Death Times Three SSC (6 page)

"Ah," Wolfe murmured. "That abominable--" He wiggled a finger at the victim. "Did you poison that liver pate?"

"I did not."

"Who are you? What's your name?"

"Cliff. Leonard Cliff."

"Indeed. You're a vice-president of the Provisions & Beverages Corporation. Mr. Tingley, himself, suspected you of adulterating his product."

"I know he did. He was wrong. So is this man wrong when he says I must have come out of that building. I wasn't inside the building at all."

"Where were you?"

"I was in the driveway. There's a driveway tunnel near the door. I was in there."

"What were you doing there?"

"Keeping out of the rain. Look here," Cliff said appealingly. "I can't think straight. This is terrible! If Tingley has been murdered the police have to be notified, I know that, but for God's sake don't get them here now! With Miss Duncan--Let me get her to a hospital! And get a lawyer--"

Wolfe cut him off: "What were you doing in the driveway.

He shook his head. "It had no connection--"

"Pfui! Don't be a fool. If you adulterated Mr. Tingley's product, or cut his throat, either or both, I advise you to get out of here at once. If you didn't, I advise you to answer my questions promptly and fully. Not to mention truthfully. Well, sir? Archie, call police headquarters. I'll talk."

I dialed the number, and when I had it, Wolfe took it at his instrument. "Hello, . 0 . This is Nero Wolfe. Write this down: Arthur Tingley. His office at his place--

"Wait!" Cliff blurted. "I'll answer your questions--" He started from his chair, but I got in between him and the desk and he subsided.

Wolfe continued: "--his place of business at Twenty-sixth Street and Tenth Avenue. He's there dead.
Murdered..."

"Oh..."

"Let me finish, please. My assistant, Archie Goodwin, was there and saw him. Mr. Goodwin had to leave, but he will be here at my home later. No. I have no idea."

He pushed the phone away, and regarded Cliff with his eyes half closed. "You had better make it as succinct as possible. What were you doing in the driveway?"

Cliff was on the edge of his chair, straight, rigid, meeting his gaze. "I was waiting for Miss Duncan to come out. I had followed her there."

"Followed? Without her knowledge?"

"Yeas,"

"Why?"

Cliff's jaw worked. "I had a dinner engagement with her, and she phoned me at six o'clock and broke it. The reason she gave sounded phony, and I was--damn it, I was jealous! I went to where she lives, on Grove Street, and waited across the street. When she came out it had started to rain, and she took a taxi, and I managed to grab one and follow her. She went straight to Tingley's and dismissed her cab and went in. I did the same, but I went in the tunnel entrance and waited there. I couldn't imagine what she was doing there."

"What time did she arrive?"

"A few minutes after seven. It was one minute to seven when she left her place on Grove Street. When I saw a man drive up and go in, and a little later come out carrying her and start to put her in his car, naturally I went for him."

"Naturally," Wolfe said. "Were you in the tunnel while Miss Duncan was inside?"

"Yes. And I saw three men come and go in and leave again. Goodwin was the last one. There were two others before that."

Wolfe shook his head. "I doubt if that's a good idea. If you invent a constant stream of visitors, and it develops..."

"I'm not inventing, damn it! I saw them!"

"Tell me about them."

"The first one was at seven-thirty. A big, gray town car stopped at the curb, and the driver got out and held an umbrella over another man as he crossed the sidewalk to the entrance. In five minutes the man came out again and ran to the car and got in, and the car drove off. The license was GJ88."

I grunted. They looked at me. "Nothing," I said, "go ahead."

"I nearly missed seeing the second one go in, because he was walking. He had on a raincoat. It was seven-forty when he entered, and he was inside seven or eight minutes. When he came out I got a pretty good view of his face by a street light. He walked off to the east."

"Did you recognize either of the men?"

"No. But that license number --"

"Do you know it?"

"No, but I can guess, on account of the GJ. I think it belongs to Guthrie Judd. It can be checked."

"Guthrie Judd, the banker?"

"He calls himself a banker, yes. He's more of a promoter. He's been boosting an outfit he calls Consolidated Cereals. Recently he's been after the Tingley business. He's shrewd and unscrupulous--and tough."

"Was it Judd who entered the building at seven-thirty?"

"I couldn't tell. The driver was holding an umbrella over him."

Wolfe grunted. "That's prudent. Should you claim to have recognized Judd, and he is able to prove--" "I'm telling the truth!" Cliff got spirited again. "I'm telling you exactly what happened! Do you think I'm a damned idiot?" He stood up. "I'm going upstairs." A voice behind him asked, "May I come in?"

It was Doc Vollmer. At Wolfe's nod he entered, his bag in his hand, and spoke professionally: "She'll do all right. She got a bad knock on the head, but there's no fracture. It seems to be nervous shock more than anything. After a night's rest "

"Is she conscious?" Cliff demanded.

"Oh, yes." Cliff was darting off, but the doctor grabbed his arm. "Now, wait a minute--just take it easy

"Can she be moved?" Wolfe inquired.

"I wouldn't advise it. Not tonight."

"I want to ask her some questions."

"Now? Is it urgent?"

"Fairly urgent. The police will be here pretty soon." "I see. All right, I'd better go up with you. You'll have to go easy with her."

We moved. Wolfe headed for the elevator and the rest of us walked up the two flights. We got there first. Amy, lying on her side, opened her eyes at us, with no indication of interest for Doc or me, but when they lit on Cliff they opened wide and she made a noise.

"Amy!" Cliff squawked. "Thank God! Amy--"

Vollmer held him back.

"You--" she said weakly. "Where--you--I don't"

"Take her hand," Vollmer said judiciously. "Hold her hand. Don't talk."

Wolfe came in, and Amy moved her head enough to get him in view. "Hello, there," she squeaked.

"Good evening, Miss Duncan," he said politely.

"Does it hurt much?"

"Not--well--it aches."

"I suppose so. Can you understand words?" "Yes--but I don't understand--"

"Please listen. You said nothing this afternoon of any intention to go to your uncle's place this evening. But at seven o'clock you went. Why?"

"He phoned--and asked me to come. Soon after I got home from work."

"What for? Did he say?"

"He said it was something about Phil. My cousin."

She went to move her head, and a little moan came out of her. "He wouldn't say what it was on the phone." "But when you got there? What did he say then?" "He didn't--oh "

"Take it easy now," Doc Vollmer warned.

"I'm all right," Amy declared. "I'm not going to faint again. But when I shut my eyes I see it. The door of his office was open and the light was on, but he wasn't there. I mean--I didn't see him. I went right on in.

"Go ahead."

"That's all I remember. The next thing I remember was my head. I thought something was on it holding it down. I tried to lift myself up and then I saw him. Oh!" Her brow creased. "I thought I saw him--my uncle there with the blood--"

"That's all right. Don't worry about that. What happened next?"

"Nothing happened. I don't remember anything." "Didn't you see anyone at all when you went in? Or hear anyone?"

"No. I don't think--I'm sure I didn't--"

"Excuse me," I said. "The doorbell's ringing. If it's city employees do I ask to see a warrant?"

"No." Wolfe scowled at me. "Take them to the office.

. Wait a minute. Dr. Vollmer, if this young woman is in no condition to leave my house it would be cruel and dangerous for her to undergo a police grilling. Do you agree?"

"I do,"

"Good.-, Miss Duncan, when a policeman comes up here to look at you, keep your eyes closed and moan. Will you do that?"

"Yes. But--"

"No buts. Don't overdo it, and don't speak." He moved. "Come, gentlemen."

When we got downstairs I waited until they were in the office before opening the front door. There I was greeted by a surprise. It was no squad lieutenant, but Inspector Cramer himself, who shoved in rudely over the sill, with a pair of dicks on his heels. All he had for me was a discourteous remark about answering doorbells as he made for the office. Having to shut the door, I brought up the rear.

Cramer appeared to be having an attack of gout. Not bothering to pass the time of day, he barked at me like a howitzer, "What were you doing down at Twenty-sixth Street?"

I looked at the boss. He murmured, "He's upset, Archie. Humor him."

"Humor hell! What time did you get there?" I looked thoughtful. "Well, let's see
... ."

"Quit clowning! You know damn well you've always got a timetable!"

"Yes, sir," I said abjectly. "Arrived at 8:08. Left at 8:24."

"You admit it!"

"Admit it? I'm proud of it. It was quick work."

"Yeah." If glares could kill, I would have been awful sick. "And Wolfe phoned from here at five after nine! You didn't see the phone right there on Tingley's desk? I've warned you about that. Now, talk! Fast!"

Having received no flag from Wolfe to retain any items for our personal use, I gave Cramer the crop, as far as my activities and observations were concerned, omitting the crumbs that had been gathered in conversation with Cliff and Amy. My candor didn't seem to make him any more friendly.

When I finished he grunted vulgarly. "So you stood there in that room with a man lying there murdered; and a phone right there and you didn't use it. Where's the woman?"

"Upstairs in bed."

"You can check her out. Doyle, stay here with Mr. Cliff. Foster, come with me--well?"

Doc Vollmer blocked the way. He said firmly, "Miss Duncan should not be disturbed. I speak as her physician."

"You do." Cramer eyed him. "I'll take a look at her. Come, Foster."

Doc Vollmer, leading the way, went with the forces of law and order. Wolfe heaved a sigh, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Pretty soon steps were heard descending the stairs, and Cramer and Vollmer entered. Wolfe opened his eyes.

"She's faking," Cramer declared. "Sure as hell. I'll send a police doctor."

"Dr. Vollmer," Wolfe murmured, "is a competent and reputable physician."

"Yeah, I know. And a friend of yours. I'll send a police doctor. And I'm taking Goodwin and Cliff downtown."

"Where's that man you had with you?"

"Upstairs. On a chair outside Miss Duncan's door. He's going to stay there. And no one but the doctor is going either in or out."

Wolfe's bulk became upright. "This is my house, Mr. Cramer," he said icily, "and you can't use it for the persecution of innocent and battered females. That man can't stay here."

"Try and put him out," Cramer said grimly. "Next time Goodwin stumbles on a man with his head cut off, maybe he'll let us know the same day.
Come on,

you two." ...

At ten o'clock the following morning we didn't have a guest any more, but we had a client. Having been kept at headquarters until three A.M., I was peevish from lack of sleep. Fritz was on his feet again, but unstable from his grippe. Wolfe was a seething volcano from a sense of outrage. He had had the minor satisfaction of refusing admission to the police doctor the night before, but at eight in the morning they had come with a warrant for Amy Duncan as a material witness and carted her off, and all he could do was grind his teeth. So when I told him, as he sat propped up in bed sipping chocolate and glowering like a thunderhead, that down at headquarters Leonard Cliff had hired him, through me, to go to work, he didn't even blink an eye. His method of starting the job was customary and characteristic:

"Have Mr. Guthrie Judd here at eleven."

Before leaving the office I typed what seemed to me to be a nifty visiting card:

Mr. Judd: I respectfully submit the following schedule of events last evening at the Tingley Building:

7:05: Amy Duncan arrives; is knocked on head.

7:30: Guthrie Judd arrives.

7:35: Guthrie Judd leaves.

8:08: I arrive, find Tingley dead.

May I discuss it with you? Archie Goodwin.

I phoned his office in the financial district a little after nine, but was unable to extract any information from anyone even about the weather, which was fine, so I got out the roadster and drove down there.

After a supercilious receptionist condescended to phone someone, and a sap with slick hair made sure I wasn't Jesse James, I got the envelope dispatched. Then I waited, until finally a retired prize fighter appeared and conducted me through doors and down corridors, and ushered me into a room about the size of a tennis court; and he stayed right at my elbow for the trip across a couple of acres of rugs to where a man sat at an enormous flat-topped desk with nothing on it but a newspaper. On the man's face was the same totalitarian expression that had goaded me into chalking an X on the door of his car the day before. The corner of the card I had typed was held between the tips of a finger and thumb to avoid germs.