The Rubber Band/The Red Box 2-In-1 (14 page)

“I’ve already had it. It might very well have been. Has he an alibi?”

“I don’t know. I guess the Commissioner forgot to ask him. You got any evidence?”

“No. No fragment.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “But I’ll tell you this. It is important to me, also, that the murder of Harlan Scovil be solved. In the interest of a client. In fact, two.”

“Oh. You’ve got clients.”

“I have. I have told you that there are various questions I might answer if you cared to ask them. For instance, do you know who was sitting in your chair three hours ago? Clara Fox. And in that one? Hilda Lindquist. And in that? Michael Walsh. That, I believe, covers the list on that famous paper, except for the Marquis of Clivers. I am sorry to say he was absent.”

Cramer had jerked himself forward. He leaned back again and observed, “You wouldn’t kid me.”

“I am perfectly serious.”

Cramer stared at him. He scraped his teeth around on his upper lip, took a piece of tobacco from his tongue with his fingers, and kept on staring. Finally he said, “All right. What do I ask next?”

“Well … nothing about the subject of our conference, for that was private business. You might ask where Michael Walsh is now. I would have to reply, I have no idea. No idea whatever. Nor do I know where Miss Lindquist is. She left here about two hours ago. The commission I have undertaken for her is a purely civil affair, with no impingements on the criminal law. My other client is Clara Fox. In her case the criminal law is indeed concerned, but not the crime of murder. As I told you on the telephone, I will not for the present answer any question regarding her whereabouts.”

“All right. Next?”

“Next you might perhaps permit me a question. You say that you want to see these people on account of the murder of Harlan Scovil, and in connection with your desire to protect the Marquis of Clivers. But the detectives you sent, whom Mr. Goodwin welcomed so oddly, had a warrant for her arrest on a charge of larceny. Do you wonder that I was, and am, a little skeptical of your good faith?”

“Well.” Cramer looked at his cigar. “If you collected all
the good faith in this room right now you might fill a teaspoon.”

“Much more, sir, if you included mine.” Wolfe opened his eyes at him. “Miss Fox is accused of stealing. How do you know, justly or unjustly? You thought she was in my house. Had you any reason to suppose that I would aid a person suspected of theft to escape a trial by law? No. If you thought she was here, could you not have telephoned me and arranged to take her into custody tomorrow morning, when I could have got her release on bail? Did you need to assault my privacy and insult my dignity by having your bullies burst in my door in order to carry off a sensitive and lovely young woman to a night in jail? For shame, sir! Pfui!” Wolfe poured himself a glass of beer.

Cramer shook his head, slowly back and forth. “By God, you’re a world-beater. I hand it to you. You know very well, Wolfe, I wasn’t interested in any larceny. I wanted to talk with her about murder and about this damned marquis.”

“Bah. After your talk, would she or would she not have been incarcerated?”

“I suppose she would. Hell, millions of innocent people have spent a night in jail, and sometimes much longer.”

“The people I engage to keep out of it don’t. If what you wanted was a talk, why the warrant? Why the violent and hostile onslaught?”

Cramer nodded. “That was a mistake. I admit it. I’ll tell you the truth, the Commissioner was there demanding action. And the phone call came. I don’t know who it was. He not only told me that Clara Fox was in your house, he also told me that the same Clara Fox was wanted for stealing money from the Seaboard Products Corporation. I got in touch with another department and learned that a warrant for her arrest had been executed late this afternoon. It was the Commissioner’s idea to get the warrant and use it to send here and get her in a hurry.”

I went on and got the signs for that down in my notebook, but my mind wasn’t on that, it was on Mike Walsh. It was fairly plain that Wolfe had let one get by when he had permitted Walsh to walk out with no supervision, considering that New York is full not only of telephones, but also of subways and railroad trains and places to hide. And for the first time I put it down as a serious speculation whether Walsh could have had a reason to croak his dear old friend Harlan Scovil. Seeing Wolfe’s lips moving slowly out and in, I suspected
that the taste in his mouth was about the same as mine. Cramer was saying:

“Come on, Wolfe, forget it. You know what most Police Commissioners are like. They’re not cops. They think all you have to do is flash a badge and strong men burst into tears. Be a sport and help me out once. I want to see this Fox woman. I’ll take your word for Walsh and Lindquist and keep after them, but help me out on Clara Fox. If you’ve got her here, trot her out. If you haven’t, tell me where to find her. If you’ve turned her loose too, which isn’t a bad trick, show me her trail. She may be your client, but I’m not kidding when I say that the best thing you can do for her right now, and damn quick, is to let me see her. I don’t care anything about any larceny—”

Wolfe interrupted. “She does. I do.” He shook his head. “The larceny charge is of course in charge of the District Attorney’s office; you haven’t the power to affect it one way or another. I know that. As for the Marquis of Clivers, he is in no danger from Clara Fox that you need to protect him from. And as regards the murder of Harlan Scovil, she knows as little about that as I do. In fact, even less, since it is barely possible that I know who killed him.”

Cramer looked at him. He puffed his cigar and kept on looking. At length he said, “Well. It’s a case of murder. I’m in charge of the Homicide Squad. I’m listening.”

“That’s all. I volunteered that.”

Cramer looked disgusted. “It can’t be all. It’s either too much or not enough. You’ve said enough to make you a material witness. You know what we can do with material witnesses if we want to.”

“Yes, I know.” Wolfe sighed. “But you can’t very well lock me up, for then I wouldn’t be free to unravel this tangle for my client—and for you. I said, barely possible.” He sat up straight, abruptly. “Barely possible, sir! Confound all of you! You marquises that need protection, you hyenas of finance, you upholders of the power to persecute and defame! And don’t mistake this outburst as a display of moral indignation; it is merely the practical protest of a man of business who finds his business interfered with by ignorance and stupidity. I expect to collect a fee from my client, Miss Fox. To do that I need to prosecute a claim for her, for a legal debt, I need to clear her from the false accusation of larceny, and I fear I need to discover who murdered Harlan Scovil. Those are legitimate needs, and I shall pursue them. If you want to protect your precious marquis, for God’s sake do so! Surround
him with a ring of iron and steel, or immerse him in antiseptic jelly! But don’t annoy me when I’m trying to work! It is past one o’clock, and I must be up shortly after six, and Mr. Goodwin and I have things to do. I have every right to advise Miss Fox to avoid unfriendly molestation. If you want her, search for her. I have said that I will answer no question regarding her whereabouts, but I will tell you this much: if you undertake to invade these premises with a search warrant, you won’t find her here.”

Wolfe’s half a glass of beer was flat, but he didn’t mind that. He reached for it and swallowed it. Then he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his lips. “Well, sir?”

Cramer put his cigar stub in the tray, rubbed the palms of his hands together for a while, pulled at the lobe of his ear, and stood up. He looked down at Wolfe.

“I like you, you know. You know damn well I do. But this thing is to some extent out of my hands. The Commissioner was talking on the telephone this evening with the Department of Justice. That’s the kind of a lay-out it is. They might really send and get you. That’s a friendly warning.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re going? Mr. Goodwin will let you out.”

I did. I went to the hall and held his coat for him, and when I pulled the curtain aside to survey the stoop before opening the door he chuckled and slapped me on the back. That didn’t make me want to kiss him. Naturally he knew when an apple was too high to reach without a ladder, and naturally there’s no use letting a guy know you’re going to sock him until you’re ready to haul off. I saw his big car with a driver there at the curb, and there was a stranger on the sidewalk. Apparently the tenor had been relieved.

I went back to the office and sat down and yawned. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes wide open, which meant he was sleepy. We looked at each other. I said:

“So if he comes with a search warrant he won’t find her here. That’s encouraging. It’s also encouraging that Mike Walsh is being such a big help. Also that you know who killed Harlan Scovil, like I know who put the salt in the ocean. Also that we’re tied hand and foot with the Commissioner himself sore at us.” I yawned. “I guess I’ll prop myself up in bed tomorrow and read and knit.”

“Not tomorrow, Archie. The day after, possibly. Your notebook.”

I got it, and a pencil. Wolfe began:

“Miss Fox to breakfast with me in my room at seven o’clock. Delay would be dangerous. Do not forget the gong. You are not to leave the house. Saul, Fred, Orrie and Keems are to be sent to my room immediately upon arrival, but singly. Arrange tonight for a long distance connection with London at eight-thirty, Hitchcock’s office. From Miss Fox, where does Walsh live and where is he employed as night watchman. As early as possible, call Morley of the District Attorney’s office and I’ll talk to him. Have Fritz bring me a copy of this when he wakes me at six-thirty. From Saul, complete information from Miss Lindquist regarding her father, his state of health, could he travel in an airplane, his address and telephone number in Nebraska. Phone Murger’s—they open at eight-thirty—for copies of
Metropolitan Biographies
, all years available. Explain to Fritz and Theodore procedure regarding Miss Fox, as follows: …”

He went on, in the drawling murmur that he habitually used when giving me a set-up. I was yawning, but I got it down. Some of it sounded like he was having hallucinations or else trying to make me think he knew things I didn’t know. I quit yawning for grinning while he was explaining the procedure regarding Miss Fox.

He went to bed. After I finished the typing and giving a copy to Fritz and a few other chores, I went to the basement to take a look at the back door, and looked out the front to direct a Bronx cheer at the gumshoe on guard. Up the stairs, I continued to the third floor to take a look at the door of the south room, but I didn’t try it to see if it was locked, thinking it might disturb her. Down again, in my room, I looked in the bottom drawer to see if Fritz had messed it up getting out the pajamas. It was all right. I hit the hay.

When I leave my waking up in the morning to the vagaries of nature, it’s a good deal like other acts of God—you can’t tell much about it ahead of time. So Tuesday at six-thirty I staggered out of bed and fought my way across the room to turn off the electric alarm clock on the table. Then I proceeded to cleanse the form and the phiz and get the figure draped for the day. By that time the bright October sun had a band across the top fronts of the houses across the street, and I thought to myself it would be a pity to have to go to jail on such a fine day.

At seven-thirty I was in my corner in the kitchen, with Canadian bacon, pancakes, and wild thyme honey which Wolfe got from Syria. And plenty of coffee. The wheels had already started to turn. Clara Fox, who had told Fritz she had slept like a log, was having breakfast with Wolfe in his room. Johnny Keems had arrived early, and he and Saul Panzer were in the dining-room punishing pancakes. With the telephone I had pulled Dick Morley, of the District Attorney’s office, out of bed at his home, and Wolfe had talked with him. It was Morley who would have lost his job, and maybe something more, but for Wolfe pulling him out of a hole in the Banister-Schurman business about three years before.

With my pancakes I went over the stories of Scovil’s murder in the morning papers. They didn’t play it up much, but the accounts were fairly complete. The tip-off was that he was a Chicago gangster, which gave me a grin, since he looked about as much like a gangster as a prima donna. The essentials were there, provided they were straight: no gun had been found. The car had been stolen from where some innocent perfume salesman had parked it on 29th Street. The closest
eyewitness had been a man who had been walking along about thirty feet behind Harlan Scovil, and it was he who had got the license number before he dived for cover when the bullets started flying. In the dim light he hadn’t got a good view of the man in the car, but he was sure it was a man, with his hat pulled down and a dark overcoat collar turned up, and he was sure he had been alone in the car. The car had speeded off across 31st Street and turned at the corner. No one had been found who had noticed it stopping on Ninth Avenue, where it had later been found. No fingerprints … and so forth and so forth.