At the sound my seducer jerked away and whirled to face the door.
“It’s past quitting time, Miss Ferris,” Naylor said.
I batted for her. “I sent for Miss Ferris,” I told the glint in his eyes, “and we’re having a talk which has at least an hour to go and maybe more. She was taking a mote out of my eye. Can I help you with something?” Naylor smiled, stepped to the chair that was still warm from Gwynne, and sat down. “Perhaps I can help you instead,” he piped. “I’ll be glad to take part in the talk if you’ll limit it to an hour.” I shook my head at him emphatically. “Much obliged, but it’s strictly private.— No, Miss Ferris, don’t leave. You stay here.— So if all you came for was to say good night, good night.” “This is my department, Mr. Truett.” “Not the part of it I’m in at any given moment. Yours is the stock department.
Mine is the murder department. Good night—unless you came for something else.” He was speechless with fury. Not that it showed on his little wax face, but he was speechless, and nothing short of fury could have done that to him. He stood up, stared at Gwynne, who did not stare back, and finally transferred it to me.
“Very well. The question of your status here can be settled on Monday—if you are here Monday. I came to tell you something, and while Miss Ferris is not ideal for the purpose, it is just as well to have a witness. I am told you have reported that I told you I know the name of the person who murdered Waldo Moore.
Is that true?” “Yep, that’s true.” “Then you reported a lie. I have not made that statement to you, nor any statement that could possibly be so construed. I have no idea why you reported such a lie, and I don’t intend to waste time trying to find out.” He walked to the door, turned, and smiled at us. “You can now resume the conversation I interrupted. Good night.” He was gone, closing the door behind him. I sat still to listen, and in the silence of the depopulated arena heard his footsteps receding, fading into the silence.
Gwynne approached and began, “You see? No matter who said they saw me sneaking into your room, you wouldn’t believe it, and no matter who said you had told a lie, I wouldn’t believe—” “Shut up, pet. Shut up and sit down while I sharpen a wit.” She did so. I gazed at the neighborhood of her chin, found that distracting, and switched to something neuter. On a quick and concentrated survey, this latest impetuosity of Kerr Naylor looked like the beginning of his big retreat. Once started backward he would probably keep going, and by the middle of next week would be taking the position that Moore hadn’t been killed at all, maybe not even hurt.
I spoke to Gwynne. “What makes it chilly in here is the cold feet of Mr. Kerr Naylor. They are practically frozen. To go back to you, or should I say us, when Naylor came I was about to tell you that you were wasting a lot of ammunition, and damn good ammunition, because nobody told me they saw you coming in here or going out. It’s fingerprints. You left about five dozen scattered all over, on the folders and the reports. I’m going to keep them to remember you by. Now what? Were you walking in your sleep? Try that.” She was wrinkling her forehead in profound concentration, as if I had been giving instructions for an intricate typing job and she was deeply anxious to get it straight. My free-for-nothing suggestion about walking in her sleep didn’t appeal to her, or more probably she didn’t even hear it. At length she spoke.
“Fingerprints?” Her tone implied that it must be a Russian word and unfortunately she didn’t know that language.
“That’s right. Little lines on the tips of your fingers that make pretty patterns when you touch something. F-I-N-G-” “Don’t be offensive,” she said in a hurt tone. “Anyway, you said it would be impossible for you to believe I could do such a thing!” “No you don’t,” I said firmly. “In the first place, I didn’t say that. In the second place, one of my favorite rules is never to let a woman start an argument about what she said or what I said. You’ve had time now to think up something.
What will it be?” She was still hurt. “I don’t have to think up something,” she declared indignantly. “All I have to do is tell you the truth even if I think you don’t deserve it. Yesterday you said you wanted to see me, and I couldn’t come because I had a pile of work for Mr. Henderson, because his secretary is home sick, and I had to stay overtime, and when I got through I came here because I thought you might still be waiting for me, and you were gone, and I thought perhaps you had left some work for me in your cabinet, so I looked in it to see, and of course I had to look in the folders because that was where you would leave it. And now you accuse me of something underhanded just because I tried to do my duty even if it was nearly seven o’clock!” My head was moving slowly up and down, with my eyes maintaining focus on hers.
“Not bad,” I conceded. “It would really be good, although loony, if you hadn’t denied it at first and come clear here to my chair with your perfume and other attributes. Why did you deny it, precious?” “Well—I guess I just can’t help kidding people. I guess it’s part of my character.” “And that’s your story and you like it, huh?” “Of course it is, it’s the truth!” I would have liked to use assorted tortures on her in a well-equipped underground chamber. “This room is not suitable,” I admitted reluctantly, “for giving you the kind of attention merited by your character and abilities. But there are other rooms, policemen act sore at accomplished and fantastic liars much quicker than I do. Tomorrow will be Saturday and this office will be closed, but policemen work seven days a week. It will be nice meeting you in other surroundings. Go on home.” “You’re not a policeman,” she stated, as if she were contradicting me. She got out of her chair. “You’re too handsome and cultured.” When I had just got through saying, or at least plainly implying, that I was not a policeman!
I took the carton home with me, not caring to leave its contents there even with the cabinet locked.
CHAPTER Nineteen
That evening after dinner Wolfe was going on with his three books. Since there was wide variation in the number of pages it looked to me as if he was going to run into trouble when the shortest one suddenly petered out on him, unless he had foreseen the difficulty and was adjusting his installments accordingly.
After I had given him the day’s report, to which he reacted the same as he had the day before, namely not at all, and after getting nothing but a grunt of indifference when I volunteered the opinion that Kerr Naylor had been read the riot act by his sister and as a result was crawling from under, I decided to take in a flat-face opera.
Ordinarily I let the movies wait when we’re busy on a case, but I broke precedent that Friday evening because (a) we weren’t busy—at least God knows Wolfe wasn’t— and (b) I strongly doubted if it was a case. I would have been willing to settle for nothing more homicidal than a mess of dirty internal politics on the higher levels at Naylor-Kerr, Inc., and while that may have seemed important and even exciting to the Board of Directors and hostile camps of executives, I had to confess that I couldn’t blame Wolfe for going aloof on it, since I was inclined to feel the same way. So I let my mind go blank and enjoyed the movie up to a certain point, staying nearly to the end. When it came to where they were preparing to wind it up right and let it out that the hero really had not put over the fake contract and cleaned up, I left in a hurry, because I had formed my own opinion of the hero from where I sat and chose to think otherwise.
Then, when I got home at half-past eleven, I found Inspector Cramer there in the office, seated in the red leather chair, talking to Wolfe. Evidently it wasn’t a very amiable conversation, for Cramer’s look at me as I entered was an unfriendly glare, and, since I had done nothing to earn it, it must have been the state of his feelings toward Wolfe.