And got a surprise. It was Julia McGee on the stoop, but she wasn’t alone. I stepped back in the office and told Wolfe Aiken was with her. He scowled at me, pursed his lips, and nodded, and I went and opened the door and they entered. For a president Aiken was polite. She was only the ex-secretary of his ex-executive vice-president, but he let her precede him in, down the hall, and into the office. Wolfe stood until they were seated, him in the red leather chair and her in the one Fred had vacated.
Aiken spoke. “You sent for Miss McGee. If there has been a development, you should have notified me. I have had no word from you. If you have something to say to Miss McGee, I want to hear it.”
Wolfe was regarding him. “I told you Tuesday night, Mr. Aiken, that it may be that the less you know of the particulars of my performance the better. But it can’t hurt for you to know about this; I would almost certainly have informed you of it before the day was out. Indeed, it is just as well to have you present.” His head turned. “Fred?”
Fred got up and came to the corner of Wolfe’s desk. “Look at Miss McGee,” Wolfe told him. Fred turned for a glance at her and turned back.
“I don’t need to,” he said.
“You recognize her?”
“Sure. I ought to; she gave me this.” He pointed to his cheek.
“That was Tuesday evening. Had you seen her before that?”
“Yes, sir. I saw her Sunday evening when I was covering that house on Eighty-second Street. I saw her enter the house. At the basement door.”
“Did you see her leave?”
“No, sir. She could have left while I was at the corner, phoning in. I phoned in every hour, as instructed. Or after I left for the night.”
“Did you tell Archie, Tuesday evening, that you had seen her before?”
“No, sir. She came at me the second she saw me Tuesday evening, and it was a tangle. After Archie took her away I got to thinking. It was her I saw Sunday. I should have told you, but I knew what it would mean. It would make me a witness in a murder case, and you know how that is. But this morning I decided I’d have to. You were paying me and you were counting on me. So I came and told you.”
“How sure are you that you saw Miss McGee, the woman sitting there, enter that house Sunday evening?”
“I’m dead sure. I wouldn’t have come and told you if I wasn’t. I know what I’m in for now.”
“You deserve it. You had vital information, obtained while you were on an assignment from me, and you withheld it for thirty-six hours. I’ll deal with that later. Go to the front room and stay there.”
As Fred crossed to the door to the front room no eyes but Wolfe’s followed him. Aiken’s and mine were on Julia McGee. Hers were on a spot in the pattern of the rug, in front of her feet.
When the door had closed behind Fred, Wolfe spoke. “Miss McGee. Why did you kill him?”
“Don’t answer,” Aiken commanded her. He turned to Wolfe. “You’re working for me. As you put it yourself, you are to make every effort to protect the reputation and interests of the corporation. What’s that man’s name?”
“Fred Durkin.”
“Why did you have him watching that house Sunday evening?”
“On behalf of a client. In confidence.”
“You have too many clients. You didn’t mention it Tuesday evening. You said you had no engagement.”
“We were discussing the murder of Yeager, and I had no engagement to investigate that. I’m humoring you, Mr. Aiken. My other engagements are no concern of yours if there is no conflict of interest. Why did you kill Yeager, Miss McGee?”
Aiken jerked his head to tell her not to answer, and jerked it back to Wolfe. “That’s just a trick. Granting that Durkin saw her enter that house Sunday evening, that doesn’t prove she killed Yeager. He may not have been there. Did Durkin see him enter?”
“No. But someone else did. Mr. and Mrs. Cesar Perez. The janitor and his wife. I would advise you not to approach them. They are bereaved. Their daughter died last night. Since you don’t want Yeager’s connection with that house disclosed, you had better leave them to Mr. Goodwin and me.”
“What time did Yeager enter? Before Miss McGee or after?”
“Before. He arrived around seven o’clock. I am humoring you, sir.”
“I don’t appreciate it. Granting that Durkin saw Miss McGee enter, he didn’t see her leave. Are you accusing her of killing Yeager there in that house and carrying his body out to the street and dumping it in the hole?”
“No. I’m not accusing her; I am confronting her with a fact.” Wolfe cocked his head. “Mr. Aiken. I’m not turning our association into a conflict instead of a concert; you are. I told you Tuesday evening that the only feasible way to try to protect the reputation and interests of your corporation with any hope of success would be to stop the police investigation of the murder by reaching an acceptable solution of it without involving that room. I dare contrive such a solution and offer it only if I know what actually happened. It is established that Yeager entered that room around seven o’clock that evening, and it is a reasonable assumption that he was still there when Miss McGee arrived. You say my asking her why she killed him was a trick; certainly it was, and an ancient one; the Greeks used it two thousand years ago, and others long before. I’ll withdraw that question and try another.” He turned. “Miss McGee. Was Mr. Yeager in that room when you entered it Sunday evening?”
She had finished studying the pattern of the rug some time back. Now her eyes left Wolfe to go to Aiken, and his met them. She said nothing, but he did. “All right, answer it.”
She looked at Wolfe, straight. “Yes, he was there. His body was. He was dead.”
“Where was the body?”
“On the floor. On the carpet.”
“Did you touch it? Move it?”
“I only touched his hair, where the hole was. He was on his side with his mouth open.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. I sat on a chair a few minutes and then left.”
“Exactly what time did you leave?”
“I don’t know exactly. It must have been about half past nine. It was a quarter past when I got there.”
“Yeager expected you at a quarter past nine?”
“No, at nine o’clock, but I was fifteen minutes late.”
“You went to take dictation?”
“Yes.”
“At nine o’clock Sunday evening?”
“Yes.”
Wolfe grunted. “I think I’ll ignore that, Miss McGee. It’s a waste of time to challenge lies that are immaterial. It would be pointless to poke the fact at you that Mr. Yeager had arranged for the delivery of caviar and pheasant at midnight. Was there any indication that there had been a struggle?”
“No.”
“Did you see a gun?”
“No.”
“Did you take anything from the room when you left?”
“No.”
“Have you ever owned a gun?”
“No.”
“Or borrowed one?”
“No.”
“Have you ever shot one?”
“No.”
“Where did you go when you left the house?”
“I went home. My apartment. On Arbor Street.”
“Did you tell anyone of your experience?”
“No. Of course not.”
“You didn’t tell Mr. Aiken?”
“No.”
“Then he didn’t know until now that you were there Sunday evening?”
“No. Nobody knew.”
“Do you know what a hypothetical question is?”
“Certainly.”
“I submit one. You said Tuesday evening that you decided your loyalty should be to the corporation, not to Mr. Yeager, so you betrayed him. Then if—”
“I didn’t betray him. I only thought Mr. Aiken should know.”
Wolfe swiveled to the Webster’s Unabridged on its stand, opened it, and found t
he page. “Betray, verb, Definition Two: ‘To prove faithless or treacherous to, as to a trust or one who trusts.’ ” He closed the dictionary and wheeled back. “Surely Yeager trusted you not to tell about that room, but you did. Then if—this is the hypothesis—if you went there Sunday evening, not to take dictation, but to participate in activities congenial to that décor, what am I to assume regarding your disposition at that time toward Mr. Yeager and Mr. Aiken? Had you reconsidered and decided your loyalty was to Mr. Yeager?”
It didn’t faze her. She didn’t chew on it. “My disposition had nothing to do with it. Mr. Yeager asked me to go there to take dictation, and I went.” She was darned good. If I hadn’t seen that bower I might have had a sliver of doubt myself. She went on. “That trick question you asked me, why I killed him, I want to ask you, why would I kill him? Would I go there to take dictation and take a gun to shoot him?”
Wolfe’s shoulders went up a fraction of an inch, and down. “I said I’d ignore your purpose in going there, and I shouldn’t have brought it up again. It’s futile. If you had a reason for killing him, I won’t learn it from you. I doubt if I’ll learn anything from you. You say you went there, found him dead, and left.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, and pushed his lips out. In a moment he pulled them in. Out again, in again. Out and in, out and in.
Aiken spoke. “I have things to ask Miss McGee myself, but they can wait. You have only made it worse, bringing it out that he was killed in that room. I don’t think she killed him, and I don’t think you do. What are you going to do now?”
No reply. Wolfe was still working his lips. “He didn’t hear you,” I told Aiken. “When he’s doing that he doesn’t hear anything or anybody. We’re not here.”
Aiken stared at him. He transferred the stare to Miss McGee. She didn’t meet it.
Wolfe opened his eyes and straightened up. “Miss McGee. Give me the keys. To the door of that house and the elevator.”
“Did you hear what I said?” Aiken demanded.
“No. The keys, Miss McGee.”
“I said you’ve made it worse!” Aiken hit the chair arm with a fist. “Yeager dead in that room! She didn’t kill him, she had no reason to, but what if she did? Do you call this protecting the interests of my corporation?”
Wolfe ignored him. “The keys, Miss McGee. You have no further use for them, and you’re hardly in a position to balk. You have them?”
She opened her bag, the one I had opened Tuesday evening while she was on the floor wrapped in the coverlet, and took out the key fold. I went and got it, looked at the two keys, and handed it to Wolfe. He put it in a drawer, turned to Aiken, and inquired, “How the deuce did you get to head a large and successful corporation?”
The president goggled at him, speechless. Wolfe went on. “You spout and sputter. You say I have made it worse. In your business, do you blame subordinates when they expose problems not of their making which must be solved if the business is to prosper? If I hadn’t resorted to humbug we wouldn’t know that Yeager was killed in that room, whether by Miss McGee or another, and I might have blundered fatally. I pried it out of her by a ruse. I had cause to suspect she was there Sunday evening, but nothing that could be used as a lever on her, so I fabricated one. I had no client Sunday evening; Mr. Durkin was not posted at that house; he wasn’t there to see her enter. But now that I know she did enter, and that Yeager was killed there—”
“You tricky bastard!” Aiken was on his feet. “Where’s that paper I signed? I want it!”
“Nonsense.” Wolfe didn’t bother to tilt his head to look up at him. Conservation of energy. “Sit down. You hired me, but you can’t fire me. I was already on slippery ground, withholding information; now that I know Yeager was killed in that room and his body was seen there I am not merely vulnerable, I am gravely compromised. You are in no personal jeopardy, but I am. If I had my share of prudence I would be at my telephone now, speaking to Mr. Cramer of the police. What are you risking? The repute of your confounded corporation. Pfui. Sit down and tell me where you were last evening from nine o’clock to midnight.”
Aiken stood, glaring. His jaw was working, and a cord at the side of his neck was twitching. “It’s none of your damned business where I was last evening,” he said through his teeth. “I warn you, Wolfe, you’re playing a dangerous game. You lie when you say Durkin wasn’t at that house Sunday. How else did you know Miss McGee was there? You never have told me how you found out about that room. And you had keys. Did Durkin go up after Miss McGee left and find Yeager’s body and take it out and dump it in that hole? I think he did. And now you’re blackmailing me and my corporation, that’s what it amounts to. All right, you had the handle Tuesday evening and you still have it, but I warn you.”
“Thank you,” Wolfe said politely. His head turned. “Miss McGee, where were you last evening from nine o’clock to midnight?”
“Don’t answer him,” Aiken commanded her. “Don’t answer anything. We’re going. You can answer me, but not here. Come on.”
She looked at him, at Wolfe, and back at him. “But Mr. Aiken, I have to! I have to answer that. I told you, I thought that was what he wanted to see me about—that girl, Maria Perez.” She didn’t pronounce either “Maria” or “Perez” the way they did. “That’s why he wants to know where I was last evening.” She turned to Wolfe. “I never saw that girl. I never heard of her until I read the paper today. I didn’t kill Mr. Yeager and I didn’t kill her. I don’t know anything about her. Last evening I had dinner with friends and I was there all evening, with them and other people, until after midnight. Their name is Quinn and they live at Ninety-eight West Eleventh Street. I had to tell him that, Mr. Aiken. It’s bad enough for me without—I had to.”
He was focused on Wolfe. “What about the girl?” he demanded.
Wolfe shook his head. “Since I lie, why bother to ask?”
That was the note it ended on. Plenty of times clients have left that office boiling or sore or sulky, but I have never seen one quite as peevish as Aiken. Not, I must admit, without reason. As he said, Wolfe had the handle, and a president is used to having the handle himself. Leaving with Julia McGee, he forgot his manners, leading the way out of the office and down the hall to the door, and when I reached to get his homburg from the rack he snatched it from my hand. Miss McGee was in for a bad half-hour. I returned to the office and told Wolfe, “It’s a good thing presidents don’t sign corporation checks. He’d get palsy signing one made out to you. If.”
He grunted. “If indeed. You realize that we have never been so close to catastrophe. And ignominy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is imperative that we find the murderer before Mr. Cramer finds that room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will Mr. and Mrs. Perez hold out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Fritz to set a place at lunch for Fred. Then get Saul and Orrie. Here at two-thirty. If they have other commitments I’ll speak to them. I must have them this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.” I moved.
“Wait. That woman, Meg Duncan—presumably she was at the theater last evening?”
“Presumably. I can find out.”
“Until when?”
“The play ends about ten to eleven; then she had to change. If she made a date with Maria Perez for eleven-thirty she could have kept it without rushing. Have I missed something?”
“No. We must cover contingencies. Instructions after you get Saul and Orrie.”
I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz.
Chapter 13
May I introduce Mr. Saul Panzer and Mr. Orrie Cather? Mr. Panzer is the one in the red leather chair. Looking at him—his big nose, his little deepset eyes, his hair that won’t stay in place—you will suppose that he isn’t much. Hundreds of people who had supposed that have regretted it. A good operative has to be good in a dozen different ways, and in all of them Saul is the best. Mr. Cather, in the yellow chair to Saul’s left, might fool y
ou too. He is fully as handsome as he looks, but not quite as smart as he looks, though he might be if his ego didn’t get in the way. If a man is to be judged by a single act and you have a choice, the one to pick is how he looks at himself in a mirror, and I have seen Orrie do that. You have met Mr. Fred Durkin, in the chair next to Orrie’s.
Wolfe and Fred and I had just come from the dining room to join Saul and Orrie in the office. During lunch I had been wondering what Wolfe had on the program for them, considering the instructions he had given me. With me it had got to the point where earning a fee was only secondary; the main question was how we were going to wriggle down off the limb we were out on; and while I fully appreciated the talents and abilities of those three men, I couldn’t guess how they were going to be used to find an answer to that. So I wanted to hear that briefing, but as I went to my chair and whirled it around Wolfe spoke.
“We won’t need you, Archie. You have your instructions.”
I sat. “Maybe I can supply details.”
“No. You had better get started.”
I got up and went. There were several pointed remarks I could have made, for instance that I had a right to know what the chances were that I would sleep in my bed that night, but it might not fit his script, granting that he had one, for Saul and Fred and Orrie to know how bad it was. So I went, spry and jaunty until I was in the hall out of sight.
I had a date with an actress, made on the phone, but not for a specified minute—any time between three and four. It was five after three when I entered the lobby of the Balfour on Madison Avenue in the Sixties, gave the hallman my name, and said Miss Meg Duncan was expecting me. He gave me a knowing look and inquired, “How’s the fat man?” I said, “Turn around. I’m not much good at faces, but I remember backs.” He said, “You wouldn’t remember mine. I used to hop at the Churchill. Has Miss Duncan lost something?”
“Questions answered while I wait,” I told him. “Mr. Wolfe is just fine, thanks. Miss Duncan can’t find her solid gold knuckle-duster and thinks you took it.”
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