Method Three for Murder

X

Five of the yellow chairs were in place facing Wolfe’s desk, three in front and two behind, and Mira was in the one nearest to Cramer. I had intended the one at my end for her, but Cramer had vetoed it, and since she was his prisoner I hadn’t insisted. Of course he was in the red leather chair, and the uninvited guest he had brought along, Sergeant Purley Stebbins, was seated at his right, with his broad, burly shoulders touching the wall.

Mira looked fine, considering. Her eyes were a little heavy and the lids were swollen, and her jacket could have stood washing and ironing, and the corners of her mouth pointed down, but I thought she looked fine. Wolfe, seated behind his desk, was glowering at her, but the glower wasn’t meant for her. It was merely that he had had to tell Fritz to advance the lunch hour fifteen minutes, and then had had to hurry through the corn fritters and sausage cakes and wild-thyme honey from Greece and cheese and blackberry pie with not enough time to enjoy it properly.

“Was it bad?” he asked her.

“Not too bad,” she said. “I didn’t get too much sleep. The worst was when the morning passed and I didn’t hear from you.” Her head turned. “Or you, Mr. Goodwin.”

I nodded. “I was busy earning my fee. I wasn’t worried about you because you had promised you wouldn’t forget method three.”

“I kept my promise.”

“I know you did. I’ll buy you a drink any time you’re thirsty.”

“Get on,” Cramer growled.

“Have you been told,” Wolfe asked her, “that others will join us shortly?”

“No,” she said. “Here? Who?”

“Miss Bram, Mr. Kearns, and Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Irving.”

Her eyes widened. “Why Mr. and Mrs. Irving?”

“That will appear after they arrive. I thought you should know that they’re coming. They’ll soon be here, and we have two points to cover. First I need a question answered. When you drove away from Ferrell Street last evening, and meandered in search of a place to dispose of the corpse — don’t interrupt me — and finally drove here, did you at any time suspect that you were being followed by another car?”

Her mouth was hanging open. “But you—” she stammered. Her head jerked to me. “Did you know he was — what good did it do to keep my promise?”

“A lot,” I told her. “Yes, I knew he was. Everything is under control. Believe me. I would rather lose an arm than lose the right to ask you to promise me something. We know what we’re doing. Shall I repeat the question?”

“But—”

“No buts. Leave it to us. Shall I repeat the question?”

“Yes.”

I did so, omitting the “don’t interrupt me.”

“No,” she said.

“Proceed,” Wolfe told me.

I knew it would have been better to have her closer. She was six yards away. “This one is more complicated and more important. During that drive, from Ferrell Street to here, are you certain that another car was not following you? There are various ways of making sure of that. Did you use any of them?”

“No. I never thought of that. I was looking for a place—”

“I know you were. All we want is this: if I told you that a car was following you, all the way, what would you say?”

“I would want to know who it was.”

I wanted to go and pat her on the head, but it might have been misconstrued. “Okay,” I said. “That’s one point. The other one is simple. Tell Inspector Cramer what you told us last night, including the phone call to Gilbert Irving to tell him that you were going to drive Judy’s cab.” I looked at my wrist. “You only have fifteen minutes, so reel it off.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Not until you tell me why you’re doing this.”

“Then I’ll tell him. You’ll know why after the others get here. I’ll tell you this: someone tried to frame you for murder and this is payday. Anyway there’s not much left, now that the inspector knows you drove the cab here with the corpse in it. Would we have spilled that if we didn’t have a good hold? Go ahead.”

Wolfe put in, “Don’t interrupt with questions, Mr. Cramer. They can wait. Yes, Miss Holt?”

She still didn’t like it, not a bit, but she delivered, starting with Sunday evening. She left gaps. She didn’t say that Judy had given her permission to take the cab, merely that she had taken it, and she didn’t mention the phone call to Irving; but since I had already mentioned it that didn’t matter. The main thing was what had happened after she got to Ferrell Street with the cab, and she covered that completely; and when she got to where she and I had sat on the stoop and talked, Cramer began cutting in with questions. I will not say that he was more interested in tagging me for obstructing justice than he was in solving a murder case, since I don’t like to brag, but it sounded like it. He was firing away at her, and Sergeant Stebbins was scrawling in his notebook, when the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. It was Waldo Kearns. When I took him to the office he went to Mira, without so much as a glance for the three men, and put out a hand.

“My dear wife,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mira said.

I can’t report whether he handled that as well as he had handled the uppercut by Irving because the bell rang again and I had to leave them, to admit Judy Bram. She had an escort, a Homicide dick I only knew by sight, and he thought he was going to enter with her and I didn’t, and while we were discussing it she slipped in and left it to us. We were still chatting when a taxi stopped out front and Mr. and Mrs. Irving got out and headed for the steps. The dick had to give them room to pass, and I was able to shut the door on him without flattening his nose. Since it was quite possible that Irving’s appearance would start something I entered the office on their heels.

Nothing happened. Mira merely shot him a glance and he returned it. Kearns didn’t even glance at him. The newcomers stood while Wolfe pronounced their names for Cramer and Stebbins and told them who Cramer and Stebbins were, and then went to the two chairs still vacant, the two nearest my desk. Mrs. Irving took the one in front, with Judy between her and Mira, and her husband took the one back of her, which put him only a long arm’s length from Waldo Kearns.

As Wolfe’s eyes moved from right to left, stopping at Mira, and back again, Cramer spoke. “You understand that this is not an official inquiry. Sergeant Stebbins and I are looking on. You also understand that Mira Holt is under arrest as a material witness. If she had been charged with murder she wouldn’t be here.”

“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.