If Death Ever Slept

Chapter 8

I Made a crack, I remember, about Susan’s entrance in the lounge Monday evening, after everyone else was there, as to whether or not she had planned it that way. My own entrance in Wolfe’s office that Friday afternoon, after everyone else was there, was planned that way all right. There were two reasons: first, I didn’t want to have to chat with the first arrivals, whoever they would be, while waiting for the others; and second, I didn’t want to see Orrie being Archie Goodwin as he let them in and escorted them to the office. So at five-forty, leaving the furnishing of the refreshment table to Fritz and Orrie, I left the house and went across the street to the tailor shop, from where there was a good view of our stoop.

The first to show were Lois and Nora Kent and Roger Foote, in a taxi. Nora paid the hackie, which was only fair since she could afford it, and anyway, she probably put it on the expense account. Transportation to and from a conference to discuss whether anyone present is a murderer is probably tax deductible. The next customer was also in a taxi — Corey Brigham, alone. Then came Wyman and Susan in a yellow Jaguar, with him driving. He had to go nearly to Tenth Avenue to find a place to park, and they walked back. Then came a wait. It was 6:10 when a black Rolls-Royce town car rolled to the curb and Jarrell and Trella got out. I hadn’t grown impatient, having myself waited for Trella twenty-five minutes on Tuesday, bound for lunch at Rusterman’s. As soon as they were inside I crossed the street and pushed the button. Archie Goodwin let me in and steered me to the office. He was passable.

He had followed instructions on seating. The bad thing about it was that I had four of them in profile and couldn’t see the others’ faces at all, but we couldn’t very well give the secretary a seat of honor confronting the audience. Of course Jarrell had the red leather chair, and in the front row of yellow chairs were Lois, Trella, Wyman, and Susan. The family. Behind them were Alan Green, Roger Foote, Nora Kent, and Corey Brigham. At least I had Lois right in front of me. She wasn’t as eye-catching from the back as from the front, but it was pleasant.

When Wolfe entered he accepted Jarrell’s offer of a hand, got behind his desk, stood while Jarrell pronounced our names, inclined his head an eighth of an inch, and sat.

Jarrell spoke. “They all know that this is about Eber, and I’ve hired you, and that’s all. I’ve told them it’s a conference, a family conference, and it’s off the record.”

“Then I should clarify it.” Wolfe cleared his throat. “If by ‘off the record’ you mean that I am pledged to divulge nothing that is said, I must dissent. I’m not a lawyer and cannot receive a privileged communication. If you mean that this proceeding is confidential and none of it will be disclosed except under constraint of law, if it ever applies, that’s correct.”

“Don’t shuffle, Wolfe. I’m your client.”

“Only if we understand each other.” Wolfe’s eyes went left to right and back again. “Then that’s understood. I believe none of you know about the disappearance of Mr. Jarrell’s gun. You have to know that. Since his secretary, Mr. Green, was present when its absence was discovered, I’ll ask him to tell you. Mr. Green?”

I had known that would come, but not that he would pick on me first. Their heads were turned to me. Lois twisted clear around in her chair, and her face was only arm’s length away. I reported. Not as I had reported to Wolfe, no dialogue, but all the main action, from the time Jarrell had dashed into my room until we left the library. I had their faces.

The face that left me first was Trella’s. She turned it to her husband and protested. “You might have told us, Otis!”

Corey Brigham asked me, “Has the gun been found?” Then he went to Jarrell too. “Has it?”

Wolfe took over. “No, it has not been found. It has not been looked for. In my opinion Mr. Jarrell should have had a search made at once, calling in the police if necessary, but it must be allowed that it was a difficult situation for him. By the way, Mr. Green, did you get the impression that Mr. Jarrell suspected anyone in particular?”

I hoped I got him right. Since he had asked it he wanted it answered, but he hadn’t asked what Jarrell had said, only if I had got an impression. I gave him what I thought he wanted. “Yes, I did. I might have been wrong, but I had the feeling that he thought he knew who had taken it. It was—”

“Goddamn it,” Jarrell blurted, “you knew what I thought! I didn’t think, I knew! If it’s out let it come all the way out!” He aimed a finger at Susan. “You took it!”

Dead silence. They didn’t look at Susan, they looked at him, all except Roger Foote, next to me. He kept his eyes on Wolfe, possibly deciding whether to place a bet on him.

The silence was broken by Wyman. He didn’t blurt, he merely said, “That won’t get you anywhere, Dad, not unless you’ve got proof. Have you got any?” He turned, feeling Susan’s hand on his arm, and told her, “Take it easy, Sue.” He was adding something, but Wolfe’s voice drowned it.

“That point should be settled, Mr. Jarrell. Do you have proof?”

“No. Proof for you, no. I don’t need any.”

“Then you’d better confine your charge to the family circle. Broadcast, it would be actionable.” His head turned to the others. “We’ll ignore Mr. Jarrell’s specification of the culprit, since he has no proof. Ignoring that, this is the situation: When Mr. Jarrell learned this afternoon that Mr. Eber had been killed with a gun of the same caliber as his, which had been taken from a drawer of his desk, he was concerned, and no wonder, since Eber had been in his employ five years, had lived in his house, had recently been discharged, had visited his house on Wednesday, the day the gun was taken, and had been killed the next day. He decided to consult me. I told him that his position was precarious and possibly perilous; that his safest course was to report the disappearance of his gun, with all the circumstances, to the police; that, with a murder investigation under way, it was sure to transpire eventually, unless the murderer was soon discovered elsewhere; and that, now that I knew about it, I would myself have to report it, for my own protection, if the possibility that his gun had been used became a probability. Obviously, the best way out would be to establish that it was not his gun that killed Eber, and that can easily be done.”

“How?” Brigham demanded.

“With an if, Mr. Brigham, or two of them. It can be established if it is true, and if the gun is available. Barring the servants, one of you took Mr. Jarrell’s gun. Surrender it. Tell me where to find it. I’ll fire a bullet from it, and I’ll arrange for that bullet to be compared with the one that killed Eber. That will settle it. If the markings on the bullets don’t match, the gun is innocent and I have no information for the police. Per contra, if they do match, I must inform the police immediately, and give them the gun, and all of you are in a pickle.” He upturned both palms. “It’s that simple.”

Jarrell snapped at his daughter-in-law, “Where is it, Susan?”

“No,” Wolfe snapped back at him, “that won’t do. You have admitted you have no proof. I am conducting this conference at your request, and I won’t have you bungling it. These people, including you, are jointly in jeopardy, at least of severe harassment, and I insist on making the appeal to them jointly.” His eyes went right and left. “I appeal to all of you. Mrs. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mrs. Otis Jarrell.” Pause. “Miss Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Green.” Pause. “Mr. Foote.” Pause. “Miss Kent.” Pause. “Mr. Brigham.”

Lois twisted around in her chair to face me. “He’s good at remembering names, isn’t he?” she asked. Then she made two words, four syllables, with her lips, without sound. I am not an accomplished lip reader, but there was no mistaking that. The words were “Archie Goodwin.”

I was arranging my face to indicate that I hadn’t caught it when Corey Brigham spoke. “I don’t quite see why I have been included.” His well-trained smile was on display. “It’s an honor, naturally, to be considered in the Jarrell family circle, but as a candidate for taking Jarrell’s gun I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”

“You were there, Mr. Brigham. Perhaps I haven’t made it clear, or Mr. Green didn’t. The photograph, taken automatically when the door opened, showed the clock above the door at sixteen minutes past six. You were a dinner guest that evening, Wednesday, and you arrived shortly after six and were in the lounge.”

“I see.” The smile stayed on. “And I rushed back to the library and worked the great rug trick. How did I get in?”

“Presumably, with a key. The door was intact.”

“I have no key to the library.”

Wolfe nodded. “Possession of a key to that room would be one of the many points to be explored in a laborious and prolonged inquiry, if it should come to that. Meanwhile you cannot be slighted. You’re all on equal terms, if we ignore Mr. Jarrell’s specification without evidence, and I do.”

Roger Foote’s voice boomed suddenly, louder than necessary. “I’ve got a question.” There were little spots of color beneath the cheekbones of his big wide face — at least there was one on the side I could see. “What about this new secretary, this Alan Green? We don’t know anything about him, anyway I don’t. Do you? Did he know Eber?”

My pal. My pet panhandler. I had lent the big bum sixty bucks, my money as far as he knew, and this was what I got for it. Of course, Peach Fuzz hadn’t won. He added a footnote. “He had a key to the library, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Mr. Foote, he did,” Wolfe conceded. “I don’t know much about him and may have to know more before this matter is settled. One thing I do know, he says he was in his room alone at a quarter past six Wednesday afternoon, when the gun was taken. So was Mr. Jarrell, by his account. Mr. Green has told you of Mr. Jarrell’s coming for him, and what followed. Mr. Brigham was in the lounge. Where were you, Mr. Foote?”

“Where was I when?”

“I thought I had made it plain. At a quarter past six Wednesday afternoon.”

“I was on my way back from Jamaica, and I got home — no. No, that was yesterday, Thursday. I must have been in my room, shaving. I always shave around then.”

“You say ‘must have been.’ Were you?”

“Yes.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No. I’m not Louis the Fourteenth. I don’t get an audience in to watch me shave.”

Wolfe nodded. “That’s out of fashion.” His eyes went to Trella. “Mrs. Jarrell, we might as well get this covered. Do you remember where you were at that hour on Wednesday?”

“I know where I am at that hour every day — nearly every day, except week ends.” I could see one of her ears, but not her face. “I was in the studio looking at television. At half past six I went to the lounge.”

“You’re sure you were there on Wednesday?”

“I certainly am.”

“What time did you go to the studio?”

“A little before six. Five or ten minutes before.”

“You remained there continuously until six-thirty?”

“Yes.”

“I believe the studio is on the main corridor. Did you see anyone passing by in either direction?”

“No, the door was closed. And what do you take me for? Would I tell you if I had?”

“I don’t know, madam; but unless we find that gun you may meet importunity that will make me a model of amenity by comparison.” His eyes went past Wyman to Susan. “Mrs. Jarrell? If you please.”

She replied at once, her voice down as usual, but firm and distinct. “I was in my room with my husband. We were there together, from about a quarter to six, for about an hour. Then we went down to the lounge together.”

“You confirm that, Mr. Jarrell?”

“I do.” Wyman was emphatic.

“You’re sure it was Wednesday?”

“I am.”

Wolfe’s eyes went left and were apparently straight at me, but I was on a line with Lois, who was just in front. “Miss Jarrell?”

“I think I’m it,” she said. “I don’t know exactly where I was at a quarter past six. I was out, and I got home about six o’clock, and I wanted to ask my father something and went to the library, but the door was locked. Then I went to the kitchen to look for Mrs. Latham, but she wasn’t there, and I found her in the dining room and asked her to iron a dress for me. I was tired and I started for the lounge to get a quick one, but I saw Mr. Brigham in there and I didn’t feel like company, so I skipped it and went up to my room to change. If I had had a key to the library, and if I had thought of the rug stunt, I might have gone there in between and got the gun, but I didn’t. Anyway, I hate guns. I think the rug stunt was absolutely dreamy.” She twisted around. “Don’t you, Ar — Al — Alan?”

A marvelous girl. So playful. If I ever got her on a dance floor again I’d walk on her toes. She twisted back again when Wolfe asked a question.

“What time was it when you saw Mr. Brigham in the lounge? As near as you can make it.”

She shook her head. “Not a chance. If it were someone I’m rather warm on, for instance Mr. Green, I’d say it was exactly sixteen minutes after six, and he would say he saw me looking in and he looked at his watch, and we’d both be out of it, but I’m not warm on Mr. Brigham. So I won’t even try to guess.”

“This isn’t a parlor game, Lois,” her father snapped. “This may be serious.”

“It already is, Dad. It sounds darned serious to me. You notice I told him all I could. Didn’t I, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Yes, Miss Jarrell. Thank you. Will you oblige us, Miss Kent?”

I was wondering if Nora would rip it. Not that it would have been fatal, but if she had announced that the new secretary was Archie Goodwin, that Wolfe was a damn liar when he gave them to understand that he had had no finger in the Jarrell pie until that afternoon, and that therefore they had better start the questions going the other way, it would have made things a little complicated.

She didn’t. Speaking as a competent and loyal stenographer, she merely said, “On Wednesday Mr. Jarrell and I left the library together at six o’clock, as usual, locking the door. We took the elevator upstairs together and parted in the hall. I went to my room to wash and change, and stayed there until half past six, and then I went down to the lounge.”

Wolfe leaned back, clasped his fingers at the highest point of his central mound, took in a bushel of air and let it out, and grumbled, “I may have gone about this wrong. Of course one of you has lied.”

“You’re damn right,” Jarrell said, “and I know which one.”

“If Susan lied,” Roger objected, “so did Wyman. What about this Green?”

I would walk on his toes too, some day when I could get around to it.

“It was a mistake,” Wolfe declared, “to get you all on record regarding your whereabouts at that hour. Now you are all committed, including the one who took the gun, and he will be more reluctant than ever to speak. It would be pointless to hammer at you now; indeed, I doubt if hammering would have helped in any case. The time for hammering was Wednesday afternoon, the moment Mr. Jarrell found that the gun was gone. Then there had been no murder, with its menace of an inexorable inquisition.”

He looked them over. “So here we are. You know how it stands. I said that I shall have to inform the police if the possibility that Mr. Jarrell’s gun was used to kill Mr. Eber becomes a probability. It is nearer a probability, in my mind, now than it was an hour ago — now that all of you have denied taking the gun, for one of you did take it.”

His eyes went over them again. “When I speak to a man, or a woman, I like to look at him, but I speak now to the one who took the gun, and I can’t look at him because I don’t know who he is. So, speaking to him, I close my eyes.” He closed them. “If you know where the gun is, and it is innocent, all you have to do is let it reappear. You need not expose yourself. Merely put it somewhere in sight, where it will soon be seen. If it does not appear soon I shall be compelled to make one of two assumptions.”

He raised a finger, his eyes still closed. “One. That it is no longer in your possession and is not accessible. If it left your possession before Eber was killed it may have been used to kill him, and the police will have to be informed. If it left your possession after he was killed and you know it wasn’t used to kill him — and, as I said, that can be demonstrated — you will then have to expose yourself, but that will be a trifle since it will establish the innocence of the gun. I don’t suppose Mr. Jarrell will prosecute for theft.”

Another finger went up. “Two. My alternative assumption will be that you killed Eber. In that case you certainly will not produce the gun even if it is still available to you; and every hour that I delay telling the police what I know is a disservice to the law you and I live under.”

He opened his eyes. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen. As you see, it is exigent. There is nothing more to say at the moment. I shall await notice that the gun has been found, the sooner the better. The conference is ended, except for one of you. Mr. Foote has suggested that the record of the man who took Mr. Eber’s place, Mr. Alan Green, should be looked into, and I agree. Mr. Green, you will please remain. For the rest of you, that is all for the present. I should apologize for a default in hospitality. That refreshment table is equipped and I should have invited you. I do so now. Archie?”

Orrie Archie Cather Goodwin said, “I asked them, Mr. Wolfe,” and got up and headed for the table. Roger Foote was there as soon as he was, so the bourbon would get a ride. Thinking it might be expected that my nerves needed a bracer, since my record was going to be probed, I went and asked Mr. Goodwin for some scotch and water. The others had left their chairs, but apparently not for refreshment. Jarrell and Trella were standing at Wolfe’s desk, conversing with him, and Corey Brigham stood behind them, kibitzing. Nora Kent stood at the end of the couch, sending her sharp gray eyes around. Seeing that Wyman and Susan were going, I caught Orrie’s eye and he made for the hall to let them out. I took a sip of refreshment, stepped over to Roger Foote, and told him, “Many thanks for the plug.”

“Nothing personal. It just occurred to me. What do I know about you? Nothing. Neither does anybody else.” He went to the table and reached for the bourbon bottle.

I had been considering whether I should tackle Lois or let bad enough alone, and was saved the trouble when she called to me and I went to her, over by the big globe.

“We pretend we’re looking at the globe,” she said. “That’s called covering. I just wanted to tell you that the minute I saw that character, when he let us in, I remembered. One thing I’ve got to ask, does my father know who you are?”

She was pointing at Venezuela on the globe, and I was looking at her hand, which I knew was nice to hold to music. Obviously there was no chance of bulling it; she knew; and there wasn’t time to take Wolfe’s line with Nora and set it up as an assumption. So I turned the globe and pointed to Madagascar.

“Yes,” I said, “he knows.”

“Because,” she said, “he may not be the flower of knighthood, but he’s my father, and besides, he pays my bills. You wouldn’t string me, would you?”

“I’d love to string you, but not on this. Your father knew I was Archie Goodwin when he took me to his place Monday afternoon. When he wants you and the others to know I suppose he’ll tell you.”

“He never tells me anything.” She pointed to Ceylon. “If there was anything I wanted to blackmail you for, this would be wonderful, but if I ever do yearn for anything from you I would want it to pour out, just gush out from an uncontrollable passion. I wouldn’t meet you halfway, because that wouldn’t be maidenly, but I wouldn’t run. It’s too bad—”

“You coming, Lois?”

It was Roger Foote, with Nora beside him. Lois said the globe was the biggest one she had ever seen and she hated to leave it, and Roger said he would buy her one, what with I don’t know, and they went. I stayed with the globe. Jarrell and Trella were still with Wolfe, but Corey Brigham had gone. Then they left too, ignoring me, and while Orrie was in the hall seeing them out I went and sat on one of the yellow chairs, the one Susan had occupied.

I cringed. “Very well, sir,” I said, “you want my record. I was born in the maternity ward of the Ohio State Penitentiary on Christmas Eve, eighteen sixty-five. After they branded me I was taken—”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.” I got up and went to my own chair as Orrie appeared. “Do you want my opinion?”

“No.”

“You’re quite welcome. One will get you twenty that the gun will not be found.”

He grunted.

I replied, “Lois has remembered who I am, and I had to tell her that her father knows. She won’t spread it. One will get you thirty that the gun will not be found.”

He grunted.

I replied, “To be practical about it, the only real question is how soon we call Cramer, and I’m involved in that as much as you are. More. One will get you fifty that the gun will not be found.”

He grunted.