Murder By The Book

22

THEY NEEDED seventeen chairs if they all came, and a phone call from Stebbins around four o'clock informed me that they would. With four from the front room, one from the hall, two from my room, and two from Fritz's room, Fritz and I got them collected and arranged in the office. We had an argument. Fritz insisted there should be a table of liquid refreshments, that Wolfe regarded that as a minimum of hospitality for invited guests, and I fought it. Not so much on account of the basic situation, since more than one murderer had been served a highball or other mixture in that room. The trouble was the females, particularly Helen Troy and Blanche Duke. I did not want the former, at some ticklish spot where everything might hang on a word and a tone, to jump up and call out, "Oyez, oyeth!" And if the latter, whose inhibitions were totally unreliable, got a shaker full of her formula mixed and worked on it, she might do or say anything. So I was firm.

Fritz couldn't appeal to Wolfe because he wasn't accessible. He was there at his desk, but not for us. Five minutes after Cramer left he had leaned back, closed his eyes, and started pushing his lips in and out, which meant he was working, and hard. He kept at it until lunch, took only half of his customary hour for the meal, returned to the office, and started in again. He left for the plant rooms at four o'clock as usual, but when I went up there on an errand he was standing in a corner of the intermediate room frowning at a Cochlioda hybrid that had nothing whatever wrong with it, and he wasn't even aware that I was passing through. A little later he phoned down to tell me to send Saul up to him when he came. So I wasn't present at their conference. Nor did I get any kind of an instruction for the evening. If he was planning a charade, apparently it was going to be a solo.

Wolfe did speak to me once, shortly after lunch; he asked me to bring him the letter from Phelps enclosing the material from Dykes, and the envelope it had come in. I did so, and, after he had inspected them with a magnifying glass, he kept them. And I took one step on my own. Wellman was still in town, and I phoned and invited him to attend because I thought he had certainly paid for a ticket. I didn't phone Mrs. Abrams because I knew she wouldn't care for it no matter what happened.

At dinnertime I took another step. As Wolfe sat behind his desk staring at nothing, pulling at his lip with a thumb and forefinger, I saw that he was in no shape to entertain a guest and went and told Fritz that Saul and I would eat in the kitchen with him. Then I returned to the office and announced it to Wolfe. He put his eyes on me without seeing me, let out a low growl, and muttered, "All right, but it won't help any."

"Can I do anything?" I asked.

"Yes. Shut up."

I had spoken not more than twenty words to him since Cramer had left, seven hours ago.

At ten after nine they had all arrived, but Wolfe was still in the dining room, with the door closed. Leaving the front door and the hall to Saul, I had stayed in the office to supervise the seating. I kept the red leather chair for Cramer and put the lawyers in the front row, including O'Malley. Wellman was off in the corner near the globe. Sergeant Purley Stebbins was against the wall, back of Cramer. For Saul Panzer I had put a chair at the end of my desk. My intention had been to group the ten females at the rear of their employers, and I had so placed the chairs, but they had ideas of their own, at least some of them. For about half a minute I stood talking to Cramer with my back to them, and, when I turned, four of them had moved to the couch. From my chair at my desk I couldn't take in the couch without swiveling or twisting my neck ninety degrees, but I decided to skip it. If Wolfe wanted his audience more compact he could say so.

At twelve after nine I sent Saul to tell Wolfe they were all present, and a moment later Wolfe entered. He went straight to his desk, with no halt for a greeting, not even for Cramer, and sat. The murmurs and mutterings stopped. Wolfe got himself settled, taking his time, moved his head slowly over the arc from left to right, and back again. Then his eyes darted left, and he spoke.

"Do you want to say anything, Mr. Cramer?"

Cramer cleared his throat. "No. They understand that there's nothing official about this and I'm here as an observer."

"You told us to come," Louis Kustin said aggressively.

"I invited you. You all know the way out."

"May I make a statement?" O'Malley asked.

"What about?"

"I want to congratulate Mr. Wolfe, and thank him. He has found the answer to a question I've been trying to find for a year and couldn't. We're all in his debt and we ought to say so."

"We are not!" It was Briggs, blinking furiously. "I would like to make a statement! In my opinion, what Wolfe has done is actionable. I say this after full consideration. I came here because I am convinced -"

"Shut up!" Wolfe roared.

They gazed at him, astonished.

He gazed back, moving his head to include the lot. "I do not intend," he said coldly, "to let you degrade this to gibberish. We are concerned with death and a dealer of death. I do this work to earn a living, but I am conscious of its dignities and obligations. I hope and believe that in the next two or three hours, here together, we are going to learn the truth about the deaths of four people, and, in doing so, get a start on preparations for the death of one of you. That's what we're here for. I can't do it alone, but I'll have to guide it."

He closed his eyes, tight, and opened them again. "All of you knew Mr. Corrigan, who died Friday evening. You know of a document, ostensibly written by him, in which he confessed that he had betrayed his former partner and had murdered three people." He opened a drawer and took out papers. "This is a copy of that confession. It was shrewdly conceived and brilliantly executed, but it wasn't good enough for me. It has one fatal defect. The writer couldn't possibly avoid including it, because in that detail the facts were known to others, and the incident was an essential part of the story. When Corrigan -"

"Are you impeaching it?" Kustin demanded. "Are you saying that Corrigan didn't write it?"

"I am."

There were noises, including audible words. Wolfe ignored them, waited, and continued.

"When Corrigan was in California his every move was known and reported, so this confession had to accept that record. But that is the fatal defect. According to this confession, Corrigan knew what was in the manuscript written by Leonard Dykes - he had read it through twice. But in Los Angeles all his efforts were focused on one objective: to get a look at the manuscript. That is emphasized by the fact that he left Mrs. Potter's house, with Finch there, to hurry to Finch's hotel room to search for the manuscript. If he already knew what was in it that was senseless. What good would it do him to find it? If you say that he wanted to destroy it, that too would have been senseless, since Finch had read it. According to this confession, he had already killed two women for the sole reason that they had read the manuscript. If he found and destroyed Finch's copy, Finch would be on guard and after him."

Wolfe shook his head. "No. Corrigan's objective, plainly and unmistakably, was to see the manuscript. He wanted to know what it contained. Mr. Goodwin was there and saw him and heard him. Do you agree, Archie?"

I nodded. "I do."

"Then he had never seen the manuscript, certainly he hadn't read it, and this confession is spurious. There is a corroborative point." Wolfe tapped the paper. "It says here that Dykes told him that all copies of the manuscript had been destroyed, there were no others, and that he believed it. Indeed he must have believed it fully, for otherwise he would hardly have undertaken the murders of the two women; but certainly, when the letter came from Mrs. Potter, saying that a literary agent had a copy of the manuscript, he would have suspected a snare and would have proceeded quite differently."

Wolfe turned a palm up. "Well?"

"I would have understood this this morning," Cramer rasped.

"Are you challenging the whole confession?" Phelps inquired.

"Are you saying," O'Malley demanded, "that Corrigan didn't squeal on me?"

"No. To both of you. But a purported confession shown to be clearly false in so important a detail loses all claim to validity, both as to content and as to authorship. It can be credited only in those parts that are corroborated. For instance, Mr. Cramer has verified it that the anonymous letter to the court was typed on a machine at the Travelers Club, that Corrigan had access to it and used it, and that none of the others did. Therefore I accept that detail as established, and also the account of Corrigan's visit to California, but nothing else, and certainly not the authorship. Of course Corrigan didn't write it."

"Why not?" It came from two of the women in unison. It was the first cheep out of them.

"If he didn't know what was in the manuscript, and he didn't, why did he kill people? There is no discernible reason. If he didn't kill people, why does he confess to it? No, he didn't write this."

"Did he kill himself?" Mrs. Adams blurted. She looked ten years older, and she was already old enough.

"I shouldn't think so. If he did, it was he who got me on the phone to hear the shot and told me he had mailed me a letter, meaning this -"

"What's that?" Cramer demanded. "He said he had mailed you a letter?"

"Yes. I left that out of my report to you because I don't want my mail intercepted. He said that. Mr. Goodwin heard it. Archie?"

"Yes, sir."

"And since he didn't write this thing he would hardly tell me he had mailed it to me. No, madam, he didn't kill himself. We might as well deal with that next - unless someone wants to maintain that Corrigan wrote the confession?"

No one did.

Wolfe took them in. "For this a new character is required, and we'll call him X. This will have to be a hodgepodge party, partly what he must have done and partly what he could have done. Certainly he spent some hours yesterday between noon and ten in the evening at Corrigan's apartment, composing and typing this document. Certainly Corrigan was there too. He had been hit on the head, and was either unconscious from the blow or had been tied and gagged. I prefer it that he was conscious, knowing something of X as I do, and that X, as he typed the confession - which may have been composed beforehand and merely had to be copied - read it aloud to Corrigan. He wore gloves, and, when he was through, he pressed Corrigan's fingertips to the paper and envelope here and there, certainly on the postage stamp.

"I don't know whether his schedule was left to exigency or was designed, but I would guess the latter, for X is fond of alibis, and we'll probably find that he has one ready for last evening from nine-thirty to ten-thirty. Anyway, at ten o'clock he turned on the radio, if he hadn't already done so, hit Corrigan on the head again, at the same spot as before, with something heavy and hard enough to stun but not kill, put him on the floor near the telephone, and dialed my number. While talking to me, making the voice unrecognizable with huskiness and agitation, he pressed the muzzle of Corrigan's own revolver against his head and, at the proper moment, pulled the trigger and dropped the gun and the phone on the floor. He may also have fallen heavily to the floor himself; I think he would have. If he did he didn't stay there long. I said he was wearing gloves. He made Corrigan's dead hand grip the gun, put the gun on the floor, and left, perhaps twenty seconds after the shot had been fired. I haven't even inquired if the door had to be locked from the outside with a key; if it did, X had had ample opportunity to procure one. He dropped the letter to me, this confession, into the nearest mailbox. I lose him at the mailbox. We'll hear of his next move when we are confronted with his alibi."

Wolfe's eyes moved. "I invite comment."

Three lawyers spoke at once. Cramer outspoke them. "How much of it can you prove?"

"Nothing. Not a word."

"Then what does it get us?"

"It clears away the rubbish. The rubbish was the assumption that Corrigan wrote that confession and killed himself. I have shown that one is false and the other is not invulnerable. Depriving you of a suicide was simple. Giving you a murder, and a murderer, is harder. May I proceed?"

"If you've got something better than guesses, yes."

"I've got a question," Kustin put in. "Is this a buildup for charging someone in this room with murder?"

"Yes."

"Then I want to speak with you privately."

"The devil you do." Wolfe was indignant. To control his emotions, he closed his eyes and waggled his head. Then he told Kustin dryly, "So you're beginning to see something, now that I've cleared away some of the rubbish? And you'd like to point at it? I'll do the pointing, Mr. Kustin." His eyes moved. "Before I go on to particulars, another comment. At my first reading of this" - he tapped the paper - "I saw the flaw that told me that Corrigan hadn't written it: his performance in Los Angeles made it obvious that he had never read the manuscript. But it could have been written by you, Mr. Kustin, or you, Mr. Phelps, or you, Mr. Briggs. It could have been any one of you, instead of Corrigan, who had done the deeds which this document attributes to Corrigan. That was why it was of first importance to learn if any of you had had access to the typewriter at the Travelers Club. Learning that you hadn't, and therefore had not exposed O'Malley, it was clear that if one of you had committed three murders it must have been for some other motive than concealment of a betrayal of your former partner."

"Get down to it," Cramer growled.

Wolfe ignored him. He looked over the heads of the lawyers and inquired abruptly, "Is one of you ladies named Dondero?"

I twisted my neck. Sue was one of the four on the couch. Startled, she stared at him. "Yes, I am." She was a little flushed and pretty as a picture.

"You are Mr. Phelps's secretary?"

"Yes."

"A week ago Saturday, nine days ago, Mr. Phelps dictated a brief letter to me, to be sent by messenger. There were enclosures for it - items of material written by Leonard Dykes, from the files, including a letter of resignation he wrote last July. Do you remember that incident?"

"Yes. Certainly."

"I understand that you have recently been questioned about it by the police; that you have been shown the Dykes letter and your attention has been called to a certain notation, 'Ps one-forty-six, three,' in a corner of it, in pencil, in a handwriting resembling Corrigan's; and that you state flatly that the notation was not on the letter that Saturday morning when it was sent to me. Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is," Sue said firmly.

"Are you positive the notation was not on the letter at the time you enclosed it in the envelope with the other material?"

"I am."

"You're a positive person, aren't you, Miss Dondero?"

"Well - I know what I saw and what I didn't see."

"Admirable and remarkable." Wolfe was terse but not hostile. "Few of us can say that and support it. How many typewriters did you use that morning?"

"I don't know what you mean. I used one. Mine."

"Mr. Phelps dictated the letter to me, and you typed it on your machine. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you addressed an enevelope to me on the same machine?"

"Yes."

"How positive are you of that?"

"I'm absolutely positive."

"How much chance is there that for some trivial reason, no matter what, you used a different machine for addressing the envelope?"

"Absolutely none. I was there at my desk, and I did the envelope right after I typed the letter. I always do."

"Then we have a problem." Wolfe opened a drawer of his desk and took out a sheet of paper and an envelope, handling the envelope gingerly, holding it by a corner. "This is the letter and the envelope; Mr. Goodwin will attest that and so will I. The variation is apparent to the naked eye, and I have examined them with a glass. They were not typed on the same machine."

"I don't believe it!" Sue exclaimed.

"Come here and look at them. No, please, only Miss Dondero. The envelope must not be touched."

I made room for her to get by. She went to his desk and leaned over for a close-up. She straightened. "That's a different envelope. I didn't type that. I always put 'By Messenger' in caps and lower case and underline it. That's all in caps and it's not underlined. Where did you get it?"

"If you please, Miss Dondero, take your seat." Wolfe returned the sheet and envelope to the drawer, touching only the tip of the envelope. He waited until Sue was back on the couch and he had her face before he told lier, "Thank you for being positive. That's a help. But you're sure you put the letter and enclosures into the envelope you had typed?"

"Yes, I am."

"And sealed it?"

"Yes."

"And left it lying on your desk, perhaps, or in a basket?"

"No, I didn't. It was to go by messenger, and I had sent for one. I went immediately to the anteroom and put it on Blanche's desk and asked her to give it to the messenger when he came."

"Who is Blanche?"

"The receptionist. Miss Duke."

Wolfe's eyes moved. "Which of you is Miss Duke?"

Blanche raised a hand, high. "I am. And I get the idea, I'm quick. You're going to ask me if I put the stuff in another envelope, and I'm going to say I didn't. And I don't know who did. But Mr. O'Malley came and said something about something left out and took the envelope away with him."

"Mr. O'Malley?"

"Yes."

"Did he bring it back?"

"Yes."

"How soon? How long was he gone with it?"

"I don't know, I guess three or four minutes. Anyway he brought it back, and when the messenger came I gave it to him."

"Did you notice whether it was the same envelope?"

"My God, no!"

"This is important, Miss Duke. Will you testify that Mr. O'Malley took the envelope from your desk, left the room with it, and shortly returned with it or with a similar one?"

"What do you mean, will I? I am!"

Wolfe's eyes left her to move right and back again, still above the heads of the lawyers. "We seem to be solving our problem," he remarked. "One more detail would help. Clearly we must assume that Mr. O'Malley addressed another envelope and transferred the material to it. If so, it seems likely that one of you ladies saw him do it, though I don't know how the typewriters are placed in that office. What about it? That Saturday morning, nine days ago, did any of you see Mr. O'Malley address an envelope on a typewriter?"

No reply. He had their eyes all right, but not their tongues.

He nodded understanding^. "It may be, of course, that he used a machine that wasn't under observation. Or he may have been seen by one of the staff who is not present, and that will bear inquiry. But I should make sure that all of you understand the situation. This envelope is vital evidence. If Mr. O'Malley handled it and typed an address on it, it will probably show his prints, for I don't suppose he wore gloves in the office that morning. Not only that, it will be a simple matter to learn which machine it was written on. If it was a machine that is on the desk of one of you ladies, and you were there that morning, and Mr. O'Malley denies that he used it, you may find yourself in an uncomfortable spot. The police may properly ask -"

"It was my machine." It was a sullen mutter, so low that it barely got through, and it came from the beautiful Eleanor, of all people.

"Ah. May I have your name?"

"Eleanor Gruber." She muttered it,

"You will please tell us about it, Miss Gruber."

"I was at the filing cabinet and he asked if -"

"Mr. O'Malley?"

"Yes. He asked if he could use my machine, and I said yes. That was all."

"Did he address an envelope on it?"

"I don't know. I was at the cabinet with my back turned. I said it was my machine, but I should have said it may have been."

"There was a supply of the firm's envelopes in your desk?"

"Certainly. In the top drawer."

"How long was he at it?"

"I don't - very briefly."

"Not more than a minute or so?"

"I said very briefly. I didn't time it."

"But long enough to address an envelope?"

"Of course, that only takes seconds."

"Did you see an envelope in his hand?"

"No. I wasn't looking. I was busy."

"Thank you, Miss Gruber. I'm sorry your memory needed jogging, and I'm glad it's refreshed." Wolfe focused on Conroy O'Malley. "Mr. O'Malley, you ought to have a word. I won't frame a tedious detailed question, but merely ask, did you do the things these people say you did that Saturday morning?"

O'Malley was a different man. The bitter twist to his mouth was gone, and so was the sag of his cheeks. He was ten years younger, and his eyes gleamed almost like eyes in the dark with a light on them. His voice had a sharp edge.

"I'd rather listen to you. Until you're through."

"Very well. I'm not through. Is it plain that I'm accusing you of murder?"

"Yes. Go on."

Purley Stebbins got up, detoured around Cramer and Briggs, got an empty chair, put it just behind O'Malley's right elbow, and sat. O'Malley didn't glance at him. Wolfe was speaking.

"Manifestly, establishing that O'Malley got at that letter in order to make that notation on it in Corrigan's hand before it came to me will not convict him of murder. By then all of you had heard the title Of Baird Archer's novel, 'Put Not Your Trust,' and anyone could have known or learned that it came from the third verse of the Hundred and Forty-sixth Psalm. But it shows that he wanted to present me with evidence that someone in your office was connected with the manuscript and therefore with the crimes, and that that someone was Corrigan, I am going -"

"Why Corrigan?" Kustin demanded.

"That's what I'm coming to. I'm going to have to tell you things I can't prove, as I did with X. It is still X, only now I call him O'Malley. An odd thing about this confession is that nearly every detail of it is true and strictly accurate. The man who wrote it did find the manuscript in Dykes's desk and read it; he found that its contents were as described; he went to see Dykes and talked with him as related; he killed Dykes essentially for the reason given, fear of what might result from his knowledge of the contents of the manuscript; he killed Miss Wellman and Miss Abrams for a like reason. But it was O'Malley who wrote the confession. He -"

"You're crazy," Kustin blurted. "The manuscript revealed that Corrigan had informed on O'Malley. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And O'Malley learned that fact by finding and reading the manuscript?"

"Yes."

"So he killed three people to keep it from being known that Corrigan had informed on him? For God's sake!"

"No. He killed three people so he could safely kill a fourth." Wolfe was on his way now. "When he learned that it was Corrigan who had ruined his career, destroyed him, he determined to kill Corrigan. But no matter how cleverly he managed it, Dykes would be an intolerable menace. Dykes knew that O'Malley knew of Corrigan's treachery, and if Corrigan met a sudden and violent death, no matter how, Dykes might speak. So first Dykes had to go, and he did. Then Joan Wellman - was she also a menace? O'Malley had to find out, and he arranged to meet her. He may have thought he intended her no harm - the confession says so - but when she spoke of the resemblance of the novel's plot to an event in real life, and even came close to remembering his name, that, as the confession says, was more than enough for him. Five hours later she was dead."

There was a noise from the rear of the room, the sound of a chair scraping. John R. Wellman was on his feet and moving. Eyes went to him. Wolfe stopped speaking, but Wellman came on tiptoe, off to one side, around the corner and along the wall to the chair which Purley Stebbins had vacated. It had an unobstructed view of the lawyers.

"Excuse me," he said, apparently to everyone, and sat.

There were murmurs from the women. Cramer shot a glance at Wellman, evidently decided that he was not getting set as a nemesis, and looked at Wolfe.

"There remained," Wolfe resumed, "only one source of possible danger, Rachel Abrams. O'Malley had probably been told about her by Dykes, but whether he had or not, he had found the receipts she had given Baird Archer when he searched Dykes's apartment. I'll read a few lines from the confession." He fingered the sheets, found the place, and read:

"My inner being could not permit me to feel any moral repulsion at the thought of killing Joan Wellman, certainly not enough to restrain me, for if killing her was morally unacceptable how could I justify the killing of Dykes? By killing Joan Wellman the process was completed. After that, given adequate motive, I could have killed any number of people without any sign of compunction. So in contemplating the murder of Rachel Adams my only concerns were whether it was necessary and whether it could be performed without undue risk. I decided it was necessary."

Wolfe looked up. "This is indeed a remarkable document. There we have a man relieving his mind, perhaps even soothing his soul, by coolly expounding the stages of his transformation into a cold-blooded killer, but avoiding the consequent penalty by ascribing the deeds and the onus to another person. It was an adroit and witty stratagem, and it would have triumphed if Mr. Wellman had not engaged my services and remained resolute in spite of repeated checks and disappointments.

"But I'm ahead of myself. This confession is all right as far as it goes, but it leaves gaps. By the day he went for Rachel Abrams, the twenty-sixth of February, two weeks ago today, she was more than a remote threat. He knew -"

"You still mean O'Malley?" Kustin cut in.

"Yes."

"Then you're talking too fast. O'Malley was in Atlanta two weeks ago today."

Wolfe nodded. "I'll get to that. By that day he knew that I was on the case and was concentrating on Baird Archer and the manuscript, and the possibility that I might find Rachel Abrams certainly did not escape him. He had to deal with her first, and he did - a scant two minutes before Mr. Goodwin reached her. And there he was. The preliminaries were completed. He was ready for what had always been his real objective: the murder of Corrigan. To abandon it was unthinkable, but now it was not so simple. Needing to learn how much I knew, he phoned Corrigan to suggest that all of you should come here and invite my questions, and you came. It may be that my asking to see Dykes's letter of resignation first gave him the idea of putting it all onto Corrigan; that's of no moment; in any case, he contrived to put that notation in Corrigan's hand on the letter before it reached me, as the first step."

Wolfe paused to glance at Wellman, but our client was merely gazing at O'Malley, with no apparent intention of taking part. He went on. "When the police confronted you with the notation, of course O'Malley had to join you in your claim of ignorance and your charge that I must have made the notation myself. Then came the letter from Mrs. Potter, and naturally that suited him admirably. He knew it was a decoy, either mine or Mr. Cramer's, for he was confident that all copies of the manuscript had been destroyed. I have had no report of your conference that day, but I would give odds that he maneuvered with all his dexterity to arrange that Corrigan should be the one to go to California. The result met his highest expectations. On Corrigan's return you came together to see me again and, as it seemed to O'Malley, I played directly into his hand by refusing to say anything except that I was about ready to act. That made the threat, to-whoever was its object, ominous and imminent; that made it most plausible that Corrigan, granting he was the object, would prefer self-destruction and would choose that moment for it; and O'Malley moved swiftly and ruthlessly. It was only ten hours after he left here with you that he dialed my number to let me hear the shot that killed Corrigan."

"You foresaw that?" Kustin demanded.

"Certainly not. At the time you left here I had added only one presumption to my scanty collection: that Corrigan had never seen the manuscript and didn't know what was in it. Regarding the rest of you I was still at sea. I was still merely trying to prod you into movement, and it can't be denied that I succeeded. Are you ready to say something, Mr. O'Malley?"

"No. I'm still listening."

"As you please. I'm about through." Wolfe looked at Kustin. "You said that O'Malley was in Atlanta the day Rachel Abrams was killed. Can you certify that, or do you only mean that he was supposed to be?"

"He was there on business for the firm."

"I know. In fact it is not true that my eye on you gentlemen has been totally impartial until two days ago. The first time you came here O'Malley managed to get it on the record with me that he had returned to New York only that morning after a week in Georgia, and I noted it. I don't suppose you know Saul Panzer?"

"Saul Panzer? No."

"That is Mr. Panzer, there at the end of Mr. Goodwin's desk. If he ever wants to know anything about you, tell him; you might as well. Four days ago I asked him to investigate O'Malley's movements during the week in question, and he has done so. Saul, tell us about it."

Saul got his mouth open but no words out, because Cramer suddenly came to life. He snapped, "Hold it, Panzer!" To Wolfe: "Is this what you got on the phone this morning?"

"Yes."

"And you're going to hand it to him like this? Just dump the bag for him? You are not!"

Wolfe shrugged. "Either I go on or you do. This morning you said you would take a hand and I said no. Now you're welcome. Take it if you want it."

"I want it." Cramer was on his feet. "I want that letter and envelope. I want Panzer. I want statements from the three women. Mr. O'Maliey, you'll go downtown with Sergeant Stebbins for questioning."

O'Malley was not impressed. "On what charge, Inspector?"

"I said for questioning. If you insist on a charge you'll get one."

"I would want my counsel present."

"You can phone him from the District Attorney's office."

"Luckily I don't have to phone him. He's here." O'Malley turned his head. "Louis?"

Kustin, meeting his former associate's eye, didn't hesitate. "No," he said flatly. "I'm out, Con. I can't do it."

It put O'Malley off balance, but it didn't floor him. He didn't try to press, Kustin's tone having settled it. He turned back to Cramer, but his view was obstructed. John R. Well-man had left his chair and was standing there facing him, and spoke.

"I'm Joan Wellman's father, Mr. O'Malley. I don't know, because it's pretty complicated, but I'd like to see something. I'd like to see if you feel like shaking hands with me." He extended his hand. "There it is. Do you feel like it or don't you?"

Into the heavy silence came a smothered gasp from one of the females. O'Malley nearly made it. He tried. Looking up at Wellman, he started to lift a hand, then his neck muscles gave, his head dropped, and he used both hands to cover his face.

"I guess you don't," Wellman said, and turned and headed for the door.