That had darted through my mind by the time I had counted ten. From then on the strain of listening kept it empty. If she gave it a healthy bang I would unquestionably hear it. I got to fifteen, to twenty—no bang. Thirty. I had the. phone pressed to my ear. Forty, fifty, sixty—a full minute. It couldn’t possibly have taken her that long, but I held onto the damn thing, counting automatically—ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six . . .
I hung up, with my brain humming, but one thing was a cinch—I needed clothes. As I got them on, I considered. If I spent time calling the Nineteenth Precinct, which was nearest to her, I might or might not get a lieutenant who preferred acting to arguing, especially since my one fact was that a woman’s keys were missing. There were several possible explanations for my not hearing the door bang, including the chance that she had failed to bang it. Various alternatives to calling the precinct offered themselves, but by the time I was dressed, and that wasn’t long, they had all been discarded.
I ran downstairs to the office, got a gun and dropped it in my pocket, fixed the phone to ring on Fritz’s and Wolfe’s extensions, returned to the hall and descended to the semi-basement, entered Fritz’s room, and gave him a shake. He let out a yelp.
“Out on an errand,” I told him. “I’ll be back when you see me.”
He warned me to be careful, as he usually does when I leave the house on business, but I didn’t hear it all because I was on my way, out through the area door and up four steps to the sidewalk. I headed east at a trot. At that time of night taxis on Tenth Avenue are none too frequent, and I made for Thirty-fourth Street and finally got one. Tenth Avenue was no good, with its staggered lights, so I had him go east to Park, and up Park. He did all right, as he should have with the finif I gave him in his pocket, and with that avenue as nearly open as it ever gets. When we turned into Eightieth Street, with the tires squeaking, it was 2:23, just twenty-six minutes since I heard her put the phone down. As we rolled to the curb in front of the address, I had the door open and was on the sidewalk before the car stopped. I had told the driver to wait, and had shown him my license to clear the way for some hasty request if I had to make one.
There wasn’t a soul in sight. I went to the entrance door and tried it; it was locked. As I rattled it, peering in, a man in uniform appeared from around a corner, approached, touched the glass with his forehead, and looked out at me.
“What do you want?” he called.
“I want in!”
“For what?”
“To see Mrs Jaffee. I’m expected.”
“At this time of night? Nuts. What’s your name?”
It was hopeless. This one had never seen me; he had not been on duty when I came Wednesday morning. He was obviously an underbrained dope. It would take minutes to explain, and he wouldn’t believe me. If I persuaded him to ring her on the house phone and there was no answer, he would probably say she was asleep. I took the gun from my pocket, let him see what it was, knocked a hole in the glass with it, reached through and opened the door, and entered. As I did so I heard the engine of the taxi roaring, and a glance over my shoulder showed it starting off. That boy had fast reflexes.
I was pointing the gun at the dope, and he was standing with his arms straight up as far as he could reach. There wasn’t a chance in a million that he was accoutered, but I gave him a few quick pats to make sure. “Have you seen Mrs Jaffee in the last half-hour? Or heard her? Talk fast. Have you?”
“No! She came—”
“Into the elevator. Step on it! Sixth floor.”
He obeyed. We started up. “You’re crazy,” he said. “That hackie will have a cop here in no time.”
I saved my breath. The cage stopped. “On out,” I told him, “and to Six B.” He hooked the door open and preceded me along the hall. At the door of 6B he put his thumb to the button.
“I’ll do that,” I said. “You get out your keys and open the door.”
“But I’m not supposed—”
That dope never knew how close he was to getting slammed down with a hunk of metal. I knew damned well I was too late, and it would have helped a little to clop eight or nine people, beginning with him. But as I gave the gun a jerk he went for his keys. For the record, I pressed a finger against the bell button and kept it there while he was unlocking the door. When he had it open I pushed him through ahead of me, but only two steps in he stopped, and I quit pushing.
She was lying off to the right, about halfway to the entrance to the living room, her body in a twisted position, one leg straight out and one bent. Her face was in full view from where we stood, and there was no question about being too late, as was natural in a case of throttling. She was not recognizable.
The dope made a movement, and I grabbed his arm and whirled him around.
“Christ Almighty,” he said, and it looked as if he were about to blubber.
“Take the elevator down,” I told him, “and stay there. The cops will want it.”
I shoved him out and closed the door and turned. There was no time for a job, but a glance was enough. She had followed instructions all right, but had never reached the outside door. Three paces from where she lay a closet door was standing open. He had been ambushed there, and, as she passed, had swung the door open and hit her with a bronze tiger, a bookend. It was there on the floor. He had then finished up with a doubled cord from a Venetian blind, also there on the floor. Everything was right there.
I went to her and squatted and tried to push the tongue back in, but it was too swollen. That and the eyes were plenty, but I picked a few fibers from the rug and put them over her nostrils and counted ten slowly. No. I got up and went to the living room and crossed to the table where the phone was. Yes, she had followed instructions; she had not rung off.
I picked up the receiver and cradled it, waited ten seconds, picked it up again, got the dial tone, and dialed a number. After only three rounds Wolfe’s voice came. He was a sound sleeper, but it didn’t take a sledgehammer to wake him,
“Hello?” He was as indignant as I had been.
“Archie. Get this, because we may be interrupted. Sarah Jaffee phoned me. Her keys were missing from her bag, and the elevator man had let her in. I said I would go up to her and told her what to do meanwhile. I came, and I’m phoning from her apartment. She did what I told her to, but she’s here on the floor dead. Hit on the head and then strangled. The next time she’s in danger she should phone someone else. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“Archie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I said it is vainglorious to reproach yourself for lack of omniscience. That is also true of omnipotence. Report in as you can.”
“Right. Happy dreams.”
I pressed the knob down and held it for a moment, let it up, and dialed WAR-8241. There I got a break, and I never needed one more—Sergeant Purley Stebbins was on duty. I will not claim that Purley loves me, but at least he will listen sometimes. I got him.
“Yeah, Goodwin?” he growled.
“I have information for you,” I told him, “but first I would appreciate an answer to one question. Have you got tails tonight on any of the suspects in the Eads case?”
“Who wants to know?”
“All right, skip it. Get this quick. There were ten people at our place tonight. The five from Softdown—Helmar, Brucker, Quest, Pitkin, and Miss Duday. Also Sarah Jaffee and her attorney, Parker. Also Eric Hagh—the ex-husband. He flew in today—”
“I know he did.”
“Hagh and his lawyer, Irby. Also Andy Fomos. They left a little after midnight. Sometime during the evening one of them took the keys to Sarah Jaffee’s apartment out of her bag. She didn’t miss them until she got home, and she phoned me, and I’m here now in her apartment. Whoever took her keys came and got in and waited for her, and at two minutes to two he conked her and strangled her, and she’s dead. She’s here on the floor. I’m telling it like this because it’s now just two-thirty-six, and thirty-eight minutes isn’t much time for getting out of this building and getting somewhere, and if you get a move on—”