Cramer told the dick, “Bring her in here.”
CHAPTER Twenty-One
Gwynne Ferris entered, not aware or not caring that a detective sergeant was right behind her elbow, halted a moment to survey the big room, and then approached us at the desk.
“Hello, Ben,” she said in her sweet musical voice. “Of all the terrible things, but what are you here for?” Not waiting for a reply, her glance darted to Cramer and then to me. “Oh, then you are a policeman!” She was, I admitted, equal to any situation, and that applied not only to her nerves but also to her appearance. Routed out by a cop at four in the morning, getting dressed while he waited, and brought down to headquarters in a police car, she looked as fresh and pure and beautiful as she had when she had raised her clear blue eyes to mine and told me she couldn’t spell.
“Sit down, Miss Ferris,” Cramer told her.
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically, and sat, on a chair a couple of paces from Frenkel’s. “You look terrible, Ben. Have you had any sleep at all?” “Yes,” Frenkel rumbled from a mile down.
Gwynne spoke to Cramer and me. “The reason I asked him that, I saw him only a few hours ago. We were dancing. But I suppose he’s told you that already. It’s a good thing tomorrow isn’t a workday. Are you an inspector, Mr. Truett, or what?”
“This is unspeakable, utterly unspeakable,” Ben Frenkel declared with deep intensity. “I didn’t tell them who I went dancing with because I thought they’d be after you to verify it, and they did it anyway, for no reason on earth. Were they decent about it? Were they rough with you?” Harry Anthony had been anxious about Rosa, and here was Frenkel being anxious about Gwynne. I made a note to quit trying to understand women and start trying to understand men.
“No, he was really very courteous about it,” Gwynne testified generously.
Cramer had been glancing from one to the other. He opened up. “So you two were together all evening. Is that right, Frenkel?” “Yes. Since Miss Ferris has told you so.” “Not just since she has told me so. Were you?” “Yes.” “Did Mr. Frenkel take you home, Miss Ferris?” “Certainly he did!” “What time did you get home?” “When was it, Ben, about—” “I asked you.” “Well, it was a quarter to one when I got upstairs to my room. I went up alone of course. We talked a while downstairs.” Cramer surprised me. He was seldom plain nasty, leaving that to the boys, but now he barked at her, “When Waldo Moore took you home you didn’t go upstairs alone, did you?” Ben Frenkel sprang from his chair with his fists doubled up and his eyes blazing. A dick standing in the rear moved forward. I tightened up a little myself, not knowing how far Frenkel’s impulses might go. But evidently Gwynne did, for she was on her feet and in front of him, with her hands up to grasp his coat lapels.
“Now, Ben, honey.” When she put appeal in her voice it could have been used for a welding torch. “You know that isn’t so, haven’t I told you? He’s just being malicious.” She put pressure on him. “Sit down and don’t even hear things like that.” His knees started to give, she maintained the pressure, and he was back in his chair.
She returned to hers and told Cramer, “There was a lot of malicious talk about me and Waldo Moore, and this is what I get for it. I know better than to lose my temper over those kind of things any more. I just ignore it.” So Cramer’s nastiness had paid no dividend. He shifted his ground and asked, “Why were you so anxious to know what Goodwin was reporting about Moore’s death?” “Goodwin? What Goodwin?” “Truett,” I explained. “Me. My name’s Goodwin.” “Oh! I’m glad you told me. Then you were sailing under false—” “I asked you,” Cramer rasped, “why you were so anxious to know what he had found out about Moore’s death.” “I wasn’t anxious. Not at all.” “Then why did you sneak into his room and go through his papers?” “I didn’t!” She looked at me reproachfully. “Did you tell him that? After I explained that I thought you might still be waiting for me, and you were gone, and I thought perhaps you had left some work—” “Yeah,” Cramer cut her off, “I’ve heard that before. You’re sticking to that, are you?” “Why, it’s the truth!” She was marvelous when she was showing forbearance in the face of injustice being done her. So marvelous that I would have liked to cut her into thin slices and broil her.
Cramer gazed at her. “Listen to me. Miss Ferris,” he said in a different and calmer tone. “That sort of thing was okay as long as it was just a matter of investigating a death that might have been an accident that took place months ago. As long as that was all it amounted to there was nothing wrong especially about your not telling the truth when Goodwin asked why you looked at his papers. But now it’s different, now we know it was murder, and that’s what I’m telling you, it was murder. That changes the whole thing, doesn’t it? Don’t you want to help? If you’re not involved in it yourself, and I don’t think you are, shouldn’t you help out by telling us why you did that?” “What is all this,” Frenkel demanded, evidently on speaking terms again, “about her looking at papers? What papers?” He got no reply.
Gwynne appealed to Cramer, “I have to tell the truth, don’t I? It wouldn’t help for me to tell a lie, would it?” Cramer gave up and exploded at her, “Who did you tell about it?” “About what?” “What you saw in that report! About Naylor saying he knew who killed Moore! Who did you tell?” “Let me see.” The frown appeared on her forehead. She had to think hard. “One of the girls, which one was it, and I mentioned it to one of the men too—it was—no, it wasn’t Mr. Henderson—” She looked at Cramer apologetically. “I guess I can’t remember.” Deputy Commissioner O’Hara strode into the room. It was his office.
Cramer arose and said grimly, “We’ll go to another room to finish our talk, Miss Ferris. We’re through with you for now, Mr. Frenkel, but we may need you at any time. Keep us informed where you are.” O’Hara said, “You’re Archie Goodwin? I want to talk with you.” I’ve already told about that.
CHAPTER Twenty-Two
As I said, I didn’t get out of bed Saturday until nearly noon. My face was no longer in a condition to cause boys on the street to make comments, but it took me longer than usual to shave, and also my movements under the shower were a little cautious and deliberate. So by the time I got downstairs Fritz was about ready to dish up lunch. Because I didn’t feel like breaking my fast with Rognons aux Montagnes, which is lamb kidneys cooked with broth and red wine, not to mention assorted spices, and because Wolfe would not permit talk of business during a meal, and because I wanted to look at the morning papers and couldn’t if I sat at the table with him, I ate in the kitchen. Fritz, who understands me, had fresh hot oatmeal ready, the chill off my bottle of cream, the eggs waiting for the pan, the ham sliced thin for the broiler, the pancake batter mixed, the griddle hot, and the coffee steaming. I made a pass as if to kiss him on the cheek, he kept me off with a twenty-inch pointed knife, and I sat down and started the campaign against starvation with the Times propped up in front of me.
After lunch, or breakfast, depending on which room you ate in, I went to the office and before long Wolfe joined me. From the expression on his face I gathered that coolness was absent from our relationship until the next one, now that he had surrendered on the typewriter, but if he thought I was going to reciprocate by surrendering on the new car he should have known me better.
However, I decided not to bring it up immediately after his lunch. He got adjusted in his made-to-order chair behind his desk and asked: “What have they decided about Mr. Naylor? Death by misadventure?” “No, sir. They think someone tried to hurt him. At that, Cramer shows signs of having a noodle. He can discover nothing on Thirty-ninth Street, or in that neighborhood, that would account for Naylor being there. Also, he refuses to believe that Naylor obligingly lay on the pavement, and lay still so the driver of the car could make the wheels hit exactly the same spots, his head and legs that had been hit on Moore. He concludes that Naylor was killed somewhere else, probably a blow or blows on the head, that the body was taken to Thirty-ninth Street in the car and deposited on the pavement and the car driven over it, and that the car wheels smashing the head obliterated the mark or marks of the blow or blows that killed him. The scientists are going over the inside of the car with microscopes for evidence that the body was carried in it. Cramer doesn’t say so out loud, but he’s wishing to God he had done likewise with the car that killed Moore.” “Has anyone been arrested?” “Not up to six o’clock, when I left. Deputy Commissioner O’Hara wanted to arrest me, but Cramer needed me. I was very helpful.” “Does Mr. Cramer still think you lied in your report to Mr. Pine?” “No, but O’Hara does. I admit I lied to him. I told him that you’re just a front here and the real brains of this business is a skinny old woman with asthma that we keep locked in the basement.” Wolfe sighed and leaned back. “I suppose you’d better tell me all about it.” I did so. Assuming that he wanted everything, I gave it to him, including not only facts but also a few interpretations and some personal analysis. It was obvious, I explained, that Cramer was now taking my word for gospel, since he had concentrated on the units of personnel I had told him about, though he had also used the police file on the death of Waldo Moore as a reference work, and doubtless they were all in that. I interpreted Gwynne Ferris by remarking that her broadcasting of the news she got from my filing cabinet might have been a highly intelligent cover for intentions and plans of her own, or it might have been merely promiscuous chin pumping, and I refused to commit myself until I had known her much longer—a minimum of five years. Whichever it was, the result was the same: assuming that Naylor had been finished off because of his announcement that he knew who had killed Moore, everyone was eligible. Up to six o’clock, when I had left, neither elimination nor spotlighting had even got a start, although Cramer had his whole army going through the routine—collecting alibis, tracing the movements of people, including Naylor, trying to find witnesses of events on Thirty-ninth Street, Ninety-fifth Street, Forty-eighth Street, and other vital spots, and all the rest of it. They had found no one who would admit seeing Kerr Naylor after he left the building on William Street Friday afternoon, or any knowledge of him. That was interesting, because it left it that Gwynne Ferris and I were the last people who had seen him alive. It had been around half-past five when he had walked in on us in my room at Naylor-Kerr to tell me I was a liar. Everybody else had left for the day, and none of the elevator boys remembered taking him down. One of O’Hara’s strongest convictions had been that Naylor and I had left the building together, and I had merely shrugged it off. It’s a waste of time trying to extract a conviction from an Irishman.