His two colleagues came toward me. I thrust my hands deep in my pants pocket, slumped, and slid forward in my chair, so that more than half of me was beneath the table. To frisk and cuff a 180-pound man relaxed in that position takes a determined attitude and plenty of muscle, and I was sure that the colleagues would halt at least to take a breath.
“You may remember,” I told Rowcliff, “that on April third, nineteen forty-nine, by order of Commissioner Skinner, you signed a written apology to Mr Wolfe and me. This one will be only to me, if I decide to accept one instead of hanging it on you.”
“I’m taking you in the act.”
“You are not. These people are nervous. Both downstairs and up here I identified myself with just two words, my name and the word ‘detective,’ and I showed my license, which no one took the trouble to examine. I didn’t say I was a policeman. I am a detective, and I said so. I asked questions, and they answered. Apologize now and get it over with.”
“What were you asking questions about?”
“Matters connected with the death of Priscilla Eads.”
“About a homicide.”
I conceded it. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“As an interested citizen.”
“What kind of interest? You lied to Inspector Cramer. You told him that Wolfe had no client, but here you are.”
“It wasn’t a lie. He had no client.”
“Then he’s got one since?”
“No. He has none.”
“Then what are you here for? What kind of interest?”
“My own. I am interested for personal reasons, and Mr Wolfe has nothing to do with it. I’m strictly on my own.”
“For God’s sake.” From the tone of Rowcliff’s voice, he had reached the limit of exasperated disgust. From my slumped position I couldn’t see his face, but from a corner of my eye I had a view of his hand tightened into a fist. “So Wolfe has got a c-c-client.” When he reached a certain pitch of excitement he was apt to stutter. I usually tried to beat him to it, but this time missed the chance. “And a client he doesn’t dare to acknowledge. And you actually have the gall to try to cover for him by telling another outrageous lie, that you’re here on your own. Your insolence—”
“Look, Lieutenant.” I was earnest. “It has always been a pleasure to lie to you, and will be again, but I want to make it clear and emphatic that my interest in this case is strictly personal, as I said, and Mr Wolfe is not concerned. If you—”
“That’s enough.” The fist was tighter and was quivering a little. Some day it would be too much for him and he would let fly, and my reaction would depend on the context. It couldn’t be taken for granted that I would break him in two. He went on. “It’s more than enough. Giving false information, withholding evidence, material witness, obstructing justice, and impersonating an officer of the law. Take him, Doyle. There’ll be someone here soon to t-t-t-turn him over to.”
He meant it. I considered swiftly. In spite of the current situation, I hoped and expected to have further dealings with some or all of the Softdown quintet, and it wouldn’t help any to have them sit and watch while a pair of bozos dragged me from under a table, unavoidably mussing me up. So I arose, sidled around to the back of my chair, and told Doyle, “Please be careful. I’m ticklish.”
Chapter VI
At a quarter to six that afternoon I sat on a chair in a smallish room in a well-known building on Leonard Street. I was bored, disillusioned, and hungry. If I had known what was going to happen in sixty seconds, at fourteen minutes to six, my outlook would have been quite different, but I didn’t.
I had been bandied a good deal, though I had not yet been tossed in the coop or even charged. Escorted first to the Tenth Precinct on West Twentieth Street, where Cramer’s office is, I had sat neglected for half an hour, at the end of which I was told that if I wanted to see Inspector Cramer I would have to be taken elsewhere. I had expressed no desire to see Cramer, but I was tired of sitting, and when one in uniform invited me to accompany him I did so. He conveyed me in a taxi to 240 Centre Street, took me up in an elevator, and gripped my arm on a long walk around halls, winding up at an alcove with a bench, where he told me to sit. He also sat. After a while I asked him who or what we were waiting for.
“Listen, bud,” he demanded aggressively, “do I look like I know much?”
I hedged. “At first sight, no.”
“Right. I don’t know one single thing about anything. So don’t ask me.”
That seemed to settle it, and I sat. People, the assortment you expect and always get at 240 Centre Street, kept passing by along the corridor, both directions. I was at the point where I was shifting on the hard bench every thirty seconds instead of every two minutes when I saw a captain in uniform marching past and called to him. “Captain!”
He stopped, whirled, saw me, and approached.
“Captain,” I said, “I appeal to you. My name is Archie Goodwin, Nine-fourteen West Thirty-fifth Street, which is Nero Wolfe’s address. This officer must of course stick to me or I might escape. I appeal to you to send me a photographer. I want a picture of me in these things”—I lifted my manacled hands—“for evidence. A double-breasted ape named Rowcliff had me fettered, and I intend to sue him for false arrest and exposing me to shame, degradation, and public scorn.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said sympathetically and went.
I had of course stopped the captain and appealed to him as a diversion, just for something to do, and it was totally unexpected when, some twenty minutes later, a sergeant walked up to me and asked my name. I told him.
He turned to my chaperon. “What’s this man’s name?”
“He told you, Sergeant.”
“I’m asking you!”
“I don’t know of my own knowledge, Sergeant. Up at Homicide they said his name was Archie Goodwin, like he told you.”
The sergeant made a noise, not complimentary, glanced at my cuffs, produced a ring of keys and used one, and my hands were free. I had never seen that captain before and haven’t seen him since, and I don’t know his name, but if you ever get stuck in an alcove at headquarters with handcuffs on, ask for a captain around fifty to fifty-five with a big red nose and a double chin, wearing metal-rimmed glasses.
A little later another sergeant came with orders, and I was escorted down and out, to Leonard Street, up to the District Attorney’s layout, and to a room. There at last some attention was paid to me, by a Homicide dick named Randall, whom I knew a little, and an assistant DA I had never seen before, named Mandelbaum. They pecked at me for an hour and a half, and there was nothing in it for anybody, except that I got the impression that there would be no charge. When they left they didn’t even bother about a sentinel, merely telling me to stick. The third or fourth time I looked at my watch after their departure it was a quarter to six.
As I said, I was bored and disillusioned and hungry. An encounter with Rowcliff was enough to ruin a day anyhow, and that was only one item of the record. I had to meet Lon Cohen at seven-thirty to buy him a steak as promised, and afterward I had to go home and pack a bag before finding a hotel room. That was okay, but there was no telling what frame of mind they had pestered Wolfe into, and if I went home he would probably be laying for me. Also I didn’t mind sleeping in a hotel room, but what about when I left it in the morning? What were my plans? I shrugged that off, thinking I would get some kind of lead from Lon, and decided to call him then instead of waiting until seven. There was no phone in the room where I was, so I got up and went out to the corridor, glanced right and left, and started left. There were doors on both sides, all closed. I preferred one standing open, with a phone in sight, and kept going. No luck. But nearly at the end of the corridor the last door on the left was ajar, a three-inch crack, and as I approached it I heard a voice. That was the event I have referred to as occurring at fourteen minutes to six—my hearing that voice, coming from that room. At twelve paces it was audible, at five paces it was recognizable, and when I got my ear within six inches of the crack the words were quite plain.