“Why isn’t she out on bail?” Judy Bram demanded. “I want to know why—”
“That will do,” Wolfe snapped. “You’re here to listen, Miss Bram, and if you don’t hold your tongue Mr. Goodwin will drag you out. If necessary Mr. Stebbins will help.”
“But why—”
“No! One more word and out you go.”
She set her teeth on her lip and glared at him. He glared back, decided she was squelched, and left her.
“I am acting,” he said, “jointly with Mr. Goodwin, on behalf of Miss Holt. At our persuasion she has just told Mr. Cramer of her movements last evening. I’ll sketch them briefly. Shortly after seven-thirty she took Miss Bram’s cab and drove it to Ferrell Street and parked at the mouth of the alley leading to Mr. Kearns’s house. She expected him to appear but he didn’t. At eight-thirty she left the cab, went through the alley to the house, knocked several times, and looked in windows. Getting no response, she returned to the cab, having been gone about ten minutes. There was a dead body in the cab, a woman, and she recognized her. It was Phoebe Arden. I will not—”
“You fat fool!” Judy blurted. “You’re a fine—”
“Archie!” he commanded.
I stood up. She clamped her teeth on her lip. I sat down.
“I will not,” Wolfe said, “go into her thought processes, but confine myself to her actions. She covered the body with a piece of canvas and drove away. Her intention was to dispose of her cargo in some likely spot, and she drove around in search of one, but found none. I omit details—for instance, that she rang the number of Miss Bram from a phone booth and got no answer. She decided she must have counsel, drove to my house, met Mr. Goodwin on the stoop, and gave him a rigmarole about a bet she had made. Since he is vulnerable to the attractions of personable young women, he swallowed it.”
I swallowed that. I had to, with Cramer sitting there.
“Now,” Wolfe said, “a crucial fact. I learned it myself less than three hours ago. Only a few minutes after Miss Holt and Mr. Goodwin met on the stoop someone phoned police headquarters to say that a taxi standing in front of this address had a dead woman in it. That is—”
“Where did you get that?” Cramer demanded.
Wolfe snorted. “Pfui. Not from you or Mr. Stebbins. That is proof, to me conclusive, that the murderer of Phoebe Arden had no wish or need for her to die. Phoebe Arden was killed only because her corpse was needed as a tool for the destruction of another person—a design so cold-blooded and malign that even I am impressed. Whether she was killed in the cab, or at a nearby spot and the body taken to the cab, is immaterial. The former is more likely, and I assume it. What did the murderer do? He, or she—we lack a neuter pronoun—he entered the cab with Phoebe Arden the moment Miss Holt disappeared in the alley, coming from their hiding place in the stoneyard across the street. Having stabbed his victim—or rather his tool—he walked up Ferrell Street and around the corner to where his car was parked on Carmine Street. Before going to his car he stood near the corner to see if Miss Holt, on returning to the cab, removed the body before driving away. If she had, he would have found a booth and phoned police headquarters immediately.”
Cramer growled, “What if Kearns had come out with Miss Holt?”
“He knew he wouldn’t. I’ll come to that. You are assuming that Kearns was not the murderer.”
“I am assuming nothing.”
“That’s prudent. When Miss Holt turned the cab into Carmine Street and drove on, he followed her. He followed her throughout her search for a place to get rid of the corpse, and on to her final destination, this house. Some of my particulars are assumption or conjecture, but not this one. He must have done so, for when she stopped here he drove on by, found a phone booth, and made the call to the police. The only other possible source of the call was a passerby who had seen the corpse in the cab as it stood at the curb, and a passerby couldn’t have seen it without opening the door and lifting the canvas.” His eyes went to Cramer. “Of course that hadn’t escaped you.”
Cramer grunted.
Wolfe turned a hand over. “If his objective was the death of Phoebe Arden, why didn’t he kill her in the stoneyard—they must have been there, since there is no other concealment near—and leave her there? Or if he did kill her there, which is highly unlikely, why did he carry or drag the body to the cab? And why, his objective reached, did he follow the cab in its wanderings and at the first opportunity call the police? I concede the possibility that he had a double objective, to destroy both Miss Arden and Miss Holt, but if so Miss Holt must have been his main target. To kill Miss Arden, once he had her in the stoneyard with a weapon at hand, was simple and involved little risk; to use her body as a tool for the destruction of Miss Holt was a complicated and daring operation, and the risks were great. I am convinced that he had a single objective, to destroy Miss Holt.”
“Then why?” Cramer demanded. “Why didn’t he kill her?”
“I can only conjecture, but it is based on logic. Because it was known that he had reason to wish Miss Holt dead, and no matter how ingenious his plan and adroit its execution, he would have been suspected and probably brought to account. I have misstated it. That’s what he did. He devised a plan so ingenious that he thought he would be safe.”
Purley Stebbins got up, circled around the red leather chair, and stood at Waldo Kearns’s elbow.
“No, Mr. Stebbins,” Wolfe said. “Our poor substitute for a neuter pronoun is misleading. I’ll abandon it. If you want to guard a murderer stand by Mrs. Irving.”
Knowing that was coming any second, I had my eye on her. She was only four feet from me. She didn’t move a muscle, but her husband did. He put a hand to his forehead and squeezed. I could see his knuckles go white. Mira’s eyes stayed fixed on Wolfe, but Judy and Kearns turned to look at Mrs. Irving. Stebbins did too, but he didn’t move.
Cramer spoke. “Who is Mrs. Irving?”
“She is present, sir.”
“I know she is. Who is she?”
“She is the wife of the man whom Miss Holt called on the phone Sunday evening to tell him that she was going to take Miss Bram’s cab, and why. Mr. Irving has stated that he told no one of that call. Either he lied or his wife eavesdropped. Mr. Irving. Might your wife have overheard that conversation on an extension?”
Irving’s hand left his forehead. He lowered it slowly until it touched his knee. I had him in profile. A muscle at the side of his neck was twitching. “To say that she might,” he said slowly and precisely, as if he only had so many words and didn’t want to waste any, “isn’t saying that she did. You have made a shocking accusation. I hope—” He stopped, leaving it to anybody’s guess what he hoped. He blurted. “Ask her!”
“I shall. Did you, madam?”
“No.” Her deep, strong voice needed more breath behind it. “Your accusation is not only shocking, it’s absurd. I told Mr. Goodwin what I did last evening. Hasn’t he told you?”
“He has. You told him that your husband had been prevented by a business emergency from keeping a dinner and theater engagement with you, and you had phoned Phoebe Arden to go in his stead, and she agreed. When she didn’t appear at the restaurant you rang her number and got no answer, and then went to another restaurant to eat alone, presumably one where you are not known and plausibly would not be remembered. After waiting for her at the theater until after nine o’clock you left a ticket for her at the box office and went in to your seat. That sounds impressive, but actually it leaves you free for the period that counts, from half past seven until well after nine o’clock. Incidentally, it was a mistake to volunteer that account of your movements, so detailed and precise. When Mr. Goodwin reported it to me I marked you down as worthy of attention.”
“I wasn’t free at all,” she said. “I told Mr. Goodwin I wanted to help, and—”
“Don’t talk,” her husband commanded the back of her head. “Let him talk.” To Wolfe: “Unless you’re through?”
“By
no means. I’ll put it directly to you, madam. This is how you really spent those hours. You did phone Phoebe Arden yesterday afternoon, but not to ask her to join you at dinner and the theater. You told her of Miss Holt’s plan to drive Miss Bram’s cab in an effort to have a talk with her husband, and you proposed a prank. Miss Arden would arrange that Mr. Kearns would fail to appear, and if he didn’t, Miss Holt would certainly leave the cab to go to his house to inquire. Whereupon you and Miss Arden, from your concealment in the neighboring stoneyard, would go and enter the cab, and when Miss Holt returned she would find you there, to her discomfiture and even consternation.”
“You can’t prove any of this,” Cramer growled.
“No one ever can, since Miss Arden is dead.” Wolfe’s eyes didn’t leave Mrs. Irving. He went on, “I didn’t know Miss Arden, so I can’t say whether she agreed to your proposal from mere caprice or from an animus for Miss Holt, but she did agree, and went to her doom. The program went as planned, without a hitch. No doubt Miss Arden herself devised the stratagem by which Mr. Kearns was removed from the scene. But at this point I must confess that my case is not flawless. Certainly you would not have been so witless as to let anyone have a hand in your deadly prank—either a cab driver or your private chauffeur. Do you drive a car?”
“Don’t answer,” Irving commanded her.
“Yes, she does,” Judy Bram said, louder than necessary.
“Thank you, Miss Bram. Apparently you can speak to the point. Then you and Miss Arden went in your car, and parked it on Carmine Street—away from the corner in the direction Miss Holt would take when, leaving, she made the turn from Ferrell Street. You walked to the stoneyard and chose your hiding spot, and when Miss Holt left the cab you went and entered it. It is noteworthy that at that point you were committed to nothing but a prank. If Miss Holt had suddenly returned, or if anyone had come close enough to observe, you would merely have abandoned your true objective—a disappointment, but no disaster. As it was, you struck. I am not a moralizer, but I permit myself the comment that in my experience your performance is without parallel for ruthlessness and savagery. It appears that Miss Arden was not merely no enemy of yours; she was your friend. She must have been, to join with you in your impish prank; but you needed her corpse for a tool to gratify your mortal hatred for Miss Holt. That was—”
“Her hatred for Miss Holt,” Cramer said. “You assume that too?”
“No indeed. That is established. Miss Bram. Speaking of Gilbert Irving, you said that when he looks at Miss Holt or hears her voice he has to lean against something to keep from trembling. You didn’t specify the emotion that so affects him. Is it repugnance?”
“No. It’s love. He wants her.”
“Was his wife aware of it?”
“Yes. Lots of people were. You only had to see him look at her.”
“That is not true,” Irving said. “I am merely Miss Holt’s friend, that’s all, and I hope she is mine.”
Judy’s eyes darted at him and returned to Wolfe. “He’s only being a husband because he thinks he has to. He’s being a gentleman. A gentleman doesn’t betray his wife. I was wrong about you. I shouldn’t have called you a fat fool. I didn’t know—”
Cramer cut in, to Wolfe. “All right, if that isn’t established it can be. But it’s about all that’s established. There’s damn little you can prove. Do you expect me to charge a woman with murder on your guess?”
You don’t often hear a sergeant disagree with an inspector in public, but Purley Stebbins—no, I used the wrong word. Not hear, see. Purley didn’t say a word. All he did was leave his post at Kearns’s elbow and circle around Irving to stand beside Mrs. Irving, between her and Judy Bram. Probably it didn’t occur to him that he was disagreeing with his superior; he merely didn’t like the possibility of Mrs. Irving’s getting a knife from her handbag and sticking it in Judy’s ribs.
“There’s nothing at all I can prove,” Wolfe said. “I have merely exposed the naked truth; it is for you, not me, to drape it and arm it with the evidence the law requires. For that you are well equipped; surely you need no suggestions from me; but, item, did Mrs. Irving get her car from the garage yesterday evening? What for? If to drive to a restaurant and then to a theater, in itself unlikely, where did she park it? Item, the knife. If she conceived her prank only after her husband phoned to cancel their engagement, which is highly probable, she hadn’t time to contrive an elaborate and prudent plan for getting a weapon. She either bought one at a convenient shop, or she took one from her own kitchen; and if the latter her cook or maid will have missed it and can identify it. Her biggest mistake, of course, was leaving the knife in the body, even with the handle wiped clean; but she was in a hurry to leave, she was afraid blood would spurt on her, and she was confident that she would never be suspected of killing her good friend Phoebe Arden. Other items—”
Mrs. Irving was up, and as she arose her husband did too, and grabbed her arm from behind. He wasn’t seizing a murderer; he was being a gentleman and stopping his wife from betraying herself. She jerked loose, but then Purley Stebbins had her other arm in his big paw.
“Take it easy,” Purley said. “Just take it easy.”
Mira’s head dropped and her hands came up to cover her face, and she started to shake. Judy Bram put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Go right ahead, Mi, don’t mind us. You’ve got it coming.” Waldo Kearns was sitting still, perfectly still. I got up and went to the kitchen, to the extension, and dialed the Gazette number. I thought I ought to be as good at keeping a promise as Mira had been.
XI
Yesterday I drove Mira and Judy to Idlewild, where Mira was to board a plane for Reno. Judy and I had tossed a coin to decide whether the trip would be made in the Heron sedan which Wolfe owns and I drive, or in Judy’s cab, and I had won. On the way back I remarked that I supposed Kearns had agreed to accept service for a Reno divorce because now it wouldn’t leave him free to marry Phoebe Arden.
“No,” Judy said. “Because his wife was a witness in a murder trial and that wouldn’t do.”
A little later I remarked that I supposed she had stopped dreaming about a lion standing on a rock about to spring at her.
“No,” she said. “Only now I’m not sure who it is. It could even be you.”
A little later I remarked that if the state of New York carried out its program for Mrs. Irving, who was in the death house at Sing Sing, I supposed Mira would get back from Reno just in time for a wedding.
“No,” Judy said. “They’ll wait at least a year. Gil Irving will always be a gentleman.”
Three supposes and all wrong. And still men keep on marrying women.
The Rodeo
Murder
I
Cal Barrow was standing at the tail end of the horse with his arm extended and his fingers wrapped around the strands of the rope that was looped over the horn of the cowboy saddle. His gray-blue eyes—as much of them as the half-closed lids left in view—were straight at me. His voice was low and easy, and noise from the group out front was coming through the open door, but I have good ears.
“Nothing to start a stampede,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you how I go about taking some hide off a toad in this town.” To give it as it actually sounded I would have to make it, “Ah jist wanted to ask yuh how Ah go about takin’ some hide off a toad,” but that’s too complicated, and from here on I’ll leave the sound effects to you if you want to bother.
I was sliding my fingertips up and down on the polished stirrup strap so that observers, if any, would assume that we were discussing the saddle. “I suppose,” I said, “it’s a two-legged toad.” Then, as a brown-haired cowgirl named Nan Karlin, in a pink silk shirt opened at the throat and regulation Levis, came through the arch and headed for the door to the terrace, lifting the heels of her fancy boots to navigate the Kashan rug that had set Lily Rowan back fourteen thousand bucks, I raised my voice a little so she wouldn’t have to strain her ears if she was curious.
“Sure,” I said, rubbing the leather, “you could work it limber, but why don’t they make it limber?”
But I may be confusing you, since a Kashan carpet with a garden pattern in seven colors is no place for a horse to stand, so I had better explain. The horse was a sawhorse. The saddle was to go to the winner in a roping contest that was to start in an hour. The Kashan, 19 × 34, was on the floor of the living room of Lily Rowan’s penthouse, which was on the roof of a ten-story building on 63rd Street between Madison and Park Avenues, Manhattan. The time was three o’clock Monday afternoon. The group out on the terrace had just gone there for coffee after leaving the dining room, where the high point of the meal had been two dozen young blue grouse which had come from Montana on man-made wings, their own having stopped working. As we had moseyed through the living room on our way to the terrace Cal Barrow had got me aside to say he wanted to ask me something private, and we had detoured to inspect the saddle.
When Nan Karlin had passed and was outside, Cal Barrow didn’t have to lower his voice again because he hadn’t raised it. “Yeah, two legs,” he said. (Make it “laigs.”) “I got to ask somebody that knows this town and I was thinking this bozo Goodwin is the one to ask, he’s in the detective business here and he ought to know. And my friend Harvey Greve tells me you’re okay. I’m calling you Archie, am I?”
“So it was agreed at the table. First names all around.”
“Suits me.” He let go of the rope and gripped the edge of the cantle. “So I’ll ask you. I’m a little worked up. Out where I live I wouldn’t have to ask nobody, but here I’m no better’n a dogie. I been to Calgary and Pendleton, but I never come East before for this blowout. Huh. World Series Rodeo. From what I see so far you can have it.”
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