Curtains For Three (19 page)

“I was thinking it over, what step to take next. Meanwhile, I thought it best not to let them be alone with her if I could help it. That’s why I came here with them today - my mother is a member of that flower club - I’m no gardener myself -“

He turned a palm up. “That’s what brought me here. My mother came to see the orchids, and she invited Brown and his sister to come, simply because she is goodhearted. But actually she knows nothing about them.”

He put his hands on the table and leaned on them, forward at Cramer. “I’m going to be quite frank, Inspector. Under the circumstances, I can’t see that it would serve any useful purpose to let it be published that that woman came here with my mother. I want to make it perfectly clear that we have no desire to evade our responsibility as citizens. But how would it help to get my mother’s name in the headlines?”

“Names in headlines aren’t what I’m after,” Cramer told him, “but I don’t run the newspapers. If they’ve already got it I can’t stop them. I’d like to say I appreciate your frankness. So you only met Miss Brown a week ago?”

Cramer had plenty of questions for both mother and son. It was in the middle of them that Wolfe passed me a slip of paper on which he had scribbled:

“Tell Fritz to bring sandwiches and coffee for you and me. Also for those left in the front room. No one else. Of course, Saul and Theodore.”

I left the room, found Fritz in the kitchen, delivered the message, and returned.

Gene stayed cooperative to the end, and Mrs. Orwin tried, though it was an effort. They said they had been together all the time, which I happened to know wasn’t so, having seen them separated at least twice during the afternoon, and Cramer did too, since I had told him.

They said a lot of other things, among them that they hadn’t left the plant -

rooms between their arrival and their departure with Wolfe; that they had stayed until most of the others were gone because Mrs. Orwin wanted to persuade Wolfe to sell her some plants; that Colonel Brown had wandered off by himself once or twice; that they had been only mildly concerned about Cynthia’s absence, because of assurances from Colonel Brown and me; and so on.

Before they left, Gene made another try for a commitment to keep his mother’s name out of it, and Cramer promised to do his best.

Fritz had brought trays for Wolfe and me, and we were making headway with them.

In the silence that followed the departure of the Orwins, Wolfe could plainly be heard chewing a mouthful of mixed salad.

Cramer sat frowning at us. He turned his head: “Levy! Get that Colonel Brown in.”

“Yes, sir. That man you wanted - Vedder - he’s here.”

“Then I’ll take him first.”

Up in the plant - rooms Malcolm Vedder had caught my eye by the way he picked up a flowerpot and held it. As he took a chair across the dining table from Cramer and me, I still thought he was worth another good look, but after his answer to Cramer’s third question I relaxed and concentrated on my sandwiches. He was an actor and had had parts in three Broadway plays. Of course, that explained it.

No actor would pick up a flowerpot just normally, like you or me. He would have to dramatize it some way, and Vedder had happened to choose a way that looked to me like fingers closing around a throat.

Now he was dramatizing this by being wrought-up and indignant.

“Typical!” he told Cramer, his eyes flashing and his voice throaty with feeling.

“Typical of police clumsiness! Pulling me into this!”

“Yeah,” Cramer said sympathetically. “It’ll be tough for an actor, having your picture in the paper. You a member of this flower club?”

No, Vedder said, he wasn’t. He had come with a friend, a Mrs. Beauchamp, and when she had left to keep an appointment he had remained to look at more orchids. They had arrived about three-thirty and he had remained in the plant rooms continuously until leaving.

Cramer went through all the regulation questions, and got all the expected negatives, until he suddenly asked, “Did you know Doris Hatten?”

Vedder frowned. “Who?”

“Doris Hatten. She was also -“

“Ah!” Vedder cried. “She was also strangled! I remember!”

“Right.”

Vedder made fists of his hands, rested them on the table, and leaned forward.

“You know,” he said tensely, “that’s the worst of all strangling - especially a woman.”

“Did you know Doris Hatten?”

“Othello,” Vedder said in a deep, resonant tone. His eyes lifted to Cramer and his voice lifted, too: “No, I didn’t know her; I only read about her.” He shuddered all over, and then, abruptly, he was out of his chair and on his feet.

“I only came here to look at orchids!”

He ran his fingers through his hair, turned, and made for the door.

Levy looked at Cramer with his brows raised, and Cramer shook his head.

The next one in was Bill McNab, garden editor of the Gazette.

“I can’t tell you how much I regret this, Mr. Wolfe,” he said miserably.

“Don’t try,” Wolfe growled.

“What a terrible thing! I wouldn’t have dreamed such a thing could happen - the Manhattan Flower Club! Of course, she wasn’t a member, but that only makes it worse, in a way.” McNab turned to Cramer: “I’m responsible for this.”

“You are?”

“Yes, it was my idea. I persuaded Mr. Wolfe to arrange it. He let me word the invitations. And I was congratulating myself on the great success! Then this!

What can I do?”

“Sit down a minute,” Cramer invited him.

McNab varied the monotony on one detail, at least. He admitted that he had left the plant-rooms three times during the afternoon, once to accompany a departing guest down to the ground floor, and twice to go down alone to check on who had come and who hadn’t. Aside from that, he was more of the same. By now it was beginning to seem not only futile, but silly to spend time on seven or eight of them merely because they happened to be the last to go and so were at hand.

Also, it was something new to me from a technical standpoint. I had never seen one stack up like that.

Any precinct dick knows that every question you ask of everybody is aimed at one of the three targets: motive, means, and opportunity. In this case there were no questions to ask, because those were already answered. Motive: the guy had followed her downstairs, knowing she had recognized him, had seen her enter Wolfe’s office and thought she was doing exactly what she was doing, getting set to tell Wolfe, and had decided to prevent that the quickest and best way he knew. Means: any piece of cloth, even his handkerchief, would do. Opportunity:

he was there - all of them on Saul’s list were.

So, if you wanted to learn who strangled Cynthia Brown, first you had to find out who had strangled Doris Hatten.

As soon as Bill McNab had been sent on his way, Col. Percy Brown was brought in.

Brown was not exactly at ease, but he had himself well in hand. You would never have picked him for a con man, and neither would I. His mouth and jaw were strong and attractive, and as he sat down he leveled his keen gray eyes at Cramer and kept them there. He wasn’t interested in Wolfe or me. He said his name was Colonel Percy Brown, and Cramer asked him which army he was a colonel in.

“I think,” Brown said in a cool, even tone, “it will save time if I state my position: I will answer fully and freely all questions that relate to what I saw, heard, or did since I arrived here this afternoon. Answers to any other questions will have to wait until I consult my attorney.”

Cramer nodded. “I expected that. The trouble is I’m pretty sure I don’t give a hoot what you saw or heard this afternoon. We’ll come back to that. I want to put something up to you. As you see, I’m not even wanting to know why you tried to break away before we got here.”

“I merely wanted to phone -“

“Forget it. On information received, I think it’s like this: The woman who called herself Cynthia Brown, murdered here today, was not your sister. You met her in Florida six or eight weeks ago. She went in with you on an operation of which Mrs. Orwin was the subject, and you introduced her to Mrs. Orwin as your sister. You two came to New York with Mrs. Orwin a week ago, with the operation well under way. As far as I’m concerned, that is only background. Otherwise, I’m not interested in it. My work is homicide.

“For me,” Cramer went on, “the point is that for quite a period you have been closely connected with this Miss Brown, associating with her in a confidential operation. You must have had many intimate conversations with her. You were having her with you as your sister, and she wasn’t, and she’s been murdered. We could give you a merry time on that score alone.

“But I wanted to give you a chance first,” Cramer continued. “For two months you’ve been on intimate terms with Cynthia Brown. She certainly must have mentioned that a friend of hers named Doris Hatten was murdered - strangled last October. Cynthia Brown had information about the murderer which she kept to herself. If she had come out with it she’d be alive now. She must have told you all about it. Now you can tell me. If you do, we can nail him for what he did here today, and it might even make things a little smoother for you. Well?”

Brown had pursed his lips. They straightened out again, and his hand came up for a finger to scratch his cheek.

“I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“Do you expect me to believe that during all those weeks she never mentioned the murder of her friend Doris Hatten?”

“I’m sorry I can’t help.” Brown’s tone was firm and final.

Cramer said, “Okay. We’ll move on to this afternoon. Do you remember a moment when something about Cynthia Brown’s appearance - some movement she made or the expression on her face - caused Mrs. Orwin to ask her what was the matter with her?”

A crease was showing on Brown’s forehead. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I do,” he stated.

“I’m asking you to try. Try hard.”

Silence. Brown pursed his lips and the crease in his forehead deepened. Finally he said, “I may not have been right there at the moment. In those aisles - in a crowd like that - we weren’t rubbing elbows continuously.”

“You do remember when she excused herself because she wasn’t feeling well?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, the moment I’m asking about came shortly before that. She exchanged looks with some man nearby, and it was her reaction to that that made Mrs. Orwin ask her what was the matter. What I’m interested in is that exchange of looks.”

“I didn’t see it.”

Cramer banged his fist on the table so hard the trays danced. “Levy! Take him out and tell Stebbins to send him down and lock him up. Material witness. Put more men on him - he’s got a record somewhere. Find it!”

As the door closed behind them, Cramer turned and said, “Gather up, Murphy.

We’re leaving.”

Levy came back in and Cramer addressed him: “We’re leaving. Tell Stebbins one man out front will be enough - No, I’ll tell him -“

“There’s one more, sir. His name is Nicholson Morley. He’s a psychiatrist.”

“Let him go. This is getting to be a joke.”

Cramer looked at Wolfe. Wolfe looked back at him.

“A while ago,” Cramer rasped, “you said something had occurred to you.”

“Did I?” Wolfe inquired coldly.

Their eyes went on clashing until Cramer broke the connection by turning to go.

I restrained an impulse to knock their heads together. They were both being childish. If Wolfe really had something, anything at all, he knew Cramer would gladly trade the seals on the office door for it, sight unseen. And Cramer knew he could make the deal himself with nothing to lose. But they were both too sore and stubborn to show any horse sense.

Cramer had circled the end of the table on his way out when Levy reentered to report: “That man Morley insists on seeing you. He says it’s vital.”

Cramer halted, glowering. “What is he, a screwball?”

“I don’t know, sir. He may be.”

“Oh, bring him in.”

This was my first really good look at the middle-aged male with the mop of black hair. His quick-darting eyes were fully as black as his hair.

Cramer nodded impatiently. “You have something to say. Dr. Morley?”

“I have. Something vital.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Morley got better settled in his chair. “First, I assume that no arrest has been made. Is that correct?”

“Yes - if you mean an arrest with a charge of murder.”

“Have you a definite object of suspicion, with or without evidence in support?”

“If you mean am I ready to name the murderer, no. Are you?”

“I think I may be.”

Cramer’s chin went up. “Well'I’m in charge here.”

Dr. Morley smiled. “Not quite so fast. The suggestion I have to offer is sound only with certain assumptions.” He placed the tip of his right forefinger on the tip of his left little finger. “One: that you have no idea who committed this murder, and apparently you haven’t.” He moved over a finger. “Two: that this was not a commonplace crime with a commonplace discoverable motive.” To the middle finger. “Three: that nothing is known to discredit the hypothesis that this girl was strangled by the man who strangled Doris Hatten … May I make those assumptions?”

“You can try. Why do you want to?”

Morley shook his head. “Not that I want to. That if I am permitted to, I have a suggestion. I wish to make it clear that I have great respect for the competence of the police, within proper limits. If the man who murdered Doris Hatten had been vulnerable to police techniques and resources, he would almost certainly have been caught. But he wasn’t. You failed. Why'

“Because he was out of bounds for you. Because your exploration of motive is restricted by your preconceptions.” Morley’s black eyes gleamed. “You’re a layman, so I won’t use technical terms. The most powerful motives on earth are motives of the personality, which cannot be exposed by any purely objective investigation. If the personality is twisted, distorted, as it is with a psychotic, then the motives are twisted, too. As a psychiatrist I was deeply interested in the published reports on the murder of Doris Hatten - especially the detail that she was strangled with her own scarf. When your efforts to find the culprit ended in complete failure, I would have been glad to come forward with a suggestion, but I was as helpless as you.”