He put the letter down, looked up, regarded me for half a minute, and asked, “How did you pry it out of him?”
“Out of who?”
“Mr. Cramer, of course.”
I stared. “To see the street from up there you have to stick your head way out.”
“I never have. But he would certainly come, and soon, and who else could supply such a particular? How did you pry it out of him?”
“All right, I’ll report.” I did so, starting with Jill Hardy. Sometimes, reporting a conversation, it’s essential to give it verbatim, but even when it isn’t I do it anyway because that’s how I have trained and it’s easier. As usual, he leaned back with his eyes closed. I went right on through, from Jill Hardy on to Cramer, since there had been no break, just a change of cast. When I finished he opened his eyes halfway, closed them again, and muttered, “Nothing.”
“Right,” I agreed. “As for her, if she’s a liar she’s pretty good. Orrie certainly thinks she knows nothing about Isabel Kerr, and if she does it would take a lot of digging to prove it. If she doesn’t she’s crossed off completely and is absolutely useless. As for Cramer, he probably has got a diary, but so what, we knew he had something hot, and I doubt if it says at the end, ‘He is reaching for the ashtray and is going to hit me with it,’ which is the point. Cramer may have needed a diary to tell him that it would be handy for Orrie if she died, but we don’t, we already knew it. What we need is somebody else it is handy for. It is for Jill Hardy, in a way, but I doubt if she knew it. As you say, nothing.”
He opened his eyes. “You think Orrie killed her.”
“No. I have looked over Saul’s point, from all angles, and I like it. At the very least it packs a reasonable doubt, which is enough for a jury, so it will do for me. Anyhow, we’re now on record. With Cramer. If it turns out that Orrie did it I’ll never forgive him. I’ll cop his girl. She already thinks I look like him.”
He grunted. “Now what? Who?”
“I suppose the sister. Or Avery Ballou.”
“We would have to discuss Mr. Ballou. The sister first.” He straightened up and reached for Invitation to an Inquest.
Chapter 5
There was a Barry Fleming in the Bronx phone book – address, 2938 Humboldt Avenue. Of course I didn’t dial the number. According to the Times, she wasn’t talking to reporters, and naturally she would think I was trying a dodge. I consulted the Bronx street guide to locate Humboldt Avenue, then grinned to myself as my hand went automatically to a pocket for my keyfold. Because of a regrettable occurrence some years back, I had made it a hard and fast rule never to go on an errand connected with a murder without a gun, and the rules you make yourself are the hardest to break, but there’s a limit. Sororicide is by no means unheard of, but to suppose that Stella Fleming might have killed her sister, and therefore anyone who got in her reach should be ready to shoot, would be overdoing it, at least until I had a look at her. I returned the keyfold to my pocket, told Wolfe not to expect me for lunch, and left. After descending the stoop to the sidewalk I turned up my collar, even for the short stretch around the corner to the garage. Instead of a January thaw we were having a good long freeze, and the wind was doing its best to help.
It was twenty past twelve when I left the Heron in a parking lot and walked a block and a half to Number 2938, which was a regulation ten-story brick hive, to be found in all five boroughs, but especially the Bronx. Of course it might not be the right Barry Fleming, but I would soon find out. The tiled floor of the lobby had a rubber runner, no rugs. There was no doorman, but the elevator man was there, a pasty-faced bozo in a uniform that was past due for the cleaner and presser, leaning against the wall. I advanced and said, “Fleming, please.”
He shook his head and said, “There’s nobody there.”
“I know,” I said, “that Mrs. Fleming isn’t receiving any strangers, but I’m not a newspaperman. I want to discuss a personal matter with her, and I’m sure she would want to.” In his case, the face was the index of the mind. He wasn’t impressed and wasn’t going to be. The only question was how much. I removed my gloves, got out my case and extracted a card, got out my wallet and extracted a finif, and said, “On the level. Do you want to see my license? Take me up, and if she doesn’t let me in I’ll double this.”
He took the card and looked it over, took the bill and stuck it in a pocket, and said, “On the level, there’s nobody there. She went out around ten o’clock.”
He deserved a good poke, but it wouldn’t have been tactful. I merely asked, “Do you know where she went?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No, I don’t.”
I gave him a friendly smile. “That’s not fifty cents’ worth, let alone five bucks’.” I got my wallet again and took out a ten. “What floor is she on?”
“Seven. Seven D.”
“I need to see her, and she needs to see me. Take me up, and I’ll wait there. You have my card. If you want to, get an inkpad and take my fingerprints.”
He surprised me. He had a heart in him somewhere. He actually said, “She might be gone all day, and there’s no place to sit.”
“There’s always the floor.”
He gave me his eyes, looked straight at me for the first time. “No funny business, mister. The doors have got pretty good locks.”
“I don’t know anything about locks. There’s nothing there for me until she comes.” I went to the elevator and pressed my fingertips, all ten, against the metal frame, at eye level. “There. You’ve got me.” I offered the sawbuck. He took it, followed me into the elevator, shut the door, and pushed the handle.
There are a lot of interesting things to do while you’re waiting in an upper hall of an apartment house for four hours and twenty minutes. You can count spots and decide which has more, the left wall or the right wall. You can try to sort out smells and decide how many different flavors there are in the overall effect. You can listen to the wails coming through the door of 7B and decide whether the little lamb is male or female and how old it is, and what steps you would take if you were inside. When people arrive or leave you can look straight at them and notice which ones look back and which ones pretend they haven’t seen you. When a hefty, broad-shouldered woman turns after inserting a key into the lock of 7C and asks, “Are you waiting for someone?” you can say pleasantly and distinctly, “Yes,” and see how she reacts. On the whole, it was time well spent. My one regret was that I hadn’t brought along a chocolate bar, five or six bananas, and a quart of milk.
I admit I frequently glanced at my watch. It was ten minutes to five when the elevator door opened and a man emerged. When he kept coming down the hall I assumed he was headed for E or F, but he stopped to face me and spoke.
“I understand you’re waiting for my wife.”
Of course I had to concede it. “Yes, sir, I am, if you’re Barry Fleming.”
“She won’t see you. You’re wasting your time. She won’t see anybody.”
I nodded. “I know, but I think she’ll see me if she lets me explain why.”
I sent a hand to my pocket for the case, but before I had a card out he said, “I know who you are. I should say, I have seen the card you gave the elevator man. Are you Archie Goodwin?”
“I am. In person. Look, Mr. Fleming, why not leave it to her? When she comes I’ll tell her what I want to talk about, and it will be up to her. I won’t insist, I’ll just ask her.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
I would have preferred to tell her, but a husband is a husband. “About a man,” I said. “His name is Orrie Cather, and the police think he killed Isabel Kerr. He has worked off and on for Nero Wolfe, and Mr. Wolfe and I know him very well, and we don’t think he did. You know I work for Nero Wolfe?”