The Thin Man

26

Nora shook me awake at quarter past ten. “The telephone,” she said. “It's Herbert Macauhay and he says it's important.”

I went into the bedroom—I had slept in the living-room—to the telephone. Dorothy was sleeping soundly. I mumbled, “Hello,” into the telephone.

Macaulay said: “It's too early for that lunch, but I've got to see you right away. Can I come up now?”

“Sure. Come up for breakfast.”

“I've had it. Get yours and I'll be up in fifteen minutes.”

“Right.”

Dorothy opened her eyes less than half-way, said, “It must be late,” sleepily, turned over, and returned to unconsciousness.

I put cold water on my face and hands, brushed my teeth and hair, and went back to the hiving-room. “He's coming up,” I told Nora. “He's had breakfast, but you'd better order some coffee for him. I want chicken livers.”

“Am I invited to your party or do I—”

“Sure. You've never met Macaulay, have you? He's a pretty good guy. I was attached to his outfit for a few days once, up around Vaux, and we looked each other up after the war. He threw a couple of jobs my way, including the Wynant one. How about a drop of something to cut the phlegm?”

“Why don't you stay sober today?”

“We didn't come to New York to stay sober. Want to see a hockey game tonight?”

“I'd like to.” She poured me a drink and went to order breakfast.

I looked through the morning papers. They had the news of Jorgensen's being picked up by the Boston police and of Nunheim's murder, but further developments of what the tabloids called “The Hell's Kitchen Gang War,” the arrest of “Prince Mike” Gerguson, and an interview with the “Jafsie” of the Lindbergh kidnapping negotiations got more space.

Macaulay and the bellboy who brought Asta up arrived together. Asta liked Macaulay because when he patted her he gave her something to set her weight against: she was never very fond of gentleness.

He had lines around his mouth this morning and some of the rosiness was gone from his cheeks. “Where'd the police get this new line?” he asked. “Do they think—” He broke off as Nora came in. She had dressed.

“Nora, this is Herbert Macaulay,” I said. “My wife.”

They shook hands and Nora said: “Nick would only let me order some coffee for you. Can't I—”

“No, thanks, I've just finished breakfast.”

I said: “Now what's this about the police?”

He hesitated.

“Nora knows practically everything I know,” I assured him, “so unless it's something you'd rather not—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “It's—well—for Mrs. Charles's sake. I don't want to cause her anxiety.”

“Then out with it. She only worries about things she doesn't know. WThat's the new police line?”

“Lieutenant Guild came to see me this morning,” he said. “First he showed me a piece of watch-chain with a knife attached to it and asked me if I'd ever seen them before. I had: they were Wynant's. I told him I thought I had: I thought they looked like Wynant's. Then he asked me if I knew of any way in which they could have come into anybody else's possession and, after some beating about the bush, I discovered that by anybody else he meant you or Mimi. I told him certainly—Wynant could have given them to either of you, you could have stolen them or found them on the street or have been given them by somebody who stole them or found them on the street, or you could have got them from somebody Wynant gave them to. There were other ways, too, for you to have got them, I told him, but he knew I was kidding him, so he wouldn't let me tell him about them.”

There were spots of color in Nora's cheeks and her eyes were dark. “The idiot!”

“Now, now,” I said. “Maybe I should have warned you—he was heading in that direction last night. I think it's likely my old pal Mimi gave him a prod or two. What else did he turn the searchlight on?”

“He wanted to know about—what he asked was: 'Do you figure Charles and the Wolf dame was still playing around together? Or was that all washed up?'”

“That's the Mimi touch, all right,” I said. “What'd you tell him?”

“I told him I didn't know whether you were 'still' playing around together because I didn't know that you had even played around together, and reminded him that you hadn't been living in New York for a long time anyway.”

Nora asked me: “Did you?”

I said: “Don't try to make a liar out of Mac. What'd he say to that?”

“Nothing. He asked me if I thought Jorgensen knew about you and Mimi and, when I asked him what about you and Mimi, he accused me of acting the innocent—they were his words—so we didn't get very far. He was interested in the times I had seen you, also, where and when to the exact inch and second.”

“That's nice,” I said. “I've got lousy alibis.”

A waiter came in with our breakfast. We talked about this and that until he had set the table and gone away.

Then Macaulay said: “You've nothing to be afraid of. I'm going to turn Wynant over to the police.” His voice was unsteady and a little choked.

“Are you sure he did it?” I asked. “I'm not.”

He said simply: “I know.” He cleared his throat. “Even if there was a chance in a thousand of my being wrong—and there isn't—he's a madman, Charles. He shouldn't be loose.”

“That's probably right enough,” I began, “and if you know—”

“I know,” he repeated. “I saw him the afternoon he killed her; it couldn't've been half an hour after he'd killed her, though I didn't know that, didn't even know she'd been killed. I—well—I know it now.”

“You met him in Hermann's office?”

“What?”

“You were supposed to have been in the office of a man named Hermann, on Fifty-seventh Street, from around three o'clock till around four that afternoon. At least, that's what the police told me.”

“That's right,” he said. “I mean that's the story they got. What really happened: after I failed to find Wynant or any news of him at the Plaza and phoned my office and Julia with no better results, I gave him up and started walking down to Hermann's. He's a mining engineer, a client of mine; I had just finished drawing up some articles of incorporation for him, and there were some minor changes to be made in them. When I got to Fifty-seventh Street I suddenly got a feeling that I was being followed—you know the feeling. I couldn't think of any reason for anybody shadowing me, but, still, I'm a lawyer and there might be. Anyhow, I wanted to find out, so I turned east on Fifty-seventh and wahked over to Madison and still wasn't sure. There was a small sallow man I thought I'd seen around the Plaza, but— The quickest way to find out seemed to be by taking a taxi, so I did that and told the driver to drive east. There was too much traffic there for me to see whether this small man or anybody else took a taxi after me, so I had my driver turn south at Third, east again on Fifty-sixth, and south again on Second Avenue, and by that time I was pretty sure a yellow taxi was following me. I couldn't see whether my small man was in it, of course; it wasn't close enough for that. And at the next corner, when a red light stopped us, I saw Wynant. He was in a taxicab going west on Fifty-fifth Street. Naturally, that didn't surprise me very much: we were only two blocks from Julia's and I took it for granted she hadn't wanted me to know he was there when I phoned and that he was now on his way over to meet me at the Plaza. He was never very punctual. So I told my driver to turn west, but at Lexington Avenue—we were half a block behind him—Wynant's taxicab turned south. That wasn't the way to the Plaza and wasn't even the way to my office, so I said to hell with him and turned my attention back to the taxi following me—and it wasn't there any more. I kept a look-out behind all the way over to Hermann's and saw no sign at all of anybody following me.”

“What time was it when you saw Wynant?” I asked.

“It must've been fifteen or twenty minutes past three. It was twenty minutes to four when I got to Hermann's and I imagine that was twenty or twenty-five minutes later. Well, Hermann's secretary—Louise Jacobs, the girl I was with when I saw you last night—told me he had been locked up in a conference all afternoon, but would probably be through in a few minutes, and he was, and I got through with him in ten or fifteen minutes and went back to my office.”

“I take it you weren't close enough to Wynant to see whether he looked excited, was wearing his watch-chain, smelled of gunpowder— things like that.”

“That's right. All I saw was his profile going past, but don't think I'm not sure it was Wynant.”

“I won't. Go ahead,” I said.

“He didn't phone again. I'd been back about an hour when the police phoned—Julia was dead. Now you must understand that I didn't think Wynant had killed her—not for a minute. You can understand that—you still don't think he did. So when I went over there and the police began to ask me questions about him and I could see they suspected him, I did what ninety-nine out of a hundred lawyers would've done for their clients—I said nothing about having seen him in that neighborhood at about the time that the murder must have been committed. I told them what I told you—about having the date with him and him not showing up—and let them understand that I had gone over to Hermann's straight from the Plaza.”

“That's understandable enough,” I agreed. “There was no sense in your saying anything until you had heard his side of the story.”

“Exactly and, well, the catch is I never heard his side of the story. I'd expected him to show up, phone me, something, but he didn't—until Tuesday, when I got that letter from him from Philadelphia, and there was not a word in it about his failure to meet me Friday, nothing about—but you saw the letter. What'd you think of it?”

“You mean did it sound guilty?”

“Yes.”

“Not particularly,” I said. “It's about what could be expected from him if he didn't kill her—no great alarm over the police suspecting him except as it might interfere with his work, a desire to have it all cleaned up with no inconvenience to him—not too bright a letter to have come from anybody else, but in line with his particular form of goofiness. I can see him sending it off without the faintest notion that the best thing he could do would be to account for his own actions on the day of the murder. How sure are you he was coming from Julia's when you saw him?”

“I'm sure now. I thought it likely at first. Then I thought he may have been to his shop. It's on First Avenue, just a few blocks from where I saw him, and, though it's been closed since he went away, we renewed the lease last month and everything's there waiting for him to come back to it, and he could have been there that afternoon. The police couldn't find anything there to show whether he had or hadn't.”

“I meant to ask you: there was some talk about his having grown whiskers. Was he—”

“No—the same long bony face with the same ragged near-white mustache.”

“Another thing: there was a fellow named Nunheim killed yesterday, a small—”

“I'm coming to that,” he said.

“I was thinking about the little fellow you thought might be shadowing you.”

Macaulay stared at me. “You mean that might've been Nunheim?”

“I don't know. I was wondering.”

“And I don't know,” he said. “I never saw Nunheim, far as I—”

“He was a little fellow, not more than five feet three, and would weigh maybe a hundred and twenty. I'd say he was thirty-five or —six. Sallow, dark hair and eyes, withi the eyes set pretty close together, big mouth, long limp nose, bat-wing ears—shifty-looking.”

“That could easily be him,” he said, “though I didn't get too close a view of my man. I suppose the police would let me see him”—he shrugged—“not that it matters now. Where was I? Oh, yes, about not being able to get in touch with Wynant. That put me in an uncomfortable position, since the police clearly thought I was in touch with him and lying about it. So did you, didn't you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“And you also, like the police, probably suspected that I had met him, either at the Plaza or later, on the day of the murder.”

“It seemed possible.”

“Yes. And of course you were partly right. I had at least seen him, and seen him at a place and time that would've spelled Guilty with a capital G to the police, so, having lied instinctively and by inference, I now lied directly and deliberately. Herrnann had been tied up in a conference all that afternoon and didn't know how long I had been waiting to see him. Louise Jacobs is a good friend of mine. Without going into details, I told her she could help me help a client by saying I had arrived there at a minute or two after three o'clock and she agreed readily enough. To protect her in case of trouble, I told her that if anything went wrong she could always say that she hadn't remembered what time I arrived, but that I, the next day, had casually mentioned my arrival at that time and she had no reason for doubting me—throwing the whole thing on me.” Macaulay took a deep breath. “None of that's important now. What's important is that I heard from Wynant this morning.”

“Another one of those screwy letters?” I asked.

“No, he phoned. I made a date with him for tonight—for you and me. I told him you wouldn't do anything for him unless you could see him, so he promised to meet us tonight. I'm going to take the police, of course. I can't go on justifying my shielding him like this. I can get him an acquittal on grounds of insanity and have him put away. That's all I can do, all I want to do.”

“Have you told the police yet?”

“No. He didn't phone till just after they'd left. Anyway, I wanted to see you first. I wanted to tell you I hadn't forgotten what I owed you and—”

“Nonsense,” I said.

“It's not.” He turned to Nora. “I don't suppose he ever told you he saved my life once in a shell-hole in—”

“He's nuts,” I told her. “He fired at a fellow and missed and I fired at him and didn't and that's all there was to it.” I addressed him again: “Why don't you let the police wait awhile? Suppose you and I keep this date tonight and hear what he's got to say. We can sit on him and blow whistles when the meeting's about to break up if we're convinced he's the murderer.”

Macaulay smiled wearily. “You're still doubtful, aren't you? Well, I'm willing to do it that way if you want, though it seems like a— But perhaps you'll change your mind when I tell you about our telephone conversation.”

Dorothy, wearing a nightgown and a robe of Nora's, both much too long for her, came in yawning. “Oh!” she exclaimed when she saw Macaulay, and then, when she had recognized him, “Oh, hello, Mr. Macaulay. I didn't know you were here. Is there any news of my father?”

He looked at me. I shook my head. He told her: “Not yet, but perhaps we'll have some today.”

I said: “Dorothy's had some, indirectly. Tell Macaulay about Gilbert.”

“You mean about—about my father?” she asked hesitantly, staring at the floor.

“Oh, dear me, no,” I said.

Her face flushed and she glanced reproachfully at me; then, hastily, she told Macaulay: “Gil saw my father yesterday and he told Gil who killed Miss Wolf.”

“What?”

She nodded four or five times, earnestly.

Macaulay looked at me with puzzled eyes.

“This doesn't have to've happened,” I reminded him. “It's what Gil says happened.”

“I see. Then you think he might be—?”

“You haven't done much talking to that family since hell broke loose, have you?” I asked.

“No.”

“It's an experience. They're all sex-crazy, I think, and it backs up into their heads. They start off—”

Dorothy said angrily: “I think you're horrid. I've done my best to—”

“What are you kicking about?” I demanded. “I'm giving you the break this time: I'm willing to believe Gil did tell you that. Don't expect too much of me.”

Macaulay asked: “And who killed her?”

“I don't know. Gil wouldn't tell me.”

“Had your brother seen him often?”

“I don't know how often. He said he had been seeing him.”

“And was anything said—well—about the man Nunheim?”

“No. Nick asked me that. He didn't tell me anything else at all.”

I caught Nora's eye and made signals. She stood up saying: “Let's go in the other room, Dorothy, and give these lads a chance to do whatever it is they think they're doing.”

Dorothy went reluctantly, but she went out with Nora.

Macaulay said: “She's grown up to be something to look at.” He cleared his throat. “I hope your wife won't—”

“Forget it. Nora's all right. You started to tell me about your conversation with Wynant.”

“He phoned right after the police left and said he'd seen the ad in the Times and wanted to know what I wanted. I told him you weren't anxious to get yourself mixed up in his troubles and had said you wouldn't touch it at all without talking it over with him first, and we made the date for tonight. Then he asked if I'd seen Mimi and I told him I'd seen her once or twice since her return from Europe and had also seen his daughter. And then he said this: 'If my wife should ask for money, give her any sum in reason.'”

“I'll be damned,” I said.

Macaulay nodded. “That's the way I felt about it. I asked him why and he said what he'd read in the morning papers had convinced him that she was Rosewater's dupe, not his confederate, and he had reason to believe she was 'kindly disposed' towards him, Wynant. I began to see what he was up to, then, and I told him she had already turned the knife and chain over to the police. And try to guess what he said to that.”

“I give up.”

“He hemmed and hawed a bit—not much, mind you—and then as smooth as you like asked: 'You mean the chain and knife on the watch I left with Julia to be repaired?'”

I laughed. “What'd you say?”

“That stumped me. Before I could think up an answer he was saying: 'However, we can discuss that more fully when we meet tonight.' I asked him where and when we'd meet him and he said he'd have to phone me, he didn't know where he'd be. He's to phone me at my house at ten o'clock. He was in a hurry now, though he had seemed leisurely enough before, and hadn't time to answer any of the things I wanted to ask, so he hung up and I phoned you. What do you think of his innocence now?”

“Not as much as I did,” I replied slowly. “How sure are you of hearing from him at ten tonight?”

Macaulay shrugged. “You know as much about that as I do.”

“Then if I were you I wouldn't bother the police till we've grabbed our wihd man and can turn him over to them. This story of yours isn't going to make them exactly love you and, even if they don't throw you in the can right away, they'll make things pretty disagreeable for you if Wynant gives us a run-around tonight.”

“I know, but I'd like to get the load off my shoulders.”

“A few hours more oughtn't to matter much,” I said. “Did either of you say anything about his not keeping the date at the Plaza?”

“No. I didn't get a chance to ask him. Well, if you say wait, I'll wait, but—”

“Let's wait till tonight, anyhow, till he phones you—if he does—and then we can make up our minds whether to take the police along.”

“You don't think he'll phone?”

“I'm not too sure,” I said. “He didn't keep his last date with you, and he seems to have gone pretty vague on you as soon as he learned that Mimi had turned in the watch-chain and knife. I wouldn't be too optimistic about it. We'll see, though. I'd better get out to your house at about nine o'clock, hadn't I?”

“Come for dinner.”

“I can't, but I'll make it as early as I can, in case he's ahead of time. We'll want to move fast. Where do you live?”

Macaulay gave me his address, in Scarsdale, and stood up. “Will you say good-by to Mrs. Charles for me and thank— Oh, by the way, I hope you didn't misunderstand me about Harrison Quinn last night. I meant only just what I said, that I'd had bad luck taking his advice on the market. I didn't mean to insinuate that there was anything—you know—or that he might not've made money for his other customers.”

“I understand,” I said, and called Nora.

She and Macaulay shook hands and made polite speeches to each other and he pushed Asta around a little and said, “Make it as early as you can,” to me and went away.

“There goes the hockey game,” I said, “unless you find somebody else to go with.”

“Did I miss anything?” Nora asked.

“Not much.” I told her what Macaulay had told me. “And don't ask me what I think of it. I don't know. I know Wynant's crazy, but he's not acting like a crazy man and he's not acting like a murderer. He's acting like a man playing some kind of game. God only knows what the game is.”

“I think,” she said, “that he's shielding somebody else.”

“Why don't you think he did it?”

She looked surprised. “Because you don't.”

I said that was a swell reason. “Who is the somebody else?”

“I don't know yet. Now don't make fun of me: I've thought about it a lot. It wouldn't be Macaulay, because he's using him to help shield whoever it is and—”

“And it wouldn't be me,” I suggested, “because he wants to use me.”

“That's right,” she said, “and you're going to feel very silly if you make fun of me and then I guess who it is before you do. And it wouldn't be either Mimi or Jorgensen, because he tried to throw suspicion on them. And it wouldn't be Nunheim, because he was most likely killed by the same person and, furthermore, wouldn't have to be shielded now. And it wouldn't be Morelli, because Wynant was jealous of him and they'd had a row.” She frowned at me. “I wish you'd found out more about that big fat man they called Sparrow and that big red-haired woman.”

“But how about Dorothy and Gilbert?”

“I wanted to ask you about them. Do you think he's got any very strong paternal feeling for them?”

“No.”

“You're probably just trying to discourage me,” she said. “Well, knowing them, it's hard to think either of them might've been guilty, but I tried to throw out my personal feelings and stick to logic. Before I went to sleep last night I made a list of all the—”

“There's nothing like a little logic-sticking to ward off insomnia. It's like—”

“Don't be so damned patronizing. Your performance so far has been a little less than dazzling.”

“I didn't mean no harm,” I said and kissed her. “That a new dress?”

“Ah! Changing the subject, you coward.”