The Thin Man (22 page)

I said to Guild: “When you say bring ’em in, they bring ’em in, don’t they?”

“Wait,” he told me. “This is more’n you think.” He addressed the fat red-haired man: “Go ahead, Flint, let’s have it.”

Flint wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “He’s a wildcat for fair, the young fellow. He don’t look tough, but, man, he didn’t want to come along. I can tell you that. And can he run!”

Guild growled: “You’re a hero and I’ll see the Commissioner about your medal right away, but never mind that now. Talk turkey.”

“I wasn’t saying I did anything great,” Flint protested. “I was just—”

“I don’t give a damn what you did,” Guild said. “I want to know what he did.”

“Yes, sir, I was getting to that. I relieved Morgan at eight o’clock this morning and everything went along smooth and quiet as per usual, with not a creature was stirring, as the fellow says, till along about ten minutes after two, and then what do I hear but a key in the lock.” He sucked in his lips and gave us a chance to express our amazement.

“The Wolf dame’s apartment,” Guild explained to me. “I had a hunch.”

“And what a hunch!” Flint exclaimed, practically top-heavy with admiration. “Man, what a hunch!” Guild glared at him and he went on hastily: “Yes, sir, a key, and then the door opens and this young fellow comes in.” He grinned proudly, affectionately, at Gilbert. “Scared stiff, he looked, and when I went for him he was out and away like a streak and it wasn’t till the first floor that I caught him, and then, by golly, he put up a tussle and I had to bat him in the eye to tone him down. He don’t look tough, but—”

“What’d he do in the apartment?” Guild asked.

“He didn’t have a chance to do nothing. I—”

“You mean you jumped him without waiting to see what he was up to?” Guild’s neck bulged over the edge of his collar, and his face was as red as Flint’s hair.

“I thought it was best not to take no chances.”

Guild stared at me with angry incredulous eyes. I did my best to keep my face blank. He said in a choking voice: “That’ll do, Flint. Wait outside.”

The red-haired man seemed puzzled. He said, “Yes, sir,” slowly. “Here’s his key.” He put the key on Guild’s desk and went to the door. There he twisted his head over a shoulder to say: “He claims he’s Clyde Wynant’s son.” He laughed merrily.

Guild, still having trouble with his voice, said: “Oh, he does, does he?”

“Yeah. I seen him somewhere before. I got an idea he used to belong to Big Shorty Dolan’s mob. Seems to me I used to see him around—”

“Get out!” Guild snarled, and Flint got out. Guild groaned from deep down in his big body. “That mugg gets me. Big Shorty Dolan’s mob. Christ.” He shook his head hopelessly and addressed Gilbert: “Well, son?”

Gilbert said: “I know I shouldn’t’ve done it.”

“That’s a fair start,” Guild said genially. His face was becoming normal again. “We all make mistakes. Pull yourself up a chair
and let’s see what we can do about getting you out of the soup. Want anything for that eye?”

“No, thank you, it’s quite all right.” Gilbert moved a chair two or three inches toward Guild and sat down.

“Did that bum smack you just to be doing something?”

“No, no, it was my fault. I—I did resist.”

“Oh, well,” Guild said, “nobody likes to be arrested, I guess. Now what’s the trouble?” Gilbert looked at me with his one good eye.

“You’re in as bad a hole as Lieutenant Guild wants to put you,” I told him. “You’ll make it easy for yourself by making it easy for him.”

Guild nodded earnestly. “And that’s a fact.” He settled himself comfortably in his chair and asked, in a friendly tone: “Where’d you get the key?”

“My father sent it to me in his letter.” He took a white envelope from his pocket and gave it to Guild.

I went around behind Guild and looked at the envelope over his shoulder. The address was typewritten,
Mr. Gilbert Wynant, The Courtland,
and there was no postage stamp stuck on it. “When’d you get it?” I asked.

“It was at the desk when I got in last night, around ten o’clock. I didn’t ask the clerk how long it had been there, but I don’t suppose it was there when I went out with you, or they’d have given it to me.”

Inside the envelope were two sheets of paper covered with the familiar unskillful typewriting. Guild and I read together:

Wynant’s sprawling signature was written in ink beneath “Your Father.”

Guild waited for me to say something. I waited for him. After a little of that he asked Gilbert: “And did he phone?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell the operator not to put any calls through?”

“I—yes, I did. I was afraid you’d find out who it was if he
called up while you were there, but he’d’ve left some kind of message with the operator, I think, and he didn’t.”

“Then you haven’t been seeing him?”

“No.”

“And he didn’t tell you who killed Julia Wolf?”

“No.”

“You were lying to Dorothy?”

He lowered his head and nodded at the floor. “I was—it was—I suppose it was jealousy really.” He looked up at me now and his face was pink. “You see, Dorry used to look up to me and think I knew more than anybody else about almost everything and—you know—she’d come to me if there was anything she wanted to know and she always did what I told her, and then, when she got to seeing you, it was different. She looked up to you and respected you more—She naturally would, I mean, she’d’ve been silly if she hadn’t, because there’s no comparison, of course, but I—I suppose I was jealous and resented—well, not exactly resented it, because I looked up to you too—but I wanted to do something to impress her again—show off, I guess you’d call it—and when I got that letter I pretended I’d been seeing my father and he’d told me who committed those murders, so she’d think I knew things even you didn’t.” He stopped, out of breath, and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

I outwaited Guild again until presently he said: “Well, I guess there ain’t been a great deal of harm done, sonny, if you’re sure you ain’t doing harm by holding back some other things we ought to know.”

The boy shook his head. “No, sir, I’m not holding back anything.”

“You don’t know anything about that knife and chain your mother give us?”

“No, sir, and I didn’t know a thing about it till after she had given it to you.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s all right, I think, though she said she was going to stay in bed today.”

Guild narrowed his eyes. “What’s the matter with her?”

“Hysteria,” I told him. “She and the daughter had a row last night and she blew up.”

“A row about what?”

“God knows—one of those feminine brain-storms.”

Guild said, “Hm-m-m,” and scratched his chin.

“Was Flint right in saying you didn’t get a chance to hunt for your paper?” I asked the boy.

“Yes. I hadn’t even had time to shut the door when he ran at me.”

“They’re grand detectives I got working for me,” Guild growled. “Didn’t he yell, ‘Boo!’ when he jumped out at you? Never mind. Well, son, I can do one of two things, and the which depends on you. I can hold you for a while or I can let you go in exchange for a promise that you’ll let me know as soon as your father gets in touch with you and let me know what he tells you and where he wants you to meet him, if any.”

I spoke before Gilbert could speak: “You can’t ask that of him, Guild. It’s his own father.”

“I can’t, huh?” He scowled at me. “Ain’t it for his father’s good if he’s innocent?” I said nothing.

Guild’s face cleared slowly. “All right, then, son, suppose I put you on a kind of parole. If your father or anybody else asks you to do anything, will you promise to tell them you can’t because you give me your word of honor you wouldn’t?” The boy looked at me.

I said: “That sounds reasonable.”

Gilbert said: “Yes, sir, I’ll give you my word.”

Guild made a large gesture with one hand. “Oke. Run along.”

The boy stood up saying: “Thank you very much, sir.” He turned to me. “Are you going to be—”

“Wait for me outside,” I told him, “if you’re not in a hurry.”

“I will. Good-by, Lieutenant Guild, and thank you.” He went out.

Guild grabbed his telephone and ordered
The Grand Manner
and its contents found and brought to him. That done, he clasped his hands behind his head and rocked back in his chair. “So what?”

“It’s anybody’s guess,” I said.

“Look here, you don’t still think Wynant didn’t do it?”

“What difference does it make what I think? You’ve got plenty on him now with what Mimi gave you.”

“It makes a lot of difference,” he assured me. “I’d like a lot to know what you think and why.”

“My wife thinks he’s trying to cover up somebody else.”

“Is that so? Hm-m-m. I was never one to belittle women’s intuition and, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs. Charles is a mighty smart woman. Who does she think it is?”

“She hadn’t decided, the last I heard.”

He sighed, “Well, maybe the paper he sent the kid for will tell us something.” But the paper told us nothing that afternoon: Guild’s men could not find it, could not find a copy of
The Grand Manner
in the dead woman’s rooms.

Guild had red-haired Flint in again and put the thumbscrews on him. The red-haired man sweat away ten pounds, but he stuck to it that Gilbert had had no opportunity to disturb anything in the apartment and throughout Flint’s guardianship nobody hadn’t touched nothing. He did not remember having seen a book called
The Grand Manner,
but he was not a man you would expect to memorize book titles. He tried to be helpful and made idiotic suggestions until Guild chased him out.

“The kid’s probably waiting for me outside,” I said, “if you think talking to him again will do any good.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Well, then. But, by God, somebody took that book and I’m going to—”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why’d it have to be there for somebody to take?”

Guild scratched his chin. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“He didn’t meet Macaulay at the Plaza the day of the murder, he didn’t commit suicide in Allentown, he says he only got a thousand from Julia Wolf when he thought he was getting five thousand,
he says they were just friends when we think they were lovers, he disappoints us too much for me to have much confidence in what he says.”

“It’s a fact,” Guild said, “that I’d understand it better if he’d either come in or run away. Him hanging around like this, just messing things up, don’t fit in anywheres that I can see.”

“Are you watching his shop?”

“We’re kind of keeping an eye on it. Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully, “except that he’s pointed his finger at a lot of things that got us nowhere. Maybe we ought to pay some attention to the things he hasn’t pointed at, and the shop’s one of them.”