The Last Coincidence

Seventeen

Although it didn’t seem that late, my watch insisted on telling me it was twenty past two when I got out of a cab in front of the brownstone. After my session with Todd Halliburton, I had toyed with walking north from the Village, which I’ve done on several occasions, but instead decided to use some of Noreen James’s money. After all, I’d just had to spend fifteen minutes with a two-legged weasel, and it seemed to me that that act alone entitled me to something, say another taxi ride.

I buzzed to get in, which, given Fritz’s absence, meant rousting Wolfe from the office to unlock the front door. He swung it open, scowling. “Well, did you miss me?” I asked cheerfully.

“Inspector Cramer telephoned twenty minutes ago,” was his tart response. “The weapon presumably used to dispatch Mr. Linville has been located.”

“You’ve got my attention,” I said when we were in the office. “I’m all ears.”

“That is comforting to know,” Wolfe replied with no trace of irony. “It was indeed a tire iron,” he said after getting himself resettled behind his desk, a feat roughly comparable to docking the QE2. “Apparently the one missing from that pile of tools on the floor in the parking garage. The inspector reported that it was found in a trashcan several doors east of where Mr. Linville lived by a building superintendent.”

“And James said he went west from the garage.”

Wolfe moved his head imperceptibly, which for him constitutes a nod. “Mr. Cramer has a dilemma. As you know, he has arrested someone who readily — almost eagerly — confessed to the murder of Barton Linville, relieving him and the police of intense media and civic pressure. But in so doing, he also took into custody a young man, the members of whose family he has known with affection for more than a generation.”

“Nobody ever said life is easy, particularly for a public servant,” I countered. I can be philosophical at times, despite what anybody says.

“Granted. However, I am inclined to extend a minimum of compassion to the inspector in this instance.”

“That’s doggone decent of you.”

“Or practical,” Wolfe remarked dryly. “When Mr. Cramer telephoned, I told him I wanted you to view the purported weapon.”

“I’ll bet that got a laugh.”

“Hardly. He agreed without complaint.”

“He is in a bind.”

“Yes. He knows he has the wrong person but can do nothing about it and will climb into any lifeboat that will pull him aboard.”

“Even one with Nero Wolfe manning the oars?” I asked.

“Yes. He said that you should call Sergeant Stebbins, who will arrange for you to see the tire iron at police headquarters.”

So that was why, while Saul Panzer and his out-of-town visitor were using my tickets at Shea Stadium watching Dwight Gooden throw a two-hitter against St. Louis in a game that included a Mets’ triple play, I was down at One Police Plaza visiting Purley Stebbins, who, like Cramer, seems never to take time off. A word here about the estimable sergeant: Purley is an old-school policeman, make no mistake. And he looks like an old-line cop ought to look, at least as I visualize it. He’s big without being fat, probably only an inch taller than me but a lot thicker. You’d be pressing it to call Purley handsome, but he’s got a strong face: big ears, big square jaw, bristly brows over eyes that don’t miss a thing. He doesn’t laugh much, but then, in his line of work, he doesn’t see a whole lot to laugh about. He doesn’t like criminals of any variety, and he isn’t much fonder of private detectives, including me and Wolfe. Oh, he’s usually civil, at least as civil as Purley ever gets, but he doesn’t waste words and he doesn’t conceal his disdain for anyone who makes money doing what he feels only the police are qualified to do. And besides, he thinks Wolfe has made him look bad a couple of times, which is hard to argue with.

But Purley also follows the chain of command scrupulously, and if Cramer tells him to bark, he barks — without complaint. “Okay, here we are,” he gruffed after we had entered a small windowless, colorless room where a stocky little guy with glasses and a white smock was doing paperwork at a high table.

“Jenks, show us the item,” Purley said tonelessly.

Jenks, who was wearing what looked like surgical gloves, opened a drawer in a gray cabinet and drew out a silver-colored L-shaped tire iron, the longer leg of which measured about a foot. “No touching,” he cautioned like an elementary-school teacher as he held it out.

“Looks like dried blood,” I said in my most professional voice, remarking on the brownish discoloration around the elbow of the tool.

“Could be,” Jenks said.

“Yeah, could be,” Purley echoed, throwing me a “You’ve-seen-it-and-I’ve-done-my-duty-so-now-go-home” expression. I had indeed seen all I wanted to, but Purley always brings out the worst in me, so I kept peering at the iron, which Jenks clasped tightly. “Find any prints?” I asked.

Jenks looked at Stebbins for some sign as to whether he should respond, and Purley, bless his uncomplicated self, shook his head. No subtlety there.

“Okay, that’s enough, let’s go,” he told me. “Thank you, Mr. Jenks.”

The little man nodded without expression as we walked out. In the hall, I thanked Purley for his hospitality and told him Wolfe also was appreciative, which must have impressed him, because he blinked once, or maybe it was twice.

Back at the brownstone after yet another taxi ride that would go onto Noreen James’s bill, I rang the bell, and had the door unbolted and opened by Fritz, recently returned from wherever he spent the day — I didn’t ask. In the office, I found Wolfe leaning back with his eyes closed.

“Taking a catnap?” I asked innocently as I slid into my chair.

He snorted, opening his eyes but making no other moves. “Report,” he said.

“Do you mean on my trip downtown to look at the apparent murder weapon, or on all my activities of today?”

“Both,” he said, ringing for beer.

With that, I reconstructed my visits to both Rojek and Halliburton, giving Wolfe plenty of the dialogue, which he appreciates, but making no value judgments. It took me twenty-three minutes.

“Your impressions of the two men?” he asked after I had finished.

“Mixed; I’ll take them one at a time. First, Rojek: basically a decent guy, although more than a tad on the stuffy side. If he has a sense of humor, he’s learned to suppress it masterfully. His feelings about Noreen James? Intense, and he’s obviously interested in her for the long haul — he said as much without hesitation, and I believe him. Did he kill Linville? Possibly. My initial reaction is to say ‘no way,’ but then, he appears to be in love with her. And love, or so I’ve heard, can do strange things to a man’s character, especially when the object of his affection has been ill-used. Take that crazy case over in Jersey where the meek little clothing-store stock clerk shot and wounded the professional wrestler who—”

“Enough!” Wolfe growled, holding up a palm and making a face. “You’ve made your point. What of Mr. Halliburton?”

“I don’t have any higher opinion of him now than when I had the pleasure of meeting him in front of Morgana’s. If he was less rude this time, it was mainly because we were one-on-one and he was scared stiff I’d pop him, which I admit was damned tempting. He’s a little snake, and I get the impression that he hung around with Linville not so much out of friendship as because Linville had nice cars and good-looking women and spent money like water on himself and his friends.”

“Would he have done his friend in?”

“Halliburton? I don’t think so. He’s not only a snake, he’s a coward to boot.”

“But your impression is that he was fond of Miss James?”

I nodded. “Very fond. And I guess the few times they met he must have cleaned up his act, because she seemed to think he was more or less bearable. But I don’t see him conking anybody, let alone a friend, with a chunk of iron.”

“The tire iron,” Wolfe said. “You saw it?”

“In the presence of Purley Stebbins himself, no less. It is, well... a tire iron. Complete with what appears to be dried blood.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Interesting you should ask. I posed that question to Stebbins and the guy who keeps watch over murder weapons and such, and they weren’t in the mood to tell me.”

Wolfe pressed his lips together once or twice. “Get Inspector Cramer,” he said curtly.

I dialed and Stebbins answered on the second ring. When I told him Wolfe wanted to talk to his boss, he balked. “Look, he called Mr. Wolfe earlier today,” I told him. “This is on the same matter.” That drew some muffled grumbling at the other end, which sounded promising. I nodded to Wolfe to pick up.

“Yeah?” Cramer was his usual suave self.

“Inspector, as you know, Mr. Goodwin a short time ago viewed the tire iron that may have been used to kill Mr. Linville. He asked if fingerprints had been found on it and received no answer.”

Cramer swore and covered his mouthpiece, but not well enough to drown out the chewing-out he gave Purley. The gist was “I told you to cooperate with Goodwin,” although he used a number of additional adjectives that I have elected to omit from this narrative. “There were no prints found on the iron,” Cramer said between deep breaths after he had finished his harangue. “Looks like the thing was wiped clean.”

“What about the discoloration Mr. Goodwin observed?”

After a pause, Cramer responded. “Blood, Type O, same as Linville’s. But, hell, damn near half the population is Type O.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wolfe told him. “I have a favor to request.”

“Another one?” Cramer snapped.

“Yes. Has the weapon’s discovery been made known to the press yet?”

“No. The damn thing only turned up this morning. The D.A.’s office doesn’t even know about it yet. Why?”

“I would like to ask that, at least for twenty-four hours, news of the weapon be withheld, even from the district attorney’s office.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“Because such action, or more correctly lack of action, may well be helpful in determining the identity of Mr. Linville’s murderer,” Wolfe said evenly.

“Balls!” Cramer roared. The only other sound that came through the wires for a quarter of a minute was his heavy breathing. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said, slamming his phone down. At that moment the doorbell rang, and I got up, beating Fritz to the hall. I took one peek through the one-way panel and did a quick about-face back to the office.

“We’ve got some interesting visitors on the stoop,” I said to Wolfe, who had just returned to his book. “Megan and Doyle James, by name. Instructions?”