Murder By The Book

5

IT WAS more than I had bargained for. Having got the home address of a Rachel Abrams from the Bronx phone book, having learned by dialing the number and speaking briefly with a female voice that that was it, and having bit the subway before the rush hour, I had congratulated myself on a neat fast start. I entered the old apartment building on 178th Street a block off the Grand Concourse less than an hour after Wolfe had told me to see her family and friends.

But now I realized that I had been too damn fast. The woman who opened the door of 4E to me was meeting my eyes straight and inquiring placidly, "You're the one that phoned? What is with my Rachel?"

"Are you Rachel's mother?" I asked.

She nodded and smiled. "Since some years I am. I have never been told the opposite. What is?"

I hadn't bargained for this. I had taken it for granted that either a cop or a journalist would have relayed the news before I got there, and had been ready to cope with tears and wailing, but obviously I had beat them to it. Of course the thing to do was spill it to her, but her quiet self-satisfaction when she said "my Rachel" was too much for me. Nor could I say excuse it please, wrong number, and fade, because I had a job to do, and if I muffed it merely because I didn't like it I was in the wrong line of business. So I tried my damnedest to grin at her, but I admit that for a couple of seconds I was no help to the conversation.

Her big dark friendly eyes stayed straight at mine.

"I will maybe ask you to come in and sit," she said, "when you tell me what you want."

"I don't think," I told her, "I need to take much of your time. I told you my name on the phone, Archie Goodwin. I'm getting some stuff together for an article on public stenographers. Does your daughter discuss her work with you?"

She frowned a little. "You could ask her. Couldn't you?"

"Sure I could, if there's some reason why I shouldn't ask you."

"Why should there be a reason?"

"I don't know any. For instance, say she types a story or an article for a man. Does she tell you about him - what he looked like and how he talked? Or does she tell you what the story or article was about?"

The frown had not gone. "Would that be not proper?"

"Not at all. It's not a question of being proper, it's just that I want to make it personal, talking with her family and friends."

"Is it there will be an article about her?"

"Yes." That was not a lie. Far from it.

"Is it her name will be printed?"

"Yes."

"My daughter never talks about her work to me or her father or her sisters, only one thing, the money she makes. She tells about that because she gives me a certain part, but not for me, for the family, and one sister is in college. She does not tell me what men look like or about her work. If her name is going to be printed everybody ought to know the truth."

"You're absolutely right, Mrs. Abrams. Do you know -"

"You said you will talk with her family and friends. Her father will be home at twenty minutes to seven. Her sister Deborah is here now, doing her homework, but she is only sixteen - too young? Her sister Nancy will not be here today, she is with a friend, but she will be here tomorrow at half-past four. Then you want friends. There is a young man named William Butterfield who wants to marry her, but he is -"

She stopped short, with a twinkle in her eye. "If you will pardon me, but that is maybe too personal. If you want his address?"

"Please."

She gave me a number on Seventy-sixth Street. "There is Hulda Greenberg, she lives downstairs on the second floor, Two C. There is Cynthia Free, only that is not her real name. You know about her."

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't."

"She acts on the stage."

"Oh, sure. Cynthia Free."

"Yes. She went to high school with Rachel, but she quit. I will not speak against her. If my daughter is once a friend she is always a friend. I will be getting old now, but what will I have? I will have my husband and Deborah and Nancy, and enough friends I have, many friends, but I know I will always have my Rachel. If her name is to be printed that must be part of it. I will tell you more about her, Mr. Goodwin, if you will come in and sit - oy, the phone. Excuse me, please?"

She turned and trotted inside. I stayed put. In a moment I heard her voice, faintly.

"Hello - This is Mrs. Abrams - Yes - Yes, Rachel is my daughter - Who is it you say? - "

There was no doubt about its being my move. The question was whether to leave the door standing open or close it. It seemed better to close it. I reached for the knob, pulled it too quickly but with no bang, and headed for the stairs.

Out on the sidewalk, glancing at my wrist and seeing 5:24, I went to the corner for a look, saw a drugstore down a block, walked there, found a phone booth, and dialed the number. Fritz answered and put me through to the plant rooms.

When Wolfe was on I told him, "I've had a talk with Rachel's mother. She says her daughter never discusses her work at home. We were using the present tense because she hadn't got the news yet. She wants to see her Rachel's name in print, and thanks to that son of a bitch I missed by three minutes, she will. I didn't tell her because it would have wasted time. Tomorrow, when she knows that discussing her daughter's work may help to find the guy that killed her, she might possibly remember something, though I doubt it. I have some names, but they're scattered around town. Tell the boys to call me at this number." I gave it to him.

He spoke. "Mr. Cramer insists on seeing you. I gave him the information, and he sent for the notebook, but he wants to see you. He is sour, of course. You might as well go down there. After all, we are collaborating."

"Yeah. On what? Okay, I'll go. Don't overdo."

I waited in the booth to corner it. When the calls came I gave William Butterfield to Saul, Hulda Greenberg to Fred, and Cynthia Free to Orrie, telling them all to collect additional names and keep going. Then I hiked to the subway.

Down at Homicide on West Twentieth Street I learned how sour Cramer was. Over the years my presence has been requested at that address many times. When it's a case of our having something he would like to get, or he thinks it is, I am taken inside at once to his own room. When it's only some routine matter, I am left to Sergeant Purley Stebbins or one of the bunch. When all that is really wanted or expected is a piece of my hide, I am assigned to Lieutenant Rowcliff. If and when I am offered a choice of going to heaven or hell it will be simple; I'll merely ask, "Where's Rowcliff?" We were fairly even - he set my teeth on edge about the same as I did his - until one day I got the notion of stuttering. When he gets worked up to a certain point he starts to stutter. My idea was to wait till he was about there and then stutter just once. It more than met expectations. It made him so mad he had to stutter, he couldn't help it, and then I complained that he was mimicking me. From that day on I have had the long end and he knows it.

I was with him an hour or so, and it was burlesque all the way, because Wolfe had already given them my story and there was nothing I could add. Rowcliff's line was that I had overstepped when I searched her desk and took the notebook, which was true, and that I had certainly taken something besides the notebook and was holding out. We went all around that, and back and forth, and he had a statement typed for me to sign, and after I signed it he sat and studied it and thought up more questions. Finally I got tired.

"Look," I told him, "this is a lot of bull and you know it. What are you trying to do, b-b-b-break my spirit?"

He clamped his jaw. But he had to say something. "I'd rather b-b-b-break your goddam neck," he stated. "Get the hell out of here."

I went, but not out. I intended to have one word with Cramer, Down the hall I took a left turn, strode to the door at the end, and opened it without knocking. But Cramer wasn't there, only Purley Stebbins, sitting at a table working with papers.

"You lost?" he demanded.

"No. I'm giving myself up. I just c-c-c-cooked Rowcliff and ate him. Aside from that, I thought someone here might want to thank me. If I hadn't been there today, the precinct boys would probably have called it a jump or a fall, and no one would have ever gone through that book and found those entries."

Purley nodded. "So you found the entries."

"So I did."

"And took the book home to Wolfe."

"And then, without delay, turned it over."

"By God, so you did. Thank you. Going?"

"Yes. But I could use a detail without waiting for the morning paper. What's in the lead on how Rachel Abrams got out of the window?"

"Homicide."

"By flipping a coin?"

"No. Finger marks on her throat. Preliminary, the M.E. says she was choked. He thinks not enough to kill her, but we won't know until they're through at the laboratory."

"And I missed him by three minutes."

Purley cocked his head. "Did you?"

I uttered a colorful word. "One Rowcliff on the squad is enough," I told him and beat it. Out in the anteroom I went to a phone booth, dialed, got Wolfe, and reported, "Excuse me for interrupting your dinner, but I need instructions. I'm at Homicide on Twentieth Street, without cuffs, after an hour with Rowcliff and a word with Purley. From marks on her throat the dope is that she was choked and tossed out the window. I told you so. I divided the three names Mrs. Abrams gave me among the help, and told them to get more and carry on. There should be another call on the family either tonight or tomorrow, but not by me. Mrs. Abrams might open up for Saul, but not for me, after today. So I need instructions."

"Have you had dinner?"

"No."

"Come home."

I went to Tenth Avenue and flagged a taxi. It was still drizzling.