“Is this straight, Goodwin?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in the Jaffee apartment now?”
“Yes.”
“By God, you stay there!”
“Drop that phone and get your hands up!”
It was a little confusing, with two city employees giving me commands at once, one on the phone and one in person but behind my back. Purley Stebbins had hung up, so that was all right. I turned, lifting my hands plenty high enough to show that they were empty, because there is no telling how a random flatfoot will act just after discovery of a corpse. He may have delusions of grandeur.
Evidently he was alone. He advanced, with his gun poked out, and it was no wonder if his hand was not perfectly steady, for it was a ticklish situation for a solitary cop, knowing as he did that I was armed. Probably he also knew of Sarah Jaffee’s connection with Softdown and Priscilla Eads, since it had been in the papers, and if so why shouldn’t I be the strangler the whole force was looking for and therefore good for a promotion and a barrel of glory, dead or alive?
“Look,” I said, “I’ve just been talking to Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan—”
“Save it.” He was dead serious. “Turn around, go to the wall, slow, put your palms up high against the wall, and keep ’em there.”
I did as I was told. It was a routine arrangement for a solo frisk, and when I was in position I expected to feel the muzzle in my back and his hand going through me, but no. Instead, I heard him dialing the phone, and in a moment his voice. “This is Casey, gimme the lieutenant . . . Lieutenant Gluck? Casey again. I came on up to the Jaffee apartment alone without waiting. I walked right in on him cold, and he’s here, and I’ve got him covered . . . No, I know that, but I’ve got him and I’ll keep him until they come . . .”
That was the kind of specimen, flushed by the hackie, who had me with my palms pressed against the wall.
Chapter XIV
During the eighty-hour period from ten minutes to two Friday morning, when Sarah Jaffee phoned me that her keys were missing, until nine o’clock Monday morning, when I phoned Wolfe from the office of the police commissioner, I had maybe five hours’ sleep, not more.
The first two hours of those eighty I spent in the apartment of the late Sarah Jaffee, mostly—after some grownups had arrived and rescued me from Casey—seated at the table in the alcove where I had breakfasted with Sarah Wednesday morning, answering questions put to me by a captain named Olmstead from Manhattan Homicide West, who was a comparative stranger. The third strangling of course had the whole department sizzling, and the scientists had a high old time that night in that apartment. The murderer’s use of the bronze tiger bookend and the cord, which had been cut from a Venetian blind in the alcove, showed that he had not confined his movements to the foyer, and there wasn’t a square inch anywhere in the place that didn’t get powdered for prints and inspected with a glass under a strong light.
At 4:30 a.m. I was transported to the Nineteenth Precinct station on East Sixty-seventh Street, put into an upstairs room with a lieutenant and another dick with a stack of stenographer’s notebooks, and told to give a complete account of the meeting in Wolfe’s office, including all words and actions of everyone there. That took four hours, and during the fourth and last the three of us disposed of a dozen ham sandwiches, six muskmelons, and a gallon of coffee, paid for by me. When it was over I got permission to use a phone and called Wolfe.
“I’m calling from a desk phone in a police station,” I told him, “and a lieutenant is at my elbow and a sergeant is on an extension, so don’t say anything incriminating. I am not under arrest, though I am technically guilty of breaking and entering because I knocked the glass out of a door and went in. Except for that I have nothing to report, and I don’t know when I’ll be home. I have given them a complete account of last night in our office, and they’ll certainly be after you for one.”
“They already have been. Lieutenant Rowcliff will be here at eleven o’clock, and I have agreed to admit him. Have you had breakfast?”
He wouldn’t overlook that. I told him yes.
After that the lieutenant and sergeant left me, and I sat for a solid hour in a room with a uniformed patrolman. It began to look as if history was getting set to repeat itself, except for handcuffs, when a dick entered and told me to come on, and I preceded him down and out to the sidewalk, and darned if he didn’t have a taxi waiting. It took us to 155 Leonard Street, and the dick took me in and upstairs to a room, and who should enter to visit me but my friend Mandelbaum, the assistant DA who had chatted with me Tuesday afternoon to no avail.
Four hours later we were still, as far as I could see, short on avail. I had the highly unsatisfactory feeling that I had been examined down to the last flick about something that had happened somewhere sometime, just to see if I passed, but that it had nothing to do with getting the sonofabitch I was after. I knew how to be patient well enough when I had to be, and I had gone along the best I could, but more than twelve hours had passed since I had opened the door and seen her lying there with her tongue sticking out, and I had answered enough questions.
At the end of the four hours Mandelbaum shoved his chair back, got up, and told me, “That seems to be it for now. I’ll get it typed, and I’ll get a copy of your statement uptown. This evening or in the morning—more likely in the morning—I’ll ring you to ask you to run down and look it over, so stay near your phone or keep in touch.”
I was frowning at him. “You mean I go?”
“Certainly. Under the circumstances your forceful entry to that building must be regarded as justified, and since you have agreed to pay the amount of the damage, there will be no complaint. Stay in the jurisdiction, of course, and be available.” He looked at his wrist. “There’s someone waiting for me.” He turned to go.
I was having an experience that was not new to me. I had suddenly discovered that a decision had been made, by me, upon full consideration, without my knowing it. This time, though, it took me a second to accept it, because it was unprecedented. An officer of the law was telling me to go on home to Nero Wolfe, and I didn’t want to or intend to.
“Hold it,” I said urgently, and he stopped. I appealed to him. “I’ve given you all I’ve got. I want something—not much. I want to see Inspector Cramer, and now. He’s busy, and I don’t know where he is, and it might take me until tomorrow to get to him. You fix it for me.”
He was alert. “Is it about this case?”
“Yes.”
“Why won’t I do?”
“Because he can say yes to this, and you can’t.”
He might have been disposed to debate it if he hadn’t been late for another customer. He glanced at his wrist again, went to the phone, and got busy. Even for him, the assistant DA on the Eads and Fomos case, it proved to be a job, but after ten minutes on the phone he told me, “He’s in a conference at the Commissioner’s office. Go there and send your name in and wait.”
I thanked him as he rushed out.
I had had no lunch, and on the way to Centre Street, which wasn’t much of a walk, I bought four nice ripe bananas and took them to a soda fountain and washed them down with a pint of milk.
At the office of Police Commissioner Skinner things did not look too promising. Not because there was an assortment of citizens in the large and busy anteroom, which was only normal, but because I couldn’t find out who Mandelbaum had spoken to and I couldn’t even get anyone to admit that Cramer was within. The trouble was that there was another door out of Skinner’s office, around a corner of the corridor, and covering them both wasn’t easy. However, I tried. I went outside and to the corner of the corridor—and there, standing by the other door, was Sergeant Purley Stebbins. At sight of me he started growling automatically.
I went up to him. “When did I ever ask you for a favor?”