A Right to Die

Chapter 8

It was a lousy weekend. Nothing went right. Nothing went exactly wrong either, but you can say that if you just go to bed and don’t get up.

My Saturday morning date with Oster and Whipple was canceled because Oster was called to Washington for a parley at the Department of Justice. He might be back Sunday night. Saul Panzer is the best free-lance operative who ever stopped a closing door with his foot, but even Saul was stymied when he learned that the man who had been on duty that Monday evening at the garage where the Kenneth Brookes kept their two Herons was off somewhere for the weekend, nobody knew where. At four o’clock Saturday afternoon I was invited to the DA’s office to discuss some selected items in the report I had delivered to Cramer, and was kept so long by an assistant district attorney named Mandel, who would enjoy looking at me through bars with him on the outside, that I was two hours late for a dancing date with friends at the Flamingo. Lon Cohen phoned once Saturday and twice Sunday. Some brainy journalist, maybe Lon himself, having seen the ad, had recalled the fact that Susan Brooke’s married brother lived in the East Sixties, and of course 128th Street was obvious, and Lon wanted to know what gave. I stalled him off Saturday, but he called twice Sunday to ask if the hackie had shown. He hadn’t. Not a peep.

A lousy weekend.

I finally got to Oster early Monday afternoon, at the office of the ROCC, a whole floor of a building on 39th Street near Lexington Avenue. It wasn’t lavish, but neither was it seedy. I was a little surprised to see that the switchboard girl, who doubled in reception, was my color, even a little lighter — a middle-aged female, hair showing some gray, with a chin and a half and a long thin nose, which didn’t fit. I learned later that of the total office staff of thirty-four, five were white, and of the five whites, four were volunteers, what Dolly Brooke would call do-gooders.

Oster’s room was small, one window, but after a few words he took me down the hall to the corner room of the executive director, Thomas Henchy, and it was quite a chamber, with a few dozen photographs on the walls where the cabinets and shelves left room. I had seen Henchy on television a couple of times, and so have you probably — broad shoulders, cheeks a little pudgy but not flabby, short neck. Color, strong coffee with one teaspoon of cream. He got up to shake hands, and I took a little care with the grip. Men with short necks are apt to be knuckle-crushers.

When I left, more than an hour later, the program for the evening was set, with no hard feelings. I had explained that when Wolfe had said “the entire staff” he hadn’t meant it literally. He wanted to see only those, who, because of their contacts or relations with Susan or Dunbar, or both, might possibly be able to supply useful information; and the selection would be up to them, Oster and Henchy, in discussion with me. That was satisfactory, and we proceeded to discuss. I had a list in my pocket when I left, and when I got back to the office I typed it for Wolfe:

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock he picked it up, read it twice, scowled at it for two minutes, put it in a drawer, and picked up his current book. Not Rowse on Shakespeare; The Minister and the Choir Singer, by a lawyer named Kunstler. I had read it and recommended it. At dinner we discussed it and agreed that the New York Police Department and district attorney’s office had never made such an awful mess of a case and never would.

The evening didn’t start off any too well. When four or more are coming for an after-dinner session I equip a portable bar in the kitchen and wheel it into the office, and it was there, by the bookshelves to the left of the safe, when the first one arrived; but twenty minutes later, when they had all come and been seated, and Wolfe entered, I had made no sales. That was remarkable. Out of eight people, at nine o’clock in the evening, you would expect at least two or three to be thirsty enough or bushed enough to want a drink, but they all said no. It couldn’t have been because of my manners, offering to serve people of an inferior race. First, two of them were white, and second, when I consider myself superior to anyone, as I frequently do, I need a better reason than his skin.

The seating was segregated, not by color but by sex. Wolfe had told me to put Whipple, the client, in the red leather chair, and since he had arrived before Oster there had been no clash. In the front row of yellow chairs Oster was at the far end from me, then Henchy, Ewing, public relations, and Faison, fund-raising. In the back row were Rae Kallman, Maud Jordan, and Beth Tiger. It was my first sight of the Misses Kallman and Tiger. Kallman, who had more lipstick than necessary on her full lips, would probably be plump in a few years, but now she was just nice and curvy. Tiger was one of those specimens who cannot be properly introduced by details. I’ll mention that her skin was about the color of an old solid-gold bowl Wolfe has in his room which he won’t allow Fritz to clean, that if she had been Cleopatra instead of what’s-her-name I wouldn’t have missed that movie, and that I had a problem with my eyes all evening, since with a group there I am supposed to watch expressions and movements. It was especially difficult because Miss Tiger, nearest me in the back row, was at an angle to my right. My mistake.

It was ten past nine when I buzzed the kitchen on the house phone to tell Wolfe they were all there, and in a minute he entered, circled around Whipple to his desk, and stood while I pronounced names. To each one he nodded, his usual eighth-of-an-inch nod, then turned to me and demanded, “The refreshments, Archie?”

“Offered,” I said, “and declined.”

“Indeed. Beer for me, please.” As I rose he turned to the client. “Mr. Whipple, that evening at Upshur Pavilion you took ginger ale.”

Whipple’s eyes widened. “You remember that?”

“Certainly. But the other day you had a martini. Will it be ginger ale now? I’m having beer and invite you to join me — to your taste.”

“All right, I will. Scotch and soda.”

“Mr. Henchy?”

The executive director objected. “It takes time.”

“Come, sir, is time really so precious? Mine isn’t. If yours is, all the more tempting to steal a little.”

Henchy’s eyes smiled, but he wouldn’t let his mouth chip in. “It’s a point,” he conceded. “Bourbon on the rocks.”

With the boss sold, the others came along. Rae Kallman offered to help, and that reduced the loss of time. The only holdout was Maud Jordan, and when the others had been served she made it unanimous by asking for a glass of water. I took gin and tonic because Miss Tiger did. I believe in fellowship.

Wolfe put his glass down, half empty, and sent his eyes left, then right. “I suppose all of you know that I am proceeding on the premise that Dunbar Whipple was not implicated in the murder of Susan Brooke. That needs no discussion unless one or more of you challenge it. Do you?”

Some shook their heads and some said no.

“Let’s make it clear. Will all of you who agree with me on that point please raise your hands?”

As Miss Tiger raised hers, her head turned right. Checking. Two of them, Cass Faison and Rae Kallman, were a little slow. Henchy moved only his forearm, to a forty-five degree angle. “But we’re not the jury and you’re not the judge,” Adam Ewing said.

“The intention, Mr. Ewing, is that it shall never get to a judge and jury.” Wolfe’s eyes went left and right. “Of course all of you have been questioned separately by the police, except Mr. Oster. For our joint purpose, to clear Mr. Whipple, this joint discussion was preferable, but to avoid confusion let’s start with each of you singly. But attend, please; if any of you hear a statement made by another that you challenge or question, say so at once. Intervene. Don’t let it pass. Is that understood?”

No one said it wasn’t.

“Very well. Mr. Goodwin reports that all of you knew of that apartment, and I am assuming that all of you knew where it was, again excepting Mr. Oster. Any comment?”

“I did.” Beth Tiger.

“I didn’t.” Maud Jordan. “I knew the phone number, I knew it was in Harlem, but I didn’t know the address.”

“Nevertheless, I am assuming that you did. You, Miss Jordan, knowing the phone number, could easily have learned the address. Actually, Mr. Oster, I am not excepting even you. However unlikely it may be that one of you went there and killed Susan Brooke, it is by no means unthinkable. The possibility is in my mind, naturally, but at the back. The police have questioned you regarding your whereabouts that evening, but I won’t. If later something points to one of you, we’ll see. An alibi is rarely unimpeachable. What I—”

“Just a minute,” Henchy cut in. “When you asked if we agreed that Whipple didn’t kill her I put my hand up. If you ask if we think no one in this room killed her, I’ll put it up again.” He jerked forward and hit his knee with a fist. “If you want to clear Whipple, all right, I hope you do, but you’re not going to do it by putting it on one of us!”

“I’m not going to ‘put it on’ anybody, Mr. Henchy. I’m going to find the man who ‘put it on’ himself a week ago. I’ll begin with you, Miss Jordan.”

“Me?” Her mouth stayed open.

“Yes. A vital point is the telephone call by Miss Brooke and the message Mr. Whipple found on his desk shortly before six o’clock. Did you put the message on his desk?”

“Yes. I have told the police all about it.”

“Certainly. You received the call by Miss Brooke?”

“Yes. At the switchboard.”

“What time did the call come?”

“At a quarter past five. I put it on the slip, five-fifteen.”

“What did she say?”

“She wanted to speak to Mr. Whipple, and I said he was in a conference, and she told me to tell him that she couldn’t get there until nine o’clock or a little later.”

“Can you give me her exact words?”

She frowned, making her long thin nose look longer. “I have tried to. To the police. When I said, ‘Rights of Citizens Committee,’ she said, ‘This is Susan, Maud. Please give me Mr. Whipple.’ I said, ‘He’s in conference in Mr. Hench’s room, the people from Philadelphia and Chicago,’ and she said, ‘Then will you tell him I won’t be able to get there until nine or a little later?’ I said, ‘I leave at five-thirty. Will it be all right if I leave a message on his desk?’ and she said, ‘Yes, of course.’ She hung up.”

Wolfe glanced at me, saw that I was getting it in the notebook, and returned to her. “On the next point it’s regrettable that you have already been questioned by the police, but it can’t be helped. Probably it is now fixed in your mind, but I must ask anyway. How sure are you that it was Miss Brooke speaking?”

She nodded. “It was her. They wanted to know if I would swear to it on the witness stand, and I told them I couldn’t swear it was her because I didn’t see her, but if it was someone imitating her voice I would have to hear her do it again before I would believe it.”

“Her using your first name was customary?”

“Yes.”

“At the time, as she spoke, you noticed no oddity whatever?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You say ‘of course,’ Miss Jordan, because your mind is now fixed. You have committed yourself. That’s a pity, since I have no ground at present for a demur.” Wolfe looked right and left. “This is patently crucial. If only I had spoken with Miss Jordan before she committed herself to the police. If I assume that Mr. Whipple is innocent, as I do, I must also assume that Miss Brooke did not make that telephone call. Either that or—”

“No,” Oster said, “not necessarily. She might have made it and got there earlier than she expected to. The question is, did she get there before Whipple, and how long before, and on that there is evidence. She was in that neighborhood, at a package store and a delicatessen, before eight o’clock. So she was there before Whipple came, probably about an hour, and that’s the point.”

Wolfe was shaking his head. “That is not the point. Take the murderer. Since he was not Dunbar Whipple, call him X. He knew about the apartment and that Miss Brooke would be there early in the evening, so in all likelihood he knew that Mr. Whipple would be there too. Would he have entered — presumably admitted by Miss Brooke — and clubbed her to death if Whipple might come at any moment? I don’t believe it. He was done for if Whipple arrived, not only while he was in the apartment, but while he was descending two flights of stairs and leaving the building. I reject it. I think X knew that telephone call had been made and that Whipple would not come until later. Either he knew that Miss Brooke had made the call, or he had himself made it, imitating Miss Brooke’s voice — in which case it is she, not he — or he had a confederate who made the call. So, Miss Jordan, we need you for another point. Who besides you knew of that call?”

“Nobody.” The crease in her chin and a half was deeper because her jaw was set. “I told you, I took it at the switchboard.”

“Did you mention it to anyone?”

“No.”

“It came at five-fifteen. Did you write the message on the slip immediately?”

“Yes. I would be leaving in a few minutes.”

“When did you take the message to Mr. Whipple’s room?”

“When I left. Just before I left.”

“Could anyone have seen it there at the switchboard, on your desk or table?”

“No. There was nobody there until just before I left, and then I had it in my hand.”

“Was anyone in Mr. Whipple’s room when you went there with it?”

“No.”

“You put it on his desk in plain sight?”

“Of course. So he would see it. Under a paperweight.”

Wolfe’s eyes went to the executive director. “Mr. Henchy. Dunbar Whipple told me that the conference ended a little after six o’clock. Is that correct?”

Henchy nodded. “Five or ten minutes after six.”

“Was anyone here present, besides you, at the conference?”

“Yes. Mr. Ewing, Mr. Faison, and Mr. Oster.”

“Did any of you four leave the room after half past five, before the conference ended?”

Adam Ewing exploded. “This is poppycock! You grilling us!”

Wolfe regarded him. “I believe, sir, you are in charge of what is called ‘public relations’ for your organization. Surely it is in its interest, if Dunbar Whipple is innocent, to have the murderer exposed and dealt with as soon as possible. You don’t want it to be someone now in this room, and neither do I. I have contributed to the Rights of Citizens Committee — how much, Archie?”

“Fifty dollars a year for the past seven years.” I slanted a glance at Miss Tiger to see if she was impressed. Apparently not.

“But that telephone call is a vital point, and if Miss Brooke made it I must know who might have learned about it. Mr. Oster, I told you that if you wished to object to anything I say, you have a tongue. Do you object to this?”

“No,” the lawyer said. “I think it’s immaterial, but this isn’t a courtroom.”

“It may be immaterial. Shall I repeat the question, Mr. Henchy?”

“No. I’ll answer for myself. I was in the room continuously until the conference ended.”

“I wasn’t,” Cass Faison said. I had him in profile, and the light glancing off his black cheek gave it a high gloss. “I had an appointment and left about a quarter to six.”

“Did you enter Mr. Whipple’s room?”

“No. I want to say, I doubt if Dunbar Whipple killed her, not with a club like that, but if he did I hope he gets the chair. Whoever killed Susan Brooke, whether he’s here in this room or not, I hope he gets it.”

“So do I,” Ewing snapped. “We all do.” He aimed his sharp brown eyes at Wolfe. “If Oster doesn’t object, I don’t. I was out of the room for a few minutes, to go to the men’s room, and it may have been after five-thirty. I don’t know. I didn’t enter Whipple’s room, and I knew nothing about the phone call or message.”

“Then I need not grill you. Mr. Oster, if you don’t object, you were at the conference?”

“Yes. Like Mr. Henchy, continuously. I learned about the phone call from Miss Jordan the next morning.”

“Miss Kallman. Did you enter Mr. Whipple’s room during the specified period?”

“I wasn’t there.” She put her glass down on the stand between her chair and Maud Jordan’s. “I wasn’t at the office much. I was usually out most of the day. I was that day.” All past tense, though Henchy had told me she was staying on. Probably immaterial.

“Were you with Miss Brooke that afternoon?”

“No. I was in Brooklyn, seeing some people. She had a five-o’clock meeting with some students at NYU.”

“When did you last see her?”

“That morning at the office. We often met there, especially Mondays, to plan for the day. But I think I should tell you—” She stopped.

“Yes?”

“I told the police. I often phoned her in the evening, if there was anything to report or ask about. That morning she told me she would be at the Wads-worth number that evening, and about half past eight, a little after half past, I dialed that number, but there was no answer.”

“The number of the apartment on One Hundred and Twenty-eighth Street?”

“Yes.”

Wolfe grunted. “The police probably assume she hadn’t arrived. I assume she was dead. Then you didn’t know of her call to the office at five-fifteen?”

“No.”

“You, Miss Tiger?”

Now it was in order to look at her straight, and that was a relief. I had never seen a package, anywhere, more glomable. With my eyes, which are good, free to stick, I decided that her long lashes were home-grown. She told Wolfe, in a tight low-pitched voice, “I saw the message. There on his desk. When I took some letters for him to sign.”

Wolfe’s eyes, on her, were precisely the same as when they were on Maud Jordan. Yet he’s a man. “Indeed,” he said. “Then you might as well tell me where you spent the next three hours.”

She didn’t object. “I was there until half past six, with the letters he had signed. Then I ate something in a restaurant. Then I went home and studied.”

“Studied?”

“Economics. I’m going to be an economist. Do you know where I live?”

“No. Where?”

“In that same building on One Hundred and Twenty-eighth Street. I have a room on the fourth floor. When Susan Brooke wanted to find an apartment in Harlem she asked me if I knew of any, and that one on the third floor happened to be vacant. If I had known...”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“You were in your room alone that evening?”

“Yes. From eight o’clock on. For a while the police thought I killed her. I didn’t. I never left the room, even after the police came. They wanted to take me somewhere to be questioned, but I refused to go unless they arrested me, and they didn’t. I know the rights of a citizen. I went to the district attorney’s office the next day. I want to ask you something. I have asked Mr. Oster but I’m not sure he’s right, and I want to ask you. If a person says she committed a murder she can’t be convicted just because she says she did it. There has to be some evidence. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be a witness and say I killed her. Mr. Oster says I would be cross-examined and discredited, but I don’t believe it. I can answer any question they ask me. Then he wouldn’t be convicted, and I couldn’t be. Isn’t that true?”

Wolfe’s lips were tight. He took a deep breath. Henchy and Oster both said something, but he ignored them. He took another breath. “You deserve a frank answer, madam. You are either a female daredevil or a jenny. If you killed her you would be risking disaster; if you didn’t kill her, you would be inviting derision. If you killed her, I advise you to say nothing to anyone, particularly me; if you didn’t, help me find the man who did. Or woman.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Then don’t be a lackwit. Is that apartment on the third floor directly below your room?”

“No, it’s in the rear. I’m at the front.”

“Did you hear any unusual sounds that evening between eight and nine o’clock?”

“No. The first unusual sounds were after the police came.”

“I presume Mr. Whipple knew that you lived there, on the floor above. He told me that he stayed in the apartment until the police arrived — more than half an hour after he discovered the body. It might be thought that at that crisis the impulse to confer with an associate, a friend, so near at hand, would be irresistible. But he didn’t?”

“No, he didn’t. I’m glad he didn’t.”

“Why glad?”

“Because I know — I think I would have gone down and put my fingerprints on the club.”

“Pfui. You think he would have let you?”

“He wouldn’t have known. He would have stayed in my room.”

“Then I’m as glad as you are that he didn’t go to you. This job is knotty enough without that. Archie, the glasses are empty.”

As I went to the bar for a bottle of beer and took it to him, a couple of them made remarks that can be skipped, and Miss Kallman got up to help. They all took refills except Miss Tiger. Her glass was still two-thirds full, with the ice gone, but she didn’t even want more ice. By the time the others had been served, Henchy had downed most of his refill, and I put the bourbon bottle on the stand between him and Oster, and he emptied his glass, picked up the bottle, and poured. It was twelve-year-old Big Sandy, which is worth stealing a little time for. As for me, I went to the kitchen and got a glass of milk. I would like to be loyal to Miss Tiger and say that what she didn’t want I didn’t want, but the truth is that ever since the time I missed an important point because I had had four martinis to be sociable I have limited myself to one dose when I’m working. When I returned to the office with the milk, Oster was speaking:

“...so I didn’t object, but it was immaterial. What does it matter who knew of the phone call or the message? Say I saw the message on Whipple’s desk. I would know that he probably wouldn’t be at the apartment until nine o’clock, but I would also know that Susan wouldn’t either. Therefore I wouldn’t go there at eight o’clock, to see her or kill her before Whipple came. Therefore it’s immaterial.”

Wolfe nodded and put his glass down. “Obviously, if it were that simple, but it isn’t. The telling point is that if you saw the message you knew it was fairly certain that Whipple wouldn’t arrive until around nine o’clock. During the two hours between six and eight you might have learned — no matter how, there are various possibilities — that Miss Brooke had changed her plans and would get there earlier. You might even have met her, by design or accident, and gone to the apartment with her on some pretext.”

“Possible.” Oster pursed his lips, considering it, then jerked his chin up, and I thought he had decided to take charge. But he only said, “Are you going to ignore the fact that someone besides Miss Tiger knew about the message?”

“No. I was keeping that for later, but if you want it now...” Wolfe’s eyes went right. “He means you, of course, Miss Jordan. You left the office at five-thirty. How did you spend the next three hours?”

There was a flash in her eyes that I didn’t know she had. “I didn’t spend it killing anybody,” she snapped.

“Good. Nor, I hope, at any other mischief. You must have told the police; why not tell me? Miss Tiger did.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you. What I told them. I stopped at three places on the way home to buy some things — a book, and stockings, and cream and bread and pickles — and went home and cooked my supper, and ate it, and read the book until I went to bed.”

“What book?”

“The Group. By Mary McCarthy.”

Wolfe made a face. He had read two chapters and ditched it. “Where do you live?”

“I have a little apartment on Forty-seventh Street near Lexington Avenue. I’m alone in the world.”

“At least you’re aware of it. Many people aren’t. Now, madam, a point we haven’t dealt with yet. What is your feeling about a Negro marrying a white woman?”

The flash again. “That’s none of your business.”

“My personal business, no. But it’s of urgent concern to me as the man hired by Mr. Whipple to find out who killed Susan Brooke. If you have a reason to refuse to answer, I—”

“I have no reason. It’s impertinent, that’s all. Everyone at the ROCC knows how I feel about it, and other people too. Anyone has a right to marry anyone. It’s a right Marrying the woman of your choice or the man of your choice is a God-given right.”

“Then you didn’t resent the relationship between Mr. Whipple and Miss Brooke?”

“It was none of my business. Except I thought if she married him all her money would be devoted to the cause, and that would be wonderful.”

“We all thought that,” Cass Faison said. “Or nearly all.”

“Not me,” Adam Ewing said. “I’m the exception. From the public-relations viewpoint, I thought it would be unwise. I knew it would be. I can say here exactly how I feel, I’ve said it to bigger crowds than this, and some of them mixed. Sex and money are at the bottom of all the opposition to civil rights, just as they’re at the bottom of everything else. Black and white marrying is like a red rag to a bull.” He gestured. “But I wouldn’t kill a woman to stop it. I’m not a killer. Let the opposition do the killing.”

“I’m an exception too,” Beth Tiger said. “I didn’t think it would be wonderful.”

“You agree with Mr. Ewing?”

“That’s not it. I just say I didn’t think it would be wonderful. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Miss Kallman?”

Rae Kallman shook her head but didn’t open her mouth.

“Does that mean you disapproved?”

“No. It means I said to Susan what I had to say. She was the only one I had any right to say it to, and she’s dead. The police couldn’t drag it out of me, and neither can you.”

“Then I won’t try. Mr. Henchy?”

He cleared his throat. If I had been with him on the bourbon, I would have had to clear mine twice. “On the whole, I approved. Marriage is a very personal matter, but insofar as the interests of the organization were concerned I was in agreement with Mr. Faison. I thought the advantages would outweigh the disadvantages. In my position I must be realistic. Miss Brooke was a very wealthy woman.” He reached for his glass.

“And you, Mr. Oster?”

The lawyer cocked his head. “You know, Wolfe, I’m sitting here taking it in. I’m giving you all the rope you want. But asking me how I feel about a Negro marrying a white woman — how remote can you get? I’ll send you a copy of a magazine with an article I wrote four years ago. Every civilized strain of mankind on earth is the result of interbreeding. Evidently nature approves of it, so I do. I’m not going to indict nature.”

“You had no special feeling about this particular instance?”

“Certainly not.”

Wolfe poured beer, emptying the bottle. He put it down and looked left and right. “I admit,” he said, “that much of what has been said has probably been a waste of time. I hope it has, for in spite of Miss Jordan’s conviction I will not discard the guess that the telephone call was not made by Miss Brooke. I like it; its attractions are many and manifest.” His eyes settled on my assistant bartender. “Miss Kallman, you said that Miss Brooke had a five-o’clock meeting that day. Do you know where it was to be held?”

“It was at NYU, but I don’t know which building or room.”

“Can you find out?”

“Yes, easily.”

“And the names of some of the people who were there?”

“I can tell you one name now. Bill Magnus. William Magnus. I have his address and phone number at the office. He could give you other names. I saw him last week. Many people have wanted to see me, since Susan—”

“The meeting took place and Miss Brooke was there?”

“Yes.”

“Can Mr. Goodwin call you in the morning and get Mr. Magnus’s address?”

“I had better call him. I’m never sure just when I’ll be there.”

“Will you do so?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve talked with Magnus,” Oster said. “So have the police, naturally. You won’t get anything conclusive, one way or the other.”

Wolfe was swallowing beer. It was turning into a big beer night, three bottles instead of the usual one or two. He put the glass down and licked his lips. “There’s always a chance of a hint, and Mr. Goodwin is good at hints. I can’t say about you, but the police were surely satisfied to have it that Miss Brooke made that call, and I am not. If there’s any—”

The phone rang, and I turned and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s resi—”

“Saul, Archie. I’ve got a slice of maybe bacon.”

“We could use some. We have company. Hold it.”

“Sure.”

I pressed a button, rose, detoured around the chairs, passing only eight inches from Miss Tiger’s shoulder, went to the kitchen, and got at the phone on my breakfast table.

“Goodwin speaking.”

“You sound more like Lieutenant Rowcliff.”

“I do not. I don’t stutter. Well?”

“It cost twenty bucks. Some garage attendants have delusions of grandeur. The Brookes have two cars, Herons, a sedan and a station wagon. Mr. Brooke uses the wagon every day, Monday to Friday; he drives to his laboratory in Brooklyn. He returned it to the garage that Monday evening, March second, around midnight. Mrs. Brooke came and got the sedan that evening between seven and eight. His guess is about a quarter to eight. She brought it back about an hour later, maybe an hour and a half.”

“Saul, I love you, except at the poker table. Will he tell her?”

“No. He would deny he told me. I had to swear he wouldn’t be quoted. I merely wanted the information, you know?”

“Yeah. How much chance is there that he made it up to give you your money’s worth?”

“Now listen. Wouldn’t I have said so?”

“I withdraw it. Of course you have the color and license number. How was she dressed?”

“He didn’t notice.”

With Saul you don’t ask silly questions, such as was she alone going and coming. “All right,” I said, “she may not be a murderer, but she’s a damn liar. He’s finishing up a three-bottle session with an integrated audience. One of them is a brown girl, golden brown, whom you’d better never meet if you don’t want to be glued. I don’t want to be rude, but I have to get back in there. Where are you?”

“A booth. Sixty-fourth and Lexington.”

“Where will you be?”

“Home in bed. It’s nearly midnight.”

“If we don’t ring you tonight we will in the morning. Stand by, huh?”

He said he would. I cradled the phone and sat a minute looking at it. It was the kind of thing Wolfe hates and I’m not too fond of myself. Trying to find someone or ones who had seen that car in Harlem that evening, granting it had been there, was a job for an army. Facing her with it as a known fact without naming the source would be a waste of breath. I got up, said a word aloud that needn’t be in the record, went to the hall, and found that the party was over. Two of them were on their way to the front, and the others were filing out of the office, all but Paul Whipple, who was having a word with Wolfe at his desk.

I went to help with coats and hats, and deliberately selected Maud Jordan’s, letting one of the others serve Miss Tiger. I didn’t want to give her the impression that I was at her beck, let alone her call. Then Paul Whipple came, and I had his ready for him. He was the last one out.

When I went to the office Wolfe had his reading light on and had opened The Minister and the Choir Singer. That was as it should be; he would stay to keep me company while I took things out and straightened up. To go to bed, leaving the mess to me, would sort of imply that I was merely a menial, so he stayed to collaborate. As I entered he looked a question.

I nodded. “Saul. Mrs. Brooke forgets things. Monday evening, March second, around a quarter to eight, she got her car from the garage and brought it back an hour or more later. Saul shelled out twenty dollars to the garage attendant and promised not to reveal the source. No one with her.”

He growled. “Confound her.”

“Yes, sir. I told Saul we’d ring him tonight or in the morning. Any instructions?”

“It’s past bedtime. Ask Saul to come at eleven. If Miss Kallman hasn’t called by ten o’clock you should call her.”

“Right. Do you want to see Magnus?”

“No. You will.”

Meaning he only did the tricky ones. He raised his book, and I started collecting glasses. Miss Tiger’s was still two-thirds full. Wasting good gin, Follansbee’s.