To show you what a murder case will do to people’s lives, the password routine had been abandoned. But it by no means followed that it was easier than it had been to get up to apartment 10B. Quite the contrary. Evidently journalists and others had been trying all kinds of dodges to get a ride in the elevator, for the distinguished-looking hallman wasn’t a particle interested in what I said my name was, and he steeled himself to betray no sign of recognition. He simply used the phone, and in a few minutes Bill Meadows emerged from the elevator and walked over to us. We said hello.
“Strong said you’d probably show up,” he said. Neither his tone nor his expression indicated that they had been pacing up and down waiting for me. “Miss Fraser wants to know if it’s something urgent.” “Mr Wolfe thinks it is.” “All right, come on.” He was so preoccupied that he went into the elevator first.
I decided that if he tried leaving me alone in the enormous living-room with the assorted furniture, to wait until I was summoned, I would just stick to his heels, but that proved to be unnecessary. He couldn’t have left me alone there because that was where they were.
Madeline Fraser was on the green burlap divan, propped against a dozen cushions.
Deborah Koppel was seated on the piano bench. Elinor Vance perched on a corner of the massive old black walnut table. Tully Strong had the edge of his sitter on the edge of the pink silk chair, and Nat Traub was standing. That was all as billed, but there was an added attraction. Also standing, at the far end of the long divan, was Nancylee Shepherd.
“It was Goodwin,” Bill Meadows told them, but they would probably have deduced it anyhow, since I had dropped my hat and coat in the hall and was practically at his elbow. He spoke to Miss Fraser: “He says it’s something urgent.
Miss Fraser asked me briskly, “Will it take long, Mr Goodwin?” She looked clean and competent, as if she had had a good night’s sleep, a shower, a healthy vigorous rub, and a thorough breakfast.
I told her I was afraid it might.
“Then I’ll have to ask you to wait.” She was asking a favour. She certainly had the knack of being personal without making you want to back off. “Mr Traub has to leave soon for an appointment, and we have to make an important decision. You know, of course, that we have lost a sponsor. I suppose I ought to feel low about it, but I really don’t. Do you know how many firms we have had offers from, to take the Starlite place? Sixteen!” “Wonderful!” I admired. “Sure, I’ll wait.” I crossed to occupy a chair outside the conference zone.
They forgot, immediately and completely, that I was there. All but one: Nancylee. She changed position so she could keep her eyes on me, and her expression showed plainly that she considered me tricky, ratty, and unworthy of trust.
“We’ve got to start eliminating,” Tully Strong declared. He had his spectacles off, holding them in his hand. “As I understand it there are just five serious contenders.” “Four,” Elinor Vance said, glancing at a paper she held. “I’ve crossed off Fluff, the biscuit dough. You said to, didn’t you, Lina?” “It’s a good company,” Traub said regretfully. “One of the best. Their radio budget is over three million.” You’re just making it harder, Nat,” Deborah Koppel told him. “We can’t take all of them. I thought your favourite was Meltettes.” “It is,” Traub agreed, “but these are all very fine accounts. What do you think of Meltettes, Miss Fraser?” He was the only one of the bunch who didn’t call her Lina.
“I haven’t tried them.” She glanced around. “Where are they?” Nancylee, apparently not so concentrated on me as to miss any word or gesture of her idol, spoke up: “There on the piano, Miss Fraser. Do you want them?” “We have got to eliminate,” Strong insisted, stabbing the air with his spectacles for emphasis. “I must repeat, as representative of the other sponsors, that they are firmly and unanimously opposed to Sparkle, if it is to be served on the programme as Starlite was. They never liked the idea and they don’t want it resumed.” “It’s already crossed off,” Elinor Vance stated. “With Fluff and Sparkle out, that leaves four.” Not on account of the sponsors,” Miss Fraser put in. “We just happen to agree with them. They aren’t going to decide this. We are.” “You mean you are, Lina.” Bill Meadows sounded a little irritated. “What the hell, we all know that. You don’t want Fluff because Cora made some biscuits and you didn’t like ’em. You don’t want Sparkle because they want it served on the programme, and God knows I don’t blame you.” Elinor Vance repeated, “That leaves four.” “All right, eliminate!” Strong persisted.
“We’re right where we were before,” Deborah Koppel told them. “The trouble is, there’s no real objection to any of the four, and I think Bill’s right, I think we have to put it up to Lina.” “I am prepared,” Nat Traub announced, in the tone of a man burning bridges, “to say that I will vote for Meltettes.” For my part, I was prepared to say that I would vote for nobody. Sitting there taking them in, as far as I could tell the only strain they were under was the pressure of picking the right sponsor. If, combined with that, one of them was contending with the nervous wear and tear of a couple of murders, he was too good for me. As the argument got warmer it began to appear that, though they were agreed that the final word was up to Miss Fraser, each of them had a favourite among the four entries left. That was what complicated the elimination.
Naturally, on account of the slip of paper I had in my pocket, I was especially interested in Elinor Vance, but the sponsor problem seemed to be monopolizing her attention as completely as that of the others. I would, of course, have to follow instructions and proceed with my errand as soon as they gave me a chance, but I was beginning to feel silly. While Wolfe had left it pretty vague, one thing was plain, that I was supposed to give them a severe jolt, and I doubted if I had what it would take. When they got worked up to the point of naming the winner—settling on the lucky product that would be cast for the role sixteen had applied for—bringing up the subject of an anonymous letter, even one implying that one of them was a chronic murderer, would be an anticlimax. With a serious problem like that just triumphantly solved, what would they care about a little thing like murder?
But I was dead wrong. I found that out incidentally, as a by-product of their argument. It appeared that two of the contenders were deadly rivals, both clawing for children’s dimes: a candy bar called Happy Andy and a little box of tasty delights called Meltettes. It was the latter that Traub had decided to back unequivocally, and he, when the question came to a head which of those two to eliminate, again asked Miss Fraser if she had tried Meltettes. She told him no. He asked if she had tried Happy Andy. She said yes. Then, he insisted, it was only fair for her to try Meltettes.
“All right,” she agreed. There on the piano, Debby, that little red box. Toss it over.” “No!” a shrill voice cried. It was Nancylee. Everyone looked at her. Deborah Koppel, who had picked up the little red cardboard box, asked her: “What’s the matter?” “It’s dangerous!” Nancylee was there, a hand outstretched. “Give it to me. I’ll eat one first!” It was only a romantic kid being dramatic, and all she rated from that bunch, if I had read their pulses right, was a laugh and a brush-off, but that was what showed me I had been dead wrong. There wasn’t even a snicker. No one said a word. They all froze, staring at Nancylee, with only one exception. That was Deborah Koppel. She held the box away from Nancylee’s reaching hand and told her contemptuously: “Don’t be silly.” “I mean it!” the girl cried. “Let me—” “Nonsense.” Deborah pushed her back, opened the flap of the box, took out an object, popped it into her mouth, chewed once or twice, swallowed, and then spat explosively, ejecting a spray of little particles.
I was the first, by maybe a tenth of a second, to realize that there was something doing. It wasn’t so much the spitting, for that could conceivably have been merely her way of voting against Meltettes, as it was the swift, terrible contortion of her features. As I bounded across to her she left the piano bench with a spasmodic jerk, got erect with her hands flung high, and screamed: “Lina. Don’t! Don’t let—” I was at her, with a hand on her arm, and Bill Meadows was there too, but her muscles all in convulsion took us along as she fought towards the divan, and Madeline Fraser was there to meet her and get supporting arms around her. But somehow the three of us together failed to hold her up or get her on to the divan. She went down until her knees were on the floor, with one arm stretched rigid across the burlap of the divan, and would have gone the rest of the way but for Miss Fraser, also on her knees.