Prisoner's Base (9 page)

I shook my head. “No, sir. I sit here not as a gag but to avoid misunderstanding. As a client, the closer to you the better. As an employee, nothing doing until my personal problem is solved. If you meant what you said down there, tell me how much you want for a retainer, and I’ll give you a check. If not, all I can do is bound out of your house like a man obsessed.”

“Confound it, I’m helpless! I’m committed!”

“Yes, sir. How about a retainer?”

“No!”

“Would you care to hear how I spent the day?”

“Care to? No. But how the devil can I escape it?”

I reported in full. Gradually, as he progressed to his third glass of beer and on through it, the wrinkles of his scowl smoothed out some. Apparently he was paying no attention to me, but I had long ago learned not to worry about that. It would all be available any time he needed it. When I finished he grunted.

“How many of those five people could you have here at eleven in the morning?”

“As it stands now? With no more bait?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t bet on one, but I’m ready to try. I might get something useful from Lon Cohen if I buy him a thick enough steak—and by the way, I ought to call him.”

“Do so. Invite him to dine with us.”

On the face of it that suggestion was gracious and generous, and maybe it was, but the situation was complicated. If we had been engaged on the case in the usual manner, and, after dope, I had taken Lon to Pierre’s for a feed, it would of course have gone on the expense account and we would have been reimbursed. But this was different. If I listed it as an expense Wolfe was stuck unless he billed me as client. If I didn’t list it
I was stuck and there could be no deduction on an income-tax report, either Wolfe’s or mine, which wouldn’t do at all.

So I phoned Lon, and he came and ate kidneys mountain style, and carameled dumplings, instead of a Pierre steak, which was convenient and economical but had its drawback—namely, that I usually dispose of six of those dumplings and this time was limited to four; and Wolfe had to be content with seven instead of ten. He took it like a man, filling the gap with an extra helping of salad and cheese.

Back in the office after dinner, I had to hand it to Lon. He was full of food as good as a man can hope for anywhere, and wine to go with it, but he was not blurry. My phoning him twice and the invitation to dine had him set either to take or to give, whichever was on the program, and as he relaxed in one of the yellow chairs, sipping B & B, his eyes darted from Wolfe to me and back again.

Wolfe’s chest billowed with a deep sigh. “I’m in a pickle, Mr. Cohen,” he declared. “I am committed to investigate a murder and I have no entree. When Archie told you today that I was not interested in the death of Miss Eads it was the truth, but now I am, and I need a toehold. Who killed her?”

Lon shook his head. “I was intending to ask you. Of course you know it’s out that she was here yesterday, that she left here not long before she was killed, so everybody takes it for granted that you’re working on it. Since when have you needed an entree?”

Wolfe squinted at him. “Are you in my debt, Mr. Cohen, or am I in yours?”

“I’ll call it square if you will.”

“Good. Then I assume I have credit. I’ll read your
paper in the morning, and others too, but here we are now. Do you mind talking about it?”

Lon said he didn’t mind a bit and proceeded to prove it. He talked for nearly an hour, with some questions from Wolfe and a few from me, and when he finished we may have been better informed but had nothing we could call an entree.

Helmar, Brucker, Quest, Pitkin, and Miss Duday would not only own eighty per cent of the Softdown stock; they would also be in control of the distribution of another ten per cent of it to employees, with power to decide who got what. That made up the ninety per cent disposed of under the will of Priscilla’s father. The remaining ten per cent had been owned by an associate in the business, deceased, and now belonged to his daughter, a Mrs. Sarah Jaffee, a widow. Mrs. Jaffee had formerly been a close friend of Priscilla Eads. Her husband had been killed a year ago in Korea.

The favorite suspect with male journalists was Oliver Pitkin, for no convincing reason; the favorite with females was Viola Duday. No evidence had been disclosed that any of the five main beneficiaries was in financial difficulties or was excessively rancorous, greedy, or bloodthirsty; but since each of them would get an engraved certificate worth roughly a million and a half, the consensus was that such evidence was not required. As far as the press knew, none of them was eliminated by alibi or other circumstance. Of some sixty reporters, from all papers and wire services, working on the case, at least half were certain that Daphne O’Neil was deeply involved one way or another, and were determined to find out how.

The news that Priscilla had spent seven of her last hours on earth at Wolfe’s house had come through Perry Helmar, who had got it from an assistant DA.
Helmar had told an AP City News man in the middle of the afternoon, and an hour later, refusing to see reporters, had issued a statement regarding his own visit to Wolfe and the “cruel deception” that had been practiced on him. The statement had been carried by the evening papers. It did not say, but clearly implied, that if Wolfe had not concealed from Helmar the presence of Priscilla in his house she would not have been killed. Lon’s paper, the
Gazette
, would give it a box on page three. When Lon mentioned that detail he paused and cocked his head at Wolfe, inviting comment, but got none.

Priscilla Eads’s life had been complicated by a series of phases she had gone through. After her father’s death when she was fifteen, her home had been with the Helmars, but she had spent most of the time away at school, where she had made a brilliant record, including two years at Smith. Then suddenly, a few months before her nineteenth birthday, she had quit in the middle of a semester, announced to friends that she intended to see the world, rented an apartment in Greenwich Village, hired a maid and cook and butler, and started giving parties. In a few months she had had enough of the Village, but Lon’s information on her next move was a little vague. The way a
Gazette
man had got it, her maid had decided she must go to New Orleans to see her sick mother, and Priscilla, glad of any excuse to get away from the Village, and particularly from her guardian, Perry Helmar, who was pestering her to return to college, bought plane tickets to New Orleans for herself and her maid, and off they went.

Probably in New Orleans, but anyhow somewhere around there, she had met Eric Hagh. On this Lon was even vaguer, but it was definite that she had met him, married him, and gone off with him to some part of
South America where he had something to do with something. It was also definite that three months later she had suddenly appeared in New York, accompanied by the maid she had gone away with, but not by a husband; bought a house in the woods not far from Mount Kisco; and started in on men. For two years she had raised some miscellaneous hell with men, apparently with the idea that the higher you jacked up an expectation the more fun it was to watch it crash when you jerked it loose. In time that lost its appeal, and she moved to Reno, stayed the prescribed time, got her divorce, returned to New York, and joined the Salvation Army.

At that detail I had given Lon a stare, thinking that surely he had pulled it out of a hat. Priscilla Eads as I had known her, in the peach-colored dress and tailored jacket, was mighty hard to picture as a consecrated tambourine shaker. But obviously Lon was dealing it straight, with no fancy touches for effect.

Priscilla had actually stuck with the Salvation Army for nearly two years, in uniform, working seven days a week, giving up all her old friends and habits, and living modestly if not frugally. Then abruptly—she had always been abrupt—she had quit the Army, moved to a duplex apartment on East Seventy-fourth Street, and begun to take an active interest, for the first time, in the affairs of Softdown, Incorporated. That had aroused feelings in various quarters. It was known that there had been friction between her and her former guardian, Perry Helmar, still the trustee of the property soon to become hers. Specifically, it was known that some months ago she had fired Daphne O’Neil, told her to leave the premises and not come back, and had been overruled by the officers of the corporation, supported
by Helmar, who was legally in control. There was no record of any threat or mortal attack.

The events of Monday night were pretty well time-tabled. According to the driver of the taxi I had put Priscilla into, she had told him to take her to Grand Central Station. Arrived there, she said she had changed her mind; she wanted to ride around Central Park. He obliged. When, after a leisurely winding trip clear to the north end and back down to Central Park South, she had said she was thinking something over and wanted to do another lap, he had got prudent and mentioned money, and she had handed him a ten. When they were completing the second circuit, she gave him an address, 618 East Seventy-fourth Street, and he drove her there, arriving shortly after one o’clock. He helped her with the luggage, out of the cab and through the entrance door, which she opened with her key, and then returned to his cab and drove off.

It was generally believed, by both the cops and the press, that the murderer had been in her apartment waiting for her, and that he had got in with the key which the maid, Margaret Fomos, had in her bag. So he had already killed Margaret Fomos to get the bag, not necessarily planning it that way. He might have counted on getting it at smaller cost but had been recognized by her, and she, having been with Priscilla for years, could have recognized anyone who had known Priscilla well.

I filled half a notebook with the stuff Lon Cohen gave us that evening, but I guess the above samples will do for this record. After escorting him to the front, I returned to the office and found Wolfe with his chin on his chest and his eyes closed. Not opening them, he asked what time it was, and I told him ten-thirty.

He grunted. “Too late to expect a welcome from people. What time is it in Venezuela?”

“My God, I don’t know.”

I started to cross to the big globe over by the bookshelves, but he beat me to it. Anything for an excuse to consult the globe. He ran his finger along a meridian, starting at Quebec and ending at the equator. “Several degrees east. An hour later, I suppose.” He twirled the globe, looking disappointed.

I thought it was pure fake and I resented it. “You’re right near the Panama Canal,” I suggested. “Go on through to the other ocean. Try Galapagos. It’s only half-past nine there.”

He ignored it. “Get your notebook,” he growled. “If I’m saddled with this thing, I am. Your program for the morning.”

I obeyed.

P
robably my conception of a widow was formed in my early boyhood in Ohio, from a character called Widow Rowley, who lived across the street. I have known others since, but the conception has not been entirely obliterated, so there is always an element of shock when I meet a female who has been labeled widow and I find that she has some teeth, does not constantly mutter to herself, and can walk without a cane.

Mrs. Sarah Jaffee was not visibly burdened with any handicaps whatever. She was probably more than one-third the age Widow Rowley had been, but not much. That much, along with the shock, took only one good glance as she admitted me to her sixth-floor apartment on East Eightieth Street, and the glance also furnished another mild shock. Although it was ten in the morning of a pleasant and sunny June day, there in her foyer was a man’s topcoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, and on a polished tabletop was a man’s felt hat. I kept my brows down, merely remarking to myself, as she led me though a large and luxurious living room, that since I had phoned for permission to come, and so was expected, it might have been supposed
that a widow would have taken the trouble to tidy up a little.

When, beyond the living room, we came upon a table in an alcove with breakfast tools in place for two, I will not say that I blushed, but I felt that I had not been properly briefed.

“I was in bed when you phoned,” she said, sitting and picking up a spoon. “I assume you’ve had breakfast, but how about some coffee? Sit down—no, not there, that’s my husband’s place. Olga! A coffee cup, please!”

A door swung open and a Valkyrie entered with a cup and saucer in her hand.

“On a tray, my pet,” Mrs. Jaffee said, and the Valkyrie whirled and disappeared. Before the door had stopped swinging she breezed in again with cup and saucer on a tray, and I backstepped not to get trampled. When she had gone I got my coffee from my hostess and went to a chair on the other side. She took her spoon and scooped a bite of melon.

“It’s all right,” she said, reassuring me. “I’m a nut, that’s all.” She opened wide for the bite of melon, and there was no question about her having teeth, very nice ones. I took a sip of coffee, which was barely drinkable for a man used to Fritz’s.

“You know my husband is dead,” she stated.

I nodded. “So I understood.”

She took another bite of melon and disposed of it. “He was in the Reserve, a major, a Signal Corps technician. When he went away, one day in March a year ago, he left his hat and coat there in the hall. I didn’t put them away. When I got word he had been killed, three months later, they were still there. That was a year ago, and there they are, and I’m sick of looking at them, I’m simply sick to death of looking at them, but there they are.”

She pointed. “There’s his breakfast place too, and I’m sick of looking at that. Weren’t you surprised when I told you on the phone, all right, come ahead? You, a complete stranger, a detective wanting to ask me questions about a murder?”

“A little, maybe,” I conceded, not to be cranky.

“Of course you were.” She dropped a slice of bread into the slot of the toaster and spooned another bite of melon. “But at that I lost my nerve. A while back I decided to quit being a nut, and I decided the way I would do it—I would have a man do it for me. I would have a man sit here with me at breakfast, in Dick’s place—my husband’s place—and I would have him take that awful hat and coat out of that hall. But do you know what?”