She put out a hand and exchanged a firm friendly clasp with me, gave me a warm wholesome smile, looked searchingly at my face and nodded—to herself, not to me—and said cheerfully: “I could see you would be like that even when you were all red and bruised. Is that fat man in there? I’d like to see him.” Without waiting for clearance she was on her way, and I followed her down the hall and into the office. She offered no hand to Wolfe, only a polite nod with a good evening, and took the straight-backed chair she had used before, after I had moved it up for her.
“I surmised, madam,” Wolfe said peevishly, “that you wished to see me as well as Mr. Goodwin.” “Not particularly,” she declared. “Except that it is always a satisfaction to remind a man—especially a conceited one like you —that I was right. If you had done what I asked you to my brother would not have been killed.” “Pah. He wouldn’t?” “Certainly not.” Mrs. Pine looked at me. “You know perfectly well, Archie, that you are responsible, spreading it around that he told you he knew who killed Waldo Moore. If you had stayed away from there as I wanted you to it wouldn’t have happened. Not that you’re to blame, since you work for this Mr. Wolfe and have to do what he tells you to.” She smiled at me. “Oh, here are those tickets.” She opened her bag, a medium-sized embroidered thing with a gold frame, fingered in it, and produced an envelope. I crossed to get it, and thanked her, trying to speak like a pet. She asked if I would dispose of her wrap, and I took it—this time it was chinchilla—and put it on the couch.
Apparently she was in mourning, as her gray and black dress covered a lot of pink skin that had been visible the other time.
“I doubt,” Wolfe muttered, “if that conclusion is sound. Your brother had adopted a policy of jaunty indiscretion long before Mr Goodwin got there.
Besides, you said last week that Mr. Moore’s death was accidental. Now you’re assuming that he was murdered and that the murderer killed your brother to anticipate disclosure. You can’t have it both ways, madam.” He was wasting logic on her again.
She completely ignored it. “My brother jaunty? Good lord!” She added, “The funeral was yesterday.” Whether she was merely stating a deplorable fact, or whether she meant to imply that it was up to us to have the funeral repealed or nullified, there was no way of telling. Evidently it was the former, for she didn’t follow through on it, but sent me an unsmiling glance.
“You see, Archie, this wouldn’t have happened if you had taken my suggestion and quit working for him and started your own business. How much will it cost?” “Eleven thousand, four hundred and sixty-five dollars,” I told her.
“That much?” “Yeah, inflation.” “It seems high, but we’ll see.” She switched back to Wolfe. “What are you going to do now?” “I have engaged,” he said, “to catch the murderer of your brother.” “I know you have, but what are you going to do?” “Catch him. Or her.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at her. “Now, madam, wouldn’t you like to help?” “No,” she said decisively. “I am not vindictive.” She glanced over her shoulder.
“Will you close that door, Archie? Or bring me my wrap?” Preferring the door idea, I went and closed it.
Meanwhile she was going on, “The police have been asking about the relationship between my brother and me, which is impertinent and ridiculous. One of them, a vulgar little bald man, openly resented it because I am not prostrated with grief! Actually I was extremely fond of my brother, but my feelings about him and about his death are my private affair and concern no one else. The wish that was dearest to him, the wish to become the active directing head of the firm our father founded, was utterly hopeless because he wasn’t fitted for it. He should have been either a policeman or a fireman—that was what he wanted when he was a little boy. You can’t make him a policeman or a fireman by finding out who killed him. Anyway, I don’t think he was killed—not deliberately. I think it was an accident. What do you think, Archie?” “I think what you do, Mrs. Pine.” I gave her a personalized grin. “I mean what you think, not what you say you think. If you’re leading up to a cash offer for proof that it was an accident, forget it, no one could deliver, not even us. Is that what you came for?” “No.” She smiled at me. “Those tickets came today and I wanted to get them to you, and I wanted to see how your face looks.” She was leaning forward to see me better. “You must have extremely good blood, to heal so rapidly. How old are you?” “Thirty-three.” “Wonderful! Men in their twenties are so raw. Have you got a list of that eleven thousand, four hundred and sixty-five dollars?” Wolfe made an emphatic sound without words, arose, told the visitor good evening, and left the room. In a moment we heard the opening and closing of the door of his elevator.
“There is no list,” I said in a hurt tone. “If your trust in me is so shaky that you have to see lists…And speaking of my blood, it ought to be good, since I’m half gypsy.” I crossed to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s why I can understand things, without knowing exactly how, that even Mr. Wolfe can’t understand. About these two deaths, Waldo Moore and your brother—” She began to laugh, a real laugh, from her throat and on out.
“You certainly don’t understand me!” she declared, and laughed some more. “Your father’s name is James Arner Goodwin, and you were born in Canton, Ohio, in nineteen-fourteen. Your mother’s maiden name was Leslie. You have two brothers and two sisters. No, no gypsy. I’m a very cautious woman, Archie, cautious and dependable.” She stood up, abruptly, and I must admit not clumsily. “The reason I want to see a list is to make sure you’re including everything. Let’s sit on the couch and talk about it.” We were alone, with the whole floor to ourselves. Fritz had gone to his bed in the basement. I had been up and around all of eighteen hours, Cecily probably not more than twelve. It was not a situation that could be handled with half-measures.
“This,” I said, “is dangerous. Mr. Wolfe already suspects me. You’ll have to go, for my sake. If I stay here alone with you he’ll think I’m double-crossing him on this case and he’ll have my license revoked, and then I couldn’t go into business for myself even if you wanted me to. When this case is finished we’ll talk…and talk…and talk…but you’ll have to go now, Mrs. Pine.” I thought I might as well clinch it, and added, “Cecily.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Eight
The next day, Friday, I got home from Naylor-Kerr around five-thirty and went up to my room to bathe and change. Gwynne Ferris had maneuvered me into an agreement to try the food and music at the Silver Room at the Churchill that evening, and that called for black and white. I had to step on it because Wolfe expected me in the office at six o’clock, when he would descend from the plant rooms, to report on the day. The report, God knows, would be totally without nourishment, but by that time Wolfe would have welcomed an underfed straw to grab at, and he would want all details.
He didn’t get them, not then, for when I got down to the office at five past six Inspector Cramer was there with him and was already off to a good start.
It was obvious from the first growls I heard that Cramer had come to try something that he had often tried before, and never with any profit. He had come to take the lid off of Wolfe and look inside. That meant he was all out of everything. It had come to snafu and he was helpless.
“So you were having Naylor tailed,” he was barking. “So, by God, you knew something was going to happen to him! I’ll tell you what I think! That Saul Panzer is the best tailer in New York. I don’t for a minute believe he lost Naylor! He don’t lose ’em! Even if he did, when Naylor came here, wouldn’t you have had him tailed when he left, since you were interested in him? Of course you would! I think Panzer was right up with Naylor all that evening, right up to the time he was killed and then some, right up to the car running over him on Thirty-ninth Street!” “Pfui,” Wolfe muttered.