to that point, I start to stutter, especially on words that begin with g or t. It’s a misdemeanor to interfere with a police officer in the performance of his duty, but how could he handle that? Wolfe knows about it, and when the doorbell rang at a quarter to twelve and he told Saul to get it, I believe he actually thought I might greet them with “Gu-gu-gu-good morning.”
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