Herbert Macaulay, Wynant’s attorney, told the police that he had not seen the inventor since October. He stated that Wynant called him on the telephone yesterday and made an appointment, but failed to keep it; and disclaimed any knowledge of his client’s whereabouts. Miss Wolf, Macaulay stated, had been in the inventor’s employ for the past eight years. The attorney said he knew nothing about the dead woman’s family or private affairs and could throw no light on her murder.
The bullet-wounds could not have been self-inflicted, according to .
The rest of it was the usual police department hand-out.
“Do you suppose he killed her?” Nora asked when I put the paper down again.
“Wynant? I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s batty as hell.”
“Did you know her?”
“Yes. How about a drop of something to cut the phlegm?”
“What was she like?”
“Not bad,” I said. “She wasn’t bad-looking and she had a lot of sense and a lot of nerve–and it took both to live with that guy.”
“She lived with him?”
“Yes. I want a drink, please. That is, it was like that when I knew them.”
“Why don’t you have some breakfast first? Was she in love with him or was it just business?”
“I don’t know. It’s too early for breakfast.”
When Nora opened the door to go out, the dog came in and put her front feet on the bed, her face in my face. I rubbed her head and tried to remember something Wynant had once said to me, something about women and dogs. It was not the woman-spaniel-walnut-tree line. I could not remember what it was, but there seemed to be some point in trying to remember.
Nora returned with two drinks and another question: “What’s he like?”
“Tall–over six feet–and one of the thinnest men I’ve ever seen. He must be about fifty now, and his hair was almost white when I knew him. Usually needs a haircut, ragged brindle mustache, bites his fingernails.” I pushed the dog away to reach for my drink.
“Sounds lovely. What were you doing with him?”
“A fellow who’d worked for him accused him of stealing some kind of idea or invention from him. Kelterman was his name. He tried to shake Wynant down by threatening to shoot him, bomb his house, kidnap his children, cut his wife’s throat–I don’t know what all–if he didn’t come across. We never caught him–must’ve scared him off. Anyway, the threats stopped and nothing happened.”
Nora stopped drinking to ask: “Did Wynant really steal it?”
“Tch, tch, tch,” I said. “This is Christmas Eve: try to think good of your fellow man.”
4
That afternoon I took Asta for a walk, explained to two pea-pie that she was a Schnauzer and not a cross between a Scottie and an Irish terrier, stopped at Jim’s for a couple of drinks, ran into Larry Crowley, and brought him back to the Normandie with me. Nora was pouring cocktails for the Quinns, Margot Innes, a man whose name I did not catch, and Dorothy Wynant.
Dorothy said she wanted to talk to me, so we carried our cocktails into the bedroom.
She came to the point right away. “Do you think my father killed her, Nick?”
“No,” I said. “Why should I?”
“Well, the police have– Listen, she was his mistress, wasn’t she?”
I nodded. “When I knew them.”
She stared at her glass while saying, “He’s my father. I never liked him. I never liked Mamma.” She looked up at me. “I don’t like Gilbert.” Gilbert was her brother.
“Don’t let that worry you. Lots of people don’t like their relatives.”
“Do you like them?”
“My relatives?”
“Mine.” She scowled at me. “And stop talking to me as if I was still twelve.”
“It’s not that,” I explained. “I’m getting tight.”
“Well, do you?”
I shook my head. “You were all right, just a spoiled kid. I could get along without the rest of them.”
“What’s the matter with us?” she asked, not argumentatively, but as if she really wanted to know.
“Different things. Your–”
Harrison Quinn opened the door and said: “Come on over and play some ping-pang, Nick.”
“In a little while.”