I was beginning to suspect that the conference I had crashed had not been about the price of towels. Of the four Brucker had named besides himself, three were present—all but Helmar. That proved nothing against any or all of them, but I wished I had a recording of their conversation before I entered. Not that I wasn’t doing all right, considering. I focused on the only one still nameless, and the only one of the five who could have been regarded as worthy of attention on other grounds than her possible connection with the murder of Priscilla Eads. As for age, she could have been Bernard Quest’s granddaughter. As for structure, she could have been improved upon—who couldn’t?—but no part of her called for a motion to reconsider. A tendency of Brucker’s head to twist toward his right, where she sat, had not been unnoticed by me. I asked her for her name.
“Daphne O’Neil,” she said. “But I don’t think I belong in your little book, Mr Detective, because I wasn’t in Mr Eads’ will. I was just a good little girl when he died, and I only started to work for Softdown four years ago. Now I’m the Softdown stylist.”
The way she produced words it wasn’t exactly baby talk, but it gave you the feeling that in four seconds it would be. Also she called me Mr Detective, which settled it that a Softdown stylist should be seen and not heard.
“Perhaps you should know,” Viola Duday volunteered in her clear, pleasant voice, “that if Miss Eads had lived until next Monday and controlled the business, Miss O’Neil would soon have been looking for another connection. Miss Eads did not appreciate Miss O’Neil’s talents. You may think it generous of Miss O’Neil not to want you to waste space on her in your little book, but—”
“Is this necessary, Vi?” Bernard Quest asked sharply.
“I think so.” She was pleasantly firm about it. “Being an intelligent woman, Bernie, I’m more realistic than any man, even you. No one is going to be able to hide anything, so why not shorten the agony? They’ll dig up everything. That for ten years before Nate Eads died you tried to get him to give you a third interest in the business, and he refused. That Ollie here”—she glanced, not with animosity, at Oliver Pitkin—“beneath his mask of modest and stubborn efficiency, is fiercely anti-feminist and hates to see a woman own or run anything.”
“My dear Viola,” Pitkin began in a shocked tone, but she overspoke him.
“That my ambition and appetite for power are so strong that you four men, much as you fear and distrust one another, fear and distrust me more, and you knew that when Priscilla was in control I would have top authority. They’ll learn that this Daphne O’Neil—my God, what a name for her, Daphne—”
“It means ‘laurel tree,’” Daphne said to be helpful.
“I know it does. That she was playing Perry Helmar and Jay against each other, and with June thirtieth approaching she was getting desperate and so were they. That Jay—”
What stopped her was Daphne suddenly reaching across in front of Pitkin and slapping her on the mouth. It was a remarkably swift and accurate performance, giving Viola Duday no time to duck or block. Miss Duday raised a hand as if to counter, but merely covered her mouth with it, recoiling.
“You asked for it, Vi,” Quest told her. “And if you’re counting on Ollie and me being with you, and I think you are, this is a big mistake.”
“I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time,” said Daphne, more like baby talk than before. “I’ll do it again.”
I was perfectly willing to sit and wait for Miss Duday to start up where she had left off, or for someone else to start something, but apparently that script was finished, so I spoke.
“Miss Duday is absolutely right,” I told them. “I don’t mean that what she said is right—that I don’t know about—but she was right in saying that if you try to hold out and cover up you’ll just prolong the agony. It’ll all come out, don’t think it won’t, the bad with the good, and the quicker the better.” I looked at the president. “It wouldn’t hurt a bit, Mr Brucker, if you followed Miss Duday’s example. Where does everybody stand, the way you see it? For instance, this conference you were having. Whose idea was it? What were you talking about? What were you saying?”
Brucker, his head tilted back, was regarding me down his long, thin nose. “We were saying,” he stated, “that we would have to accept the fact that the manner of Miss Eads’ death, especially at this time, created an extremely unpleasant situation for all of us. I had spoken to Mr Quest about it, and we had decided to discuss it with Miss Duday and Mr Pitkin. I had already spoken with Miss O’Neil and thought she should be present. We agreed that it was unthinkable that any of us, or any other member of the Softdown staff who will now come into possession of Softdown stock, could possibly have been involved in the murder of Miss Eads. We—”
“Miss Duday agreed to that?”
She answered me. “Certainly. If you thought, young man, that I was suggesting motives for murder acceptable to me, you misunderstood. I was merely giving you facts which will seem to you to be acceptable motives for murder. You were sure to discover them, and I was saving time.”
“I see. What else were you saying, Mr Brucker?”
“We were considering what to do. Specifically, we were considering whether we should arrange at once to get legal advice, and if so whether our corporation counsel would do, or would it be better to have special counsel for this. Also we were discussing the murder itself. We agreed that we knew of no one with a reason for killing Miss Eads and capable of such a crime. We spoke of the letter received recently from Eric Hagh, Miss Eads’ former husband, by Perry Helmar—you know about that?”
“Yes, from Helmar. Claiming that he had a document that entitled him to half of her property.”
“That’s right. The letter was sent from Venezuela, but he could have come to New York by ship or plane—or he didn’t even have to come; he could have hired someone to kill her.”
“I see. Why?”
“We don’t know why. I don’t know. We were only trying to find some plausible explanation of the murder.”
I insisted. “Yeah, but how could you figure Eric Hagh? If she had lived a week longer he would still have his document and she would have a lot more property for him to claim half of.”
“One possibility,” Viola Duday suggested, “would be that she had denied that she had signed the document, or he thought she was going to, and he was afraid he would get nothing at all.”
“But she had stated that she had signed the document.”
“Had she? To whom?”
I couldn’t very well say to Nero Wolfe and me, so I went official on her. “I’m asking the questions, Miss Duday. As I said, this is only preliminary, so I’ll cover the rest of you on the routine.” I focused on Daphne. “Miss O’Neil, how did you spend your time last night between ten-thirty and two o’clock? You understand that—”
There was the sound of a door opening behind me, the one by which I had entered, and I turned my head to see. Three men were filing in, one of whom, the one in front, I knew only too well. Seeing me, he stopped, gawked, and said right from his heart, “Well, by God!”
There has never been a time when the sight of Lieutenant Rowcliff of Manhattan Homicide has done me good. Circumstances under which the sight of Rowcliff would do me good are not remotely imaginable. But if I had been keeping a list of the moments for him not to appear, that one would have been at the top, and there he was. “You’re under arrest,” he said, nearly choking on it.
I controlled the impulse I always have when he comes in view, and which I will not describe. “In writing?” I inquired.
“I don’t need any writing. I’m taking—” He checked himself, advanced to my elbow, and looked at the Softdown quintet. “Which one of you is Jay L. Brucker?”
“I am.”
“I’m Lieutenant George Rowcliff of the Police Department. Downstairs this man said he was a policeman. Did he—”
“Isn’t he?” Brucker demanded.
“No. Did he—”
“We’re a pack of fools,” Miss Duday snapped. “He’s a reporter!”
Rowcliff raised his voice a notch. “He’s no reporter. His name is Archie Goodwin, and he’s the confidential assistant of Nero Wolfe, the private detective. Did he say he was a policeman?”
Three of them said yes. He shifted his fishy popeyes to me. “I’m taking you in the act of impersonating an officer of the law, which is a felony and justifies severity. Handcuff him and search him, Doyle.”