Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (79 page)

“Do
you mean,” Mrs. Jerome demanded, “that we are under suspicion? That
I
and
my son
are
under suspicion?”

Purley
opened his mouth and shut it again. With that kind he always had trouble with
his impulses. He wanted to say, “You’re goddam right you are.” He did say, “I
mean we’re going to find that Santa Claus, and when we do we’ll see. If we can’t
see him for it we’ll have to look further, and we’ll expect all of you to help
us. I’m taking it for granted you’ll all want to help. Don’t you want to, Mrs.
Jerome?”

“I
would help if I could, but I know nothing about it. I only know that my very
dear friend is dead, and I don’t intend to be abused and threatened. What about
the poison?”

“You
know about it. You have been questioned about it.”

“I
know I have, but what about it?”

“It
must have been apparent from the questions. The medical examiner thinks it was
cyanide and expects the autopsy to verify it. Emil Hatch uses potassium cyanide
in his work with metals and plating, and there is a large jar of it on a
cupboard shelf in the workshop one floor below, and there is a stair from
Bottweill’s office to the workroom. Anyone who knew that, and who also knew
that Bottweill kept a case of Pernod in a cabinet in his office, and an open
bottle of it in a drawer of his desk, couldn’t have asked for a better setup.
Four of you have admitted knowing both of those things. Three of you—Mrs.
Jerome, Leo Jerome, and Archie Goodwin—admit they knew about the Pernod but
deny they knew about the potassium cyanide. That will—”

“That’s
not true! She did know about it!”

Mrs.
Perry Porter Jerome’s hand shot out across her son’s knees and slapped Cherry
Quon’s cheek or mouth or both. Her son grabbed her arm. Alfred Kiernan sprang
to his feet, and for a second I thought he was going to sock Mrs. Jerome, and
he did too, and possibly would have if Margot Dickey hadn’t jerked at his
coattail. Cherry put her hand to her face but, except for that, didn’t move.

“Sit
down,” Stebbins told Kiernan. “Take it easy. Miss Quon, you say that Mrs.
Jerome knew about the potassium cyanide?”

“Of
course she did.” Cherry’s chirp was pitched lower than normal, but it was still
a chirp. “In the workshop one day I heard Mr. Hatch telling her how he used it
and how careful he had to be.”

“Mr.
Hatch? Do you verify—”

“Nonsense,”
Mrs. Jerome snapped. “What if he did? Perhaps he did. I had forgotten all about
it. I told you I won’t tolerate this abuse!”

Purley
eyed her. “Look here, Mrs. Jerome. When we find that Santa Claus, if it was
someone who knew Bottweill and had a motive, that may settle it. If not, it won’t
help anyone to talk about abuse, and that includes you. So far as I know now,
only one of you has told us a lie. You. That’s on the record. I’m telling you,
and all of you, lies only make it harder for you, but sometimes they make it
easier for us. I’ll leave it at that for now. Mr. Kiernan and Mr. Hatch, these men”—he
aimed a thumb over his shoulder at two dicks standing back of him— “will take
you downtown. The rest of you can go, but remember what I said. Goodwin, I want
to see you.”

He had
already seen me, but I wouldn’t make a point of it. Kiernan, however, had a
point to make, and made it: he had to leave last so he could lock up. It was so
arranged. The three women, Leo Jerome, and Stebbins and I took the elevator
down, leaving the two dicks with Kiernan and Hatch. Down the sidewalk, as they
headed in different directions, I could see no sign of tails taking after them.
It was still snowing, a fine prospect for Christmas and the street cleaners.
There were two police cars at the curb, and Purley went to one and opened the
door and motioned to me to get in.

I
objected. “If I’m invited downtown too I’m willing to oblige, but I’m going to
eat first. I damn near starved to death there once.”

“You’re
not wanted downtown, not right now. Get in out of the snow.”

I did
so, and slid across under the wheel to make room for him. He needs room. He
joined me and pulled the door shut.

“If we’re
going to sit here,” I suggested, “we might as well be rolling. Don’t bother to
cross town, just drop me at Thirty-fifth.”

He
objected. “I don’t like to drive and talk. Or listen. What were you doing there
today?”

“I’ve
told you. Having fun. Three kinds of champagne. Miss Dickey invited me.”

“I’m
giving you another chance. You were the only outsider there. Why? You’re
nothing special to Miss Dickey. She was going to marry Bottweill. Why?”

“Ask
her.”

“We
have asked her. She says there was no particular reason, she knew Bottweill
liked you, and they’ve regarded you as one of them since you found some
tapestries for them. She stuttered around about it. What I say, any time I find
you anywhere near a murder, I want to know. I’m giving you another chance.”

So she
hadn’t mentioned the marriage license. Good for her. I would rather have eaten
all the snow that had fallen since noon than explain that damn license to
Sergeant Stebbins or Inspector Cramer. That was why I had gone through the
wastebasket. “Thanks for the chance,” I told him, “but I can’t use it. I’ve
told you everything I saw and heard there today.” That put me in a class with
Mrs. Jerome, since I had left out my little talk with Margot. “I’ve told you
all I know about those people. Lay off and go find your murderer.”

“
I know you,
Goodwin.”

“Yeah,
you’ve even called me Archie. I treasure that memory.”

“I
know you.” His head was turned on his bull neck, and our eyes were meeting. “Do
you expect me to believe that guy got out of that room and away without you
knowing it?”

“Nuts.
I was kneeling on the floor, watching a man die, and they were around us.
Anyway, you’re just talking to hear yourself. You don’t think I was accessory
to the murder or to the murderer’s escape.”

“I
didn’t say I did. Even if he was wearing gloves—and what for if not to leave no
prints?—I don’t say he was the murderer. But if you knew who he was and didn’t
want him involved in it and let him get away, and if you let us wear out our
ankles looking for him, what about that?”

“That
would be bad. If I asked my advice I would be against it.”

“Goddam
it,” he barked, “do you know who he is?”

“No.”

“Did
you or Wolfe have anything to do with getting him there?”

“No.”

“All
right, pile out. They’ll be wanting you downtown.”

“I
hope not tonight. I’m tired.” I opened the door. “You have my address.” I
stepped out into the snow, and he started the engine and rolled off.

It
should have been a good hour for an empty taxi, but in a Christmas-season
snowstorm it took me ten minutes to find one. When it pulled up in front of the
old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street it was eight minutes to eight.

As
usual in my absence, the chain-bolt was on, and I had to ring for Fritz to let
me in. I asked him if Wolfe was back, and he said yes, he was at dinner. As I
put my hat on the shelf and my coat on a hanger I asked if there was any left
for me, and he said plenty, and moved aside for me to precede him down the hall
to the door of the dining room. Fritz has fine manners.

Wolfe,
in his oversized chair at the end of the table, told me good evening, not
snapping or barking. I returned it, got seated at my place, picked up my
napkin, and apologized for being late. Fritz came, from the kitchen, with a
warm plate, a platter of braised boned ducklings, and a dish of potatoes baked
with mushrooms and cheese. I took enough. Wolfe asked if it was still snowing
and I said yes. After a good mouthful had been disposed of, I spoke.

“As
you know, I approve of your rule not to discuss business during a meal, but I’ve
got something on my chest and it’s not business. It’s personal.”

He
grunted. “The death of Mr. Bottweill was reported on the radio at seven o’clock.
You were there.”

“Yeah.
I was there. I was kneeling by him while he died.” I replenished my mouth. Damn
the radio. I hadn’t intended to mention the murder until I had dealt with the
main issue from my standpoint. When there was room enough for my tongue to work
I went on, “I’ll report on that in full if you want it, but I doubt if there’s
a job in it. Mrs. Perry Porter Jerome is the only suspect with enough jack to
pay your fee, and she has already notified Purley Stebbins that she won’t be
abused. Besides, when they find Santa Claus that may settle it. What I want to
report on happened before Bottweill died. That marriage license I showed you is
for the birds. Miss Dickey has called it off. I am out two bucks. She told me
she had decided to marry Bottweill.”

He was
sopping a crust in the sauce on his plate. “Indeed,” he said.

“Yes,
sir. It was a jolt, but I would have recovered, in time. Then ten minutes later
Bottweill was dead. Where does that leave me? Sitting around up there through
the routine, I considered it. Perhaps I could get her back now, but no thank
you. That license has been destroyed. I get another one, another two bucks, and
then she tells me she has decided to marry Joe Doakes. I’m going to forget her.
I’m going to blot her out.”

I
resumed on the duckling. Wolfe was busy chewing. When he could he said, “For
me, of course, this is satisfactory.”

“I
know it is. Do you want to hear about Bottweill?”

“After
dinner.”

“Okay.
How did you make out with Thompson?”

But
that didn’t appeal to him as a dinner topic either. In fact, nothing did.
Usually he likes table talk, about anything from refrigerators to Republicans,
but apparently the trip to Long Island and back, with all its dangers, had
tired him out. It suited me all right, since I had had a noisy afternoon too
and could stand a little silence. When we had both done well with the duckling
and potatoes and salad and baked pears and cheese and coffee, he pushed back
his chair.

“There’s
a book,” he said, “that I want to look at. It’s up in your room—
Here
and Now,
by Herbert
Block. Will you bring it down, please?”

Though
it meant climbing two flights with a full stomach, I was glad to oblige, out of
appreciation for his calm acceptance of my announcement of my shattered hopes.
He could have been very vocal. So I mounted the stairs cheerfully, went to my
room, and crossed to the shelves where I keep a few books. There were only a
couple of dozen of them, and I knew where each one was, but
Here and Now
wasn’t there.
Where it should have been was a gap. I looked around, saw a book on the
dresser, and stepped to it. It was
Here and Now,
and lying on top of it was a pair of white cotton gloves.

I
gawked.

I
would like to say that I caught on immediately, the second I spotted them, but
I didn’t. I had picked them up and looked them over, and put one of them on and
taken it off again, before I fully realized that there was only one possible
explanation. Having realized it, instantly there was a traffic jam inside my
skull, horns blowing, brakes squealing, head-on collisions. To deal with it I
went to a chair and sat. It took me maybe a minute to reach my first clear
conclusion.

He had
taken this method of telling me he was Santa Claus, instead of just telling me,
because he wanted me to think it over on my own before we talked it over
together.

Why
did he want me to think it over on my own? That took a little longer, but with
the traffic under control I found my way through to the only acceptable answer.
He had decided to give up his trip to see Thompson, and instead to arrange with
Bottweill to attend the Christmas party disguised as Santa Claus, because the
idea of a woman living in his house— or of the only alternative, my leaving—had
made him absolutely desperate, and he had to see for himself. He had to see
Margot and me together, and to talk with her if possible. If he found out that
the marriage license was a hoax he would have me by the tail; he could tell me
he would be delighted to welcome my bride and watch me wriggle out. If he found
that I really meant it he would know what he was up against and go on from
there. The point was this, that he had shown what he really thought of me. He
had shown that rather than lose me he would do something that he wouldn’t have
done for any fee anybody could name. He would rather have gone without beer for
a week than admit it, but now he was a fugitive from justice in a murder case
and needed me. So he had to let me know, but he wanted it understood that that
aspect of the matter was not to be mentioned. The assumption would be that he
had gone to Bottweill’s instead of Long Island because he loved to dress up
like Santa Claus and tend bar.