Wolfe backed up a step. He doesn’t like anyone so close to him, especially a woman. “I want information, madam. I want you and Bella Velardi and Helen Weltz to answer some questions.”
“We have no information.”
“Then I won’t get any, but I’m going to try.”
“Who sent you here?”
“Autokinesis. There’s a cardinal flaw in the assumption that Leonard Ashe killed Marie Willis, and I don’t like flaws. It has made me curious, and when I’m curious there is only one cure—the whole truth, and I intend to find it. If I am in time to save Mr. Ashe’s life, so much the better; but in any case I have started and will not be stopped. If you and the others refuse to oblige me today there will be other days—and other ways.”
From her face it was a toss-up. Her chin stiffened, and for a second she was going to tell him to go soak his head; then her eyes left him for me, and she was going to take it. She turned to the girl at the desk. “Take my board, will you, Pearl? I won’t be long.” To Wolfe, snapping it: “We’ll go to my room. This way.” She whirled and started.
“One moment, Miss Hart.” Wolfe moved. “A point not covered in the newspaper accounts.” He stopped at the boards, behind Bella Velardi at the middle one. “Marie Willis’s body was found slumped over on the ledge in front of the switchboard. Presumably she was seated at the switchboard when the murderer arrived. But you live here—you and the others?”
“Yes.”
“Then if the murderer was Mr. Ashe, how did he know she was alone on the premises?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she told him she was. Is that the flaw?”
“Good heavens, no. It’s conceivable that she did, and they talked, and he waited until a light and buzzes had her busy at the board, with her back to him. It’s a minor point, but I prefer someone with surer knowledge that she was alone. Since she was small and slight, even you are not excluded”—he wiggled a finger—“or these others. Not that I am now prepared to charge you with murder.”
“I hope not,” she snorted, turning. She led the way to a door at the end of the room, on through, and down a narrow hall. As I followed, behind Wolfe, I was thinking that the reaction we were getting seemed a little exaggerated. It would have been natural, under the circumstances, for Miss Velardi and Miss Yerkes to turn in their seats for a good look at us, but they hadn’t. They had sat, rigid, staring at their boards. As for Alice Hart, either there had been a pinch of relief in her voice when she asked Wolfe if that was the flaw, or I was in the wrong business.
Her room was a surprise. First, it was big, much bigger than the one in front with the switchboards. Second, I am not Bernard Berenson, but I have noticed things here and there, and the framed splash of red and yellow and blue above the mantel was not only a real van Gogh, it was bigger and better than the one Lily Rowan had. I saw Wolfe spotting it as he lowered himself onto a chair actually big enough for him, and I pulled one around to make a group, facing the couch Miss Hart dropped onto.
As she sat she spoke. “What’s the flaw?”
He shook his head. “I’m the inquisitor, Miss Hart, not you.” He aimed a thumb at the van Gogh. “Where did you get that picture?”
She looked at it, and back at him. “That’s none of your business.”
“It certainly isn’t. But here is the situation. You have of course been questioned by the police and the District Attorney’s office, but they were restrained by their assumption that Leonard Ashe was the culprit. Since I reject that assumption and must find another in its stead, there can be no limit to my impertinence with you and others who may be involved. Take you and that picture. If you refuse to say where you got it, or if your answer doesn’t satisfy me, I’ll put a man on it, a competent man, and he’ll find out. You can’t escape being badgered, madam; the question is whether you suffer it here and now, by me, or face a prolonged inquiry among your friends and associates by meddlesome men. If you prefer the latter don’t waste time with me; I’ll go and tackle one of the others.”
She was tossing up again. From her look at him it seemed just as well that he had his bodyguard along. She tried stalling. “What does it matter where I got that picture?”
“Probably it doesn’t. Possibly nothing about you matters. But the picture is a treasure, and this is an odd address for it. Do you own it?”
“Yes. I bought it.”
“When?”
“About a year ago. From a dealer.”
“The contents of this room are yours?”
“Yes. I like things that—well, this is my extravagance, my only one.”
“How long have you been with this firm?”
“Five years.”
“What is your salary?”
She was on a tight rein. “Eighty dollars a week.”
“Not enough for your extravagance. An inheritance? Alimony? Other income?”
“I have never married. I had some savings, and I wanted—I wanted these things. If you save for fifteen years you have a right to something.”
“You have indeed. Where were you the evening that Marie Willis was killed?”
“I was out in Jersey, in a car with a friend—Bella Velardi. To get cooled off—it was a hot night. We got back after midnight.”
“In your car?”
“No, Helen Weltz had let us take hers. She has a Jaguar.”
My brows went up, and I spoke. “A Jaguar,” I told Wolfe, “is quite a machine. You couldn’t squeeze into one. Counting taxes and extras, four thousand bucks isn’t enough.”
His eyes darted to me and back to her. “Of course the police have asked if you know of anyone who might have had a motive for killing. Marie Willis. Do you?”
“No.” Her rein wasn’t so tight.
“Were you friendly with her?”
“Yes, friendly enough.”
“Has any client ever asked you to listen in on calls to his number?”
“Certainly not!”
“Did you know Miss Willis wanted to be an actress?”
“Yes, we all knew that.”
“Mr. Bagby says he didn’t.”
Her chin had relaxed a little. “He was her employer. I don’t suppose he knew. When did you talk with Mr. Bagby?”
“I didn’t. I heard him on the witness stand. Did you know of Miss Willis’s regard for Robina Keane?”
“Yes, we all knew that too. Marie did imitations of Robina Keane in her parts.”
“When did she tell you of her decision to tell Robina Keane that her husband was going to monitor her telephone?”
Miss Hart frowned. “I didn’t say she told me.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
“Yes, Miss Velardi. Marie had told her. You can ask her.”
“I shall. Do you know Guy Unger?”
“Yes, I know him. Not very well.”
Wolfe was playing a game I had often watched him at, tossing balls at random to see how they bounced. It’s a good way to try to find a lead if you haven’t got one, but it may take all day, and he didn’t have it. If one of the females in the front room took a notion to phone the cops or the DA’s office about us we might have visitors any minute. As for Guy Unger, that was another name from the newspaper accounts. He had been Marie Willis’s boy friend, or had he? There had been a difference of opinion among the journalists.
Miss Hart’s opinion was that Guy Unger and Marie had enjoyed each other’s company, but that was as far as it went—I mean her opinion. She knew nothing of any crisis that might have made Unger want to end the friendship with a plug cord. For another five minutes Wolfe went on with the game, tossing different balls from different angles, and then abruptly arose.
“Very well,” he said. “For now. I’ll try Miss Velardi.”
“I’ll send her in.” Alice Hart was on her feet, eager to cooperate. “Her room is next door.” She moved. “This way.”
Obviously she didn’t want to leave us with her van Gogh. There was a lock
on a bureau drawer that I could probably have manipulated in twenty seconds, and I would have liked to try my hand on it, but Wolfe was following her out, so I went along—to the right, down the hall to another door, standing open. Leaving us there, she strode on flat heels toward the front. Wolfe passed through the open door with me behind.
This room was different—somewhat smaller, with no van Gogh and the kind of furniture you might expect. The bed hadn’t been made, and Wolfe stood and scowled at it a moment, lowered himself gingerly onto a chair too small for him with worn upholstery, and told me curtly, “Look around.”
I did so. Bella Velardi was a crack-lover. A closet door and a majority of the drawers in a dressing table and two chests were open to cracks of various widths. One of the reasons I am still shy a wife is the risk of getting a crack-lover. I went and pulled the closet door open, and, having no machete to hack my way into the jungle of duds, swung it back to its crack and stepped across to the library. It was a stack of paperbacks on a little table, the one on top being entitled One Mistake Too Many, with a picture of a double-breasted floozie shrinking in terror from a muscle-bound baboon. There was also a pile of recent editions of Racing Form and Track Dope.
“She’s a philanthropist,” I told Wolfe. “She donates dough to the cause of equine genetics.”
“Meaning?”
“She bets on horse races.”
“Does she lose much?”
“She loses. How much depends on what she bets. Probably tidy sums, since she takes two house journals.”
He grunted. “Open drawers. Have one open when she enters. I want to see how much impudence these creatures will tolerate.”
I obeyed. The six drawers in the bigger chest all held clothes, and I did no pawing. A good job might have uncovered some giveaway under a pile of nylons, but there wasn’t time for it. I closed all the drawers to show her what I thought of cracks. Those in the dressing table were also uninteresting. In the second drawer of the smaller chest, among other items, was a collection of photographs, mostly unmounted snaps, and, running through them, with no expectations, I stopped at one for a second look. It was Bella Velardi and another girl, with a man standing between them, in bathing outfits with the ocean for background. I went and handed it to Wolfe.
“The man?” I asked. “I read newspapers too, and look at the pictures, but it was two months ago, and I could be wrong.”
He slanted it to get the best light from a window. He nodded. “Guy Unger.” He slipped it into a pocket. “Find more of him.”
“If any.” I went back to the collection. “But you may not get a chance at her. It’s been a good four minutes. Either she’s getting a full briefing from Miss Hart, or they’ve phoned for help, and in that case—”
The sound came of high heels clicking on the uncarpeted hall. I closed the second drawer and pulled the third one open, and was inspecting its contents when the clicks got to the door and were in the room. Shutting it in no hurry and turning to Bella Velardi, I was ready to meet a yelp of indignation, but didn’t have to. With her snappy black eyes and sassy little face she must have been perfectly capable of indignation, but her nerves were too busy with something else. She decided to pretend she hadn’t caught me with a drawer open, and that was screwy. Added to other things, it made it a cinch that these phone answerers had something on their minds.
Bella Velardi said in a scratchy little voice, “Miss Hart says you want to ask me something,” and went and sat on the edge of the unmade bed, with her fingers twisted together.
Wolfe regarded her with his eyes half closed. “Do you know what a hypothetical question is, Miss Velardi?”
“Of course I do.”
“I have one for you. If I put three expert investigators on the job of finding out approximately how much you have lost betting on horse races in the past year, how long do you think it would take them?”
“Why, I—” She blinked at him with a fine set of long lashes. “I don’t know.”
“I do. With luck, five hours. Without it, five days. It would be simpler for you to tell me. How much have you lost?”
She blinked again. “How do you know I’ve lost anything?”
“I don’t. But Mr. Goodwin, who is himself an expert investigator, concluded from publications he found on that table that you are a chronic bettor. If so, there’s a fair chance that you keep a record of your gains and losses.” He turned to me. “Archie, your search was interrupted. Resume. See if you can find it.” Back to her. “At his elbow if you like, Miss Velardi. There is no question of pilfering.”
I went to the smaller chest. He was certainly crowding his luck. If she took this without calling a cop she might not be a murderess, but she sure had a tender spot she didn’t want touched.
Actually she didn’t just sit and take it. As I got a drawer handle to pull it open she loosened her tongue. “Look, Mr. Wolfe, I’m perfectly willing to tell you anything you want to know. Perfectly!” She was leaning toward him, her fingers still twisted. “Miss Hart said I mustn’t be surprised at anything you asked, but I was, so I guess I was flustered. There’s no secret about my liking to bet on the races, but the amounts I bet—that’s different. You see, I have friends who—well, they don’t want people to know they bet, so they give me money to bet for them. So it’s about a hundred dollars a week, sometimes more, maybe up to two hundred.”
If she liked to bet on any animals other than horses, one would have got her ten that she was a damn liar. Evidently Wolfe would have split it with me, since he didn’t even bother to ask her the names of the friends.
He merely nodded. “What is your salary?”
“It’s only sixty-five, so of course I can’t bet much myself.”
“Of course. About the windows in that front room. In summer weather, when one of you is on duty there at night, are the windows open?”
She was concentrating. “When it’s hot, yes. Usually the one in the middle. If it’s very hot, maybe all of them.”
“With the shades up?”
“Yes.”
“It was hot July fifteenth. Were the windows open that night?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”
“Where were you?”
“I was out in Jersey, in a car with a friend—Alice Hart. To get cooled off. We got back after midnight.”
Wonderful, I thought. That settled that. One woman might conceivably lie, but surely not two.
Wolfe was eying her. “If the windows were open and the shades up the evening of July fifteenth, as they almost certainly were, would anyone in her senses have proceeded to kill Marie Willis so exposed to view? What do you think?”
She didn’t call him on the pronoun. “Why, no,” she conceded. “That would have been—no, I don’t think so.”
“Then she—or he—must have closed the windows and drawn the shades before proceeding. How could Leonard Ashe, in the circumstances as given, have managed that without alarming Miss Willis?”
“I don’t know. He might have—no, I don’t know.”
“He might have what?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“How well do you know Guy Unger?”
“I know him fairly well.”
She had been briefed all right. She was expecting that one.
“Have you seen much of him in the past two months?”
“No, very little.”
Wolfe reached in his pocket and got the snapshot and held it out. “When was this taken?”
She left the bed and was going to take it, but he held on to it. After a look she said, “Oh, that,” and sat down again. All of a sudden she exploded, indignation finally breaking through. “You took that from my drawer! What else did you take?” She sprang up, trembling all over. “Get out of here! Get out and stay out!”
Wolfe returned the snap to his pocket, arose, said, “Come, Archie, there seems to be a limit after all,” and started for the door. I followed.
He was at the sill when she dart
ed past me, grabbed his arm, and took it back. “Wait a minute, I didn’t mean that. I flare up like that. I just—I don’t care about the damn picture.”
Wolfe pulled loose and got a yard of space. “When was it taken?”
“About two weeks ago—two weeks ago Sunday.”
“Who is the other woman?”
“Helen Weltz.”
“Who took it?”
“A man that was with us.”
“His name?”
“His name is Ralph Ingalls.”
“Was Guy Unger Miss Weltz’s companion, or yours?”
“Why, we—we were just together.”
“Nonsense. Two men and two women are never just together. How were you paired?”
“Well—Guy and Helen, and Ralph and me.”
Wolfe sent a glance at the chair he had vacated and apparently decided it wasn’t worth the trouble of walking back to it. “Then since Miss Willis died Mr. Unger’s interest has centered on Miss Weltz?”
“I don’t know about ‘centered.’ They seem to like each other, as far as I know.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“At this office, since it opened a year ago. Before that I was at the Trafalgar office for two years.”
“When did Miss Willis tell you she was going to tell Robina Keane of her husband’s proposal?”
She had expected that one too. “That morning. That Thursday, the fifteenth of July.”
“Did you approve?”
“No, I didn’t. I thought she ought to just tell him no and forget it. I told her she was asking for trouble and she might get it. But she was so daddled on Robina Keane—” Bella shrugged. “Do you want to sit down?”
“No, thank you. Where is Miss Weltz?”
“This is her day off.”
“I know. Where can I find her?”
She opened her mouth and closed it. She opened it again. “I’m not sure. Wait a minute,” she said, and went clicking down the hall to the front. It was more like two minutes when she came clicking back and reported, “Miss Hart thinks she’s at a little place she rented for the summer up in Westchester. Do you want me to phone and find out?”
“Yes, if you would.”
Off she went, and we followed. In the front room the other three were at the boards. While Bella Velardi spoke to Miss Hart, and Miss Hart went to the phone at the desk and got a number and talked, Wolfe stood and frowned around, at the windows, the boards, the phone answerers, and me. When Miss Hart told him Helen Weltz was on the wire he went to the desk and took it.
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 27 Page 3
