Some Buried Caesar (46 page)

I
need eight and a half hours’ sleep and I prefer nine. Every morning when my bedside clock turns on the radio at seven-thirty I roll over to have it at the back of my ears. In a minute I roll over again, reach to turn it off, get comfortable, and try to figure that it’s Sunday. But I know damn well Fritz will have my breakfast ready at 8:10. For two or three minutes I wrestle with the idea of getting him on the house phone to say I’ll be a little late, then give up, kick the cover back, swing my legs around, get upright, and start to face realities.

That Tuesday morning was different. I had set the clock an hour earlier, for six-thirty, and when it clicked and the radio started one of those goddam cheerful morning jamborees I flipped the switch and got my feet to the floor in one desperate convulsion. I had been horizontal just two hours. I showered, shaved, combed and brushed, dressed, went downstairs, and entered the front room.

It was not a gay scene. Mortimer Ervin was stretched out on the carpet with his head resting on one of the cushions from the couch. Lips Egan was lying on the couch. Dennis Horan was in the upholstered
armchair, rumpled but not relaxed. Saul Panzer was on a chair with its back to the window, his wards all in range without his having to overwork his eyes.

“Good morning,” I said gloomily. “Breakfast will soon be served.”

“This is insufferable,” Horan squeaked.

“Then don’t suffer it. I’ve told you at least five times you’re free to go. As for them, it’s de luxe. A couch and a soft carpet to rest on. Doc Vollmer, who left his bed at two in the morning to dress Mort’s hand, is as good as they come. We’re leaning over backwards. Mr. Wolfe thought you might feel he was taking an unfair advantage if he worked on them privately before notifying the law, so he didn’t even get up to have a look at them. He stayed isolated in his room, either in bed or pacing the floor, I can’t say which. In your presence and hearing I phoned Manhattan Homicide at one-forty-seven A.M. and said that Mr. Wolfe had something important to tell Inspector Cramer personally and would appreciate a call from Cramer at his earliest convenience. As for your desire to be alone with your client, we couldn’t possibly let a ruffian like Egan out of our sight. Cramer would give us hell. How are you, Saul?”

“Fine. I had three hours’ sleep before I relieved Fred at five-thirty.”

“You don’t look it. I’ll go see about breakfast.”

While I was in the kitchen with Fritz, Fred came in, fully dressed, with a staggering piece of news. He and Orrie had been pounding their ears in the twin beds in the south room, which is on the same floor as mine, and had been aroused by the sound of tapping on the ceiling of the room below, which was Wolfe’s. Fred had gone down to see, and had been told by
Wolfe to send Orrie to him at once. I would have had to dig deep in my memory for a precedent of Wolfe doing any business whatever before he had his breakfast.

Fritz had his hands full with eight breakfasts to prepare and serve, not counting his own, but Fred and I cooperated by putting a table in the front room and conveying food and equipment. We ate in the kitchen, and were disposing of our share of corn muffins and broiled ham and honey when Orrie marched in and commanded Fritz, “Forget these bums and attend to me. I have to go on a mission, and I’m hungry. Archie, go get me five hundred bucks. While you’re gone I’ll swipe your chair. Also give me the name of that outfit with a bunch of guys that make phone calls for so much per thousand.”

I kept my chair until my breakfast was down, including a second cup of coffee, so he had to perch on the stool. Then I filled his orders. It was useless to try to guess what he was going to do with the five hundred, but if any substantial part of it was for buying phone calls wholesale I might try doping that for practice. Since I had reported to Wolfe in full up in his room after depositing our guests downstairs, he knew everything I did, but no more. Who could be the likely candidates for a thousand phone calls? It couldn’t be the people listed in Egan’s customer book, for it was locked in the safe—I saw it there when I got the currency from the expense drawer—and Orrie hadn’t asked for it. I filed the question in my mind for further consideration during spare moments, if I had any. It wasn’t the first time Wolfe had sent one of the help on an errand without consulting me.

By eight o’clock Fritz had brought Wolfe’s tray
back down, and Orrie had left, and Fred and I had brought the breakfast things from the front room and were in the kitchen helping with the dishes, when the doorbell rang. I tossed the dishtowel to a table and went to the hall, and when I saw Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins on the stoop I didn’t have to keep them waiting while I sought instructions. I already had instructions, so, with a glance en route to make sure the door to the front room was closed, I went and opened up and welcomed them.

They stayed put. “We’re on our way somewhere,” Cramer rasped. “What do you want to tell me?”

“Nothing. Mr. Wolfe is the teller. Step in.”

“I can’t wait around for him.”

“You won’t have to. He’s been anxiously expecting you for six hours.”

They entered and headed for the office. As I entered behind them Cramer growled, “He’s not here.”

I ignored it, told them to be seated, went to my desk and buzzed Wolfe’s room on the house phone, and told him who had arrived. Cramer got a cigar from a pocket, rolled it between his palms, inspected the end of it as if to see whether someone had dosed it with some rare and obscure poison, stuck it between his lips, and clamped his teeth on it. I had never seen him light one. Stebbins sat taking me in at a slant. He hated having his commanding officer coming there when a big murder case was sizzling, and I wouldn’t bet that he wouldn’t still have hated it even if he knew that we had the murderer, with ample evidence, wrapped up and waiting.

The sound of the descending elevator came, and in a moment Wolfe entered. He greeted the company with no enthusiasm, crossed to his desk, and before
sitting down demanded, “What kept you so long? Mr. Goodwin phoned more than six hours ago. My house is full of questionable characters, and I want to get rid of them.”

“Skip it,” Cramer snapped. “We’re in a hurry. What characters?”

Wolfe sat, taking his time to get arranged. “First,” he said, “have you any comment about Miss Estey’s charge that Mr. Goodwin offered to sell her a report of the conversation I had with Mrs. Fromm?”

“No. That’s up to the District Attorney. You’re stalling.”

Wolfe shrugged. “Second, about the spider earrings. Mrs. Fromm bought them at a midtown shop on Monday afternoon, May eleventh. As you have doubtless discovered, there is probably no other pair like them in New York and never has been.”

Stebbins got out his notebook. Cramer demanded, “Where did you get that?”

“By inquiry. I give you the fact; the way I got it is my affair. She saw them in a window, bought them, paid by check, and took them with her. Since you have access to her check stubs you can probably find the shop and verify this, but I can’t imagine a sillier waste of time. I vouch for the fact, and reflection will show you that it is extremely significant.”

“In what way?”

“No. Do your own interpreting. I supply only facts. Here’s another. You know Saul Panzer.”

“Yes.”

“Yesterday he went to the office of the Association for the Aid of Displaced Persons, gave the name of Leopold Heim and as his address a cheap hotel on First Avenue, and talked both with Miss Angela Wright and a man named Chaney. He told them that
he was in this country illegally and in fear of being exposed and deported, and asked for help. They said his plight was outside their field of activity, advised him to go to a lawyer, and gave him the name of Dennis Horan. He went and talked with Mr. Horan, and then went to his hotel. Shortly before eight o’clock in the evening a man arrived at his room and offered to protect him against exposure or harassment upon payment of ten thousand dollars. Mr. Panzer will give you all details. He was given twenty-four hours to scrape up all the money he could, and when the man left, Mr. Panzer followed him. He is pre-eminent at that.”

“I know he is. Then what?”

“We’ll shift to Mr. Goodwin. Before he proceeds I should explain that I had made an assumption about the man in the car with the woman last Tuesday when the woman told the boy to get a cop. I had assumed that the man was Matthew Birch.”

Cramer’s eyes widened. “Why Birch?”

“I don’t have to expound it because it has been validated. It was Birch. Another fact.”

“Show me. This one will have to be filled in good.”

“By Mr. Goodwin. He’ll get to it. Archie, start with Fred’s phone call last evening and go on through.”

I complied. Having known that this would be somewhere on the program, I had spent most of an hour carefully going over it, while I had been on guard duty in the front room from three-thirty to four-thirty, and had decided that only two major items should be omitted: the kind of stimulation used on Lips Egan, and Egan’s notebook. The latter wouldn’t be mentioned, and wasn’t. Wolfe had said,
during our session up in his room, that if it proved later to be essential evidence we would have to produce it, but not otherwise.

Except for those two items I delivered the crop. Stebbins started taking notes but quit halfway through. It was too much for him. I handed him Mort’s gun and exhibited the pliers, which had black tape wrapped thick around the jaws to keep them from breaking skin and bruising flesh. When I finished, Cramer and Stebbins sat looking at each other.

Cramer turned to Wolfe. “This needs some sorting out.”

“Yes,” Wolfe agreed. “It does indeed.”

Cramer turned to Stebbins. “Do we know this Egan?”

“I don’t, but I’ve been on Homicide all my life.”

“Get Rowcliff and tell him to get on him fast.”

I left my chair, and Purley got in it and dialed. While he was phoning, Cramer sat holding his cigar in his fingers, frowning at it, and rubbing his lips with a knuckle of his other hand. It looked exactly as if he were trying to make up his mind whether to quit cigar-chewing. When Purley was through and back in his chair, Cramer looked at Wolfe. “Horan’s in it up to his neck, but we can’t hold him now.”

“I’m not holding him. He is voluntarily cleaving to his client.”

“Yeah, I know. I hand you that one. It tagged Horan all right. If we can make Egan sing we’ve got it.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Not necessarily the murderer. Possibly Egan knows as little about the murders as you do.”

It was a dirty crack, but Cramer ignored it.
“We’ll give him a chance,” he declared. “Plenty. I’ve got to sort this out. It’s not absolutely tight that it was Birch in the car with the woman. Suppose it wasn’t? Suppose the man in the car was one of the poor devils they had their hooks into. The woman was the one in the racket, the one that phones Egan the leads. She thought the man was going to kill her, so she told the boy to get a cop. Somehow she got out of it, but that night she got hold of Birch, who was running the racket, and killed him. Then he knew the boy could identify him—he might even have killed the woman, and her body hasn’t been found—so the next day he killed the boy. Then he knew Mrs. Fromm was the head of that Association, so he killed her. My God, this makes it wide open, this racket and Horan in it. People like that are desperate, and there are thousands of them in New York—people here illegally and afraid of getting kicked out. They’re soup for blackmailers. There must be a list somewhere of the ones these bastards were nicking, and I wish I had it. I would make it even money that the name of the murderer is on it. Would you?”

“No.”

“Anything to be contrary. Why not?”

“You haven’t done enough sorting, Mr. Cramer. But your snatching at a blackmail victim as the culprit shows that you’re hard up. There have been three murders. Assuming, to keep it tidy, that there is only one murderer, have all the handy ones been eliminated?”

“No.”

“Who has been?”

“Crossed off, nobody. Of course there are complications. For instance, Mrs. Horan says that Friday
night her husband returned to the apartment ten minutes after he left with Mrs. Fromm to take her down to her car, and he went to bed and stayed there, but that’s a wife corroborating a husband. If you’re ready to nominate a candidate don’t let me stop you. Have you got one?”

“Yes.”

“The hell you have. Name him.”

“The question was, have I a candidate, not am I ready to nominate. I may be ready in an hour, or in a week, but not now.”

Cramer grunted. “Either you’re grandstanding, which would be nothing new, or you’re holding out. I admit you’ve made a haul—this racket, and Egan, and, by luck, Horan too—and much obliged. Okay. None of that names the murderer. What else? If you’re after a deal, here I am. I’ll give you anything and everything we’ve got, ask me anything you want to—of course that’s what you’re after—if you’ll reciprocate and give me all you’ve got.”

Stebbins made a noise and then tried to look as if he hadn’t.

“That,” Wolfe said, “is theoretically a fair and forthright proposal, but practically it’s pointless. Because first, I’ve given you all I’ve got; and second, you have nothing I want or need.”

Cramer and Stebbins gawked at him, both surprised and suspicious.

“You’ve already told me,” Wolfe went on, “that no one has been eliminated, more than three days since Mrs. Fromm was killed. That will do for me. By now you have tens of thousands of words of reports and statements, and I admit it’s possible that buried somewhere in them is a fact or a phrase I might think cogent, but even if you cart it all up here I
don’t intend to wade through it. For example, how many pages have you on the background and associates and recent comings and goings of Miss Angela Wright?”

“Enough,” Cramer growled.

“Of course. I don’t decry it. Such lines of inquiry often get you an answer, but manifestly in this case they haven’t even hinted at one or you wouldn’t be here. Would I find in your dossier the answer to this question: Why did the man who killed the boy in broad daylight, with people around on the street, dare to run the risk of later identification by one or more onlookers? Or to this one: How to account for the log of the earrings—bought by Mrs. Fromm on May eleventh, worn by another woman on May nineteenth, and worn by Mrs. Fromm on May twenty-second? Have you found any trace of the earrings beyond that? Worn by anyone at any time?”