The Thin Man

19

“I was listening,” Gilbert told me as we left the building. “I think it's silly not to listen whenever you get a chance if you're interested in studying people, because they're never exactly the same as when you're with them. People don't like it when they know about it, of course, but”—he smiled—“I don't suppose birds and animals like having naturalists spying on them either.”

“Hear much of it?” I asked.

“Oh, enough to know I didn't miss any of the important part.”

“And what'd you think of it?”

He pursed his lips, wrinkled his forehead, said judicially: “It's hard to say exactly. Mamma's good at hiding things sometimes, but she's never much good at making them up. It's a funny thing—I suppose you've noticed it—the people who lie the most are nearly always the clumsiest at it, and they're easier to fool with lies than most people, too. You'd think they'd be on the look-out for lies, but they seem to be the very ones that will believe almost anything at all. I suppose you've noticed that, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

He said: “What I wanted to tell you: Chris didn't come home last night. That's why Mamma's more upset than usual, and when I got the mail this morning there was a letter for him that I thought might have something in it, so I steamed it open.” He took a letter from his pocket and held it out to me. “You'd better read it and then I'll seal it again and put it with tomorrow's mail in case he comes back, though I don't think he will.”

“Why don't you?” I asked as I took the letter.

“Well, he's really Kelterman

“You say anything to him about it?”

“I didn't have a chance. I haven't seen him since you told me.” I looked at the letter in my hand. The envelope was postmarked Boston, Massachusetts, December 27, 1932, and addressed in a slightly childish feminine hand to Mr. Christian Jorgensen, Courtland Apts., New York, N. Y. “How'd you happen to open it?” I asked, taking the letter out of the envelope.

“I don't believe in intuition,” he said, “but there are probably odors, sounds, maybe something about the handwriting, that you can't analyze, maybe aren't even conscious of, that influence you sometimes. I don't know what it was: I just felt there might be something important in it.”

“You often feel that way about the family's mail?”

He glanced quickly at me as if to see whether I was spoofing, then said: “Not often, but I have opened their mail before. I told you I was interested in studying people.”

I read the letter:

Dear Sid—

Olga wrote me about you being back in the U. S. married to another woman and using the name of Christian Jorgensen. That is not right Sid as you very well know the same as leaving me without word of any kind all these years. And no money.

I know that you had to go away on account of that trouble you had with Mr. Wynant but am sure he has long since forgot all about that and I do think you might have written to me as you know very well I have always been your friend and am willing to do anything within my power for you at any time. I do not want to scold you Sid but I have to see you.

I will be off from the store Sunday and Monday on account of New Years and will come down to N. Y. Saturday night and must have a talk with you. Write me where you will meet me and what time as I do not want to make any trouble for you. Be sure and write me right away so I will get it in time.

Your true wife,

Georgia

There was a street address.

I said, “Well, well, well,” and put the letter back in its envelope. “And you resisted the temptation to tell your mother about this?”

“Oh, I knew what her reaction would be. You saw how she carried on with just what you told her. What do you think I ought to do about it?”

“You ought to let me tell the police.”

He nodded immediately. “If you think that's the best thing. You can show it to them if you want.”

I said, “Thanks,” and put the letter in my pocket.

He said: “Now there's another thing: I had some morphine I was experimenting with and somebody stole it, about twenty grains.”

“Experimenting how?”

“Taking it. I wanted to study the effects.”

“And how'd you like them?” I asked.

“Oh, I didn't expect to like it. I just wanted to know about it. I don't like things that dull my mind. That's why I don't very often drink, or even smoke. I want to try cocaine, though, because that's supposed to sharpen the brain, isn't it?”

“It's supposed to. Who do you think copped the stuff?”

“I suspect Dorothy, because I have a theory about her. That's why I'm going over to Aunt Alice's for dinner: Dorry's still there and I want to find out. I can make her tell me anything.”

“Well, if she's been over there,” I asked, “how could she—”

“She was home for a little while last night,” he said, “and, besides, I don't know exactly when it was taken. Today was the first time I opened the box it was in for three or four days.”

“Did she know you had it?”

“Yes. That's one of the reasons I suspect her. I don't think anybody else did. I experimented on her too.”

“How'd she like it?”

“Oh, she liked it all right, but she'd have taken it anyhow. But what I want to ask you is could she have become an addict in a little time like that?”

“Like what?”

“A week—no—ten days.”

“Hardly, unless she thought herself into it. Did you give her much?”

“No.”

“Let me know if you find out,” I said. “I'm going to grab a taxi here. Be seeing you.”

“You're coming over later tonight, aren't you?”

“If I can make it. Maybe I'll see you then.”

“Yes,” he said, “and thanks awfully.”

At the first drug store I stopped to telephone Guild, not expecting to catch him in his office, but hoping to learn how to reach him at his home. He was still there, though.

“Working late,” I said.

His “That's what” sounded very cheerful.

I read Georgia's letter to him, gave him her address.

“Good pickings,” he said.

I told him Jorgensen had not been home since the day before.

“Think we'll find him in Boston?” he asked.

“Either there,” I guessed, “or as far south as he could manage to get by this time.”

“We'll try 'em both,” he said, still cheerful. “Now I got a bit of news for you. Our friend Nunheim was filled full of .32s just about an hour after he copped the sneak on us—deader'n hell. The pills look like they come from the same gun that cut down the Wolf dame. The experts are matching 'em up now. I guess he wishes he'd stayed and talked to us.”