Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (83 page)

Cherry,
Mrs. Jerome, and Leo all spoke at once. Hatch merely looked sour.

Wolfe
showed them a palm. “If you please. I point no finger of accusation at any of
you. I merely say that none of you, including Miss Dickey and Mr. Kiernan, can
prove that you had no opportunity. Can you?”

“Nuts.”
Leo Jerome was disgusted. “It was that guy playing Santa Claus. Of course it
was. I was with Bottweill and my mother all the time, first in the workshop and
then in his office. I can prove
that.”

“But
Bottweill is dead,” Wolfe reminded him, “and your mother is your mother. Did
you go up to the office a little before them, or did your mother go up a little
before you and Bottweill did? Is there acceptable proof that you didn’t? The
others have the same problem. Miss Quon?”

There
was no danger of Cherry’s spoiling it. Wolfe had told me what he had told her
on the phone: that he had made a plan which he thought she would find
satisfactory, and if she came at a quarter past six she would see it work. She
had kept her eyes fixed on him ever since he entered. Now she chirped, “If you
mean I can’t prove I wasn’t in the office alone yesterday, no, I can’t.”

“Mr.
Hatch?”

“I
didn’t come here to prove anything. I told you what I came for. What
information has Goodwin got?”

“We’ll
get to that. A few more facts first. Mrs. Jerome, when did you learn that
Bottweill had decided to marry Miss Quon?”

Leo
shouted, “No!” but his mother was too busy staring at Wolfe to hear him. “What?”
she croaked. Then she found her voice. “Kurt marry
her?
That
little strumpet?”

Cherry
didn’t move a muscle, her eyes still on Wolfe.

“This
is wonderful!” Leo said. “This is marvelous!”

“Not
so damn wonderful,” Emil Hatch declared. “I get the idea, Wolfe. Goodwin hasn’t
got any information, and neither have you. Why you wanted to get us together
and start us clawing at each other, I don’t see that, I don’t know why you’re
interested, but maybe I’ll find out if I give you a hand. This crowd has
produced as fine a collection of venom as you could find. Maybe we all put
poison in the bottle and that’s why it was such a big dose. If it’s true that
Kurt had decided to marry Cherry, and Al Kiernan knew it, that would have done
it. Al would have killed a hundred Kurts if it would get him Cherry. If Mrs.
Jerome knew it, I would think she would have gone for Cherry instead of Kurt,
but maybe she figured there would soon be another one and she might as well
settle it for good. As for Leo, I think he rather liked Kurt, but what can you
expect? Kurt was milking mamma of the pile Leo hoped to get some day, and I
suspect that the pile is not all it’s supposed to be. Actually—”

He
stopped, and I left my chair. Leo was on his way up, obviously with the
intention of plugging the creative artist. I moved to head him off, and at the
same instant I gave him a shove and his mother jerked at his coattail. That not
only halted him but nearly upset him, and with my other hand I steered him back
onto his chair and then stood beside him.

Hatch
inquired, “Shall I go on?”

“By
all means,” Wolfe said.

“Actually,
though, Cherry would seem to be the most likely. She has the best brain of the
lot and by far the strongest will. But I understand that while she says Kurt
was going to marry her, Margot claims that he was going to marry
her.
Of course that
complicates it, and anyway Margot would be my second choice. Margot has more
than her share of the kind of pride that is only skin deep and therefore can’t
stand a scratch. If Kurt did decide to marry Cherry and told Margot so, he was
even a bigger imbecile than I thought he was. Which brings us to me. I am in a
class by myself. I despise all of them. If I had decided to take to poison I
would have put it in the champagne as well as the Pernod, and I would have
drunk vodka, which I prefer—and by the way, on that table is a bottle with the
Korbeloff vodka label. I haven’t had a taste of Korbeloff for fifteen years. Is
it real?”

“It
is. Archie?”

Serving
liquid refreshment to a group of invited guests can be a pleasant chore, but it
wasn’t that time. When I asked Mrs. Jerome to name it she only glowered at me,
but by the time I had filled Cherry’s order for scotch and soda, and supplied
Hatch with a liberal dose of Korbeloff, no dilution, and Leo had said he would
take bourbon and water, his mother muttered that she would have that too. As I
was pouring the bourbon I wondered where we would go from there. It looked as
if the time had come for Wolfe to pass on the information which I felt I must
give the police without delay, which made it difficult because I didn’t have
any. That had been fine for a bait to get them there, but what now? I suppose
Wolfe would have held them somehow, but he didn’t have to. He had rung for
beer, and Fritz had brought it and was putting the tray on his desk when the doorbell
rang. I handed Leo his bourbon and water and went to the hall. Out on the
stoop, with his big round face nearly touching the glass, was Inspector Cramer
of Homicide.

Wolfe
had told me enough, before the company came, to give me a general idea of the
program, so the sight of Cramer, just Cramer, was a letdown. But as I went down
the hall other figures appeared, none of them strangers, and that looked
better. In fact it looked fine. I swung the door wide and in they came—Cramer,
then Saul Panzer, then Margot Dickey, then Alfred Kiernan, and, bringing up the
rear, Sergeant Purley Stebbins. By the time I had the door closed and bolted
they had their coats off, including Cramer, and it was also fine to see that he
expected to stay a while. Ordinarily, once in, he marches down the hall and
into the office without ceremony, but that time he waved the others ahead,
including me, and he and Stebbins came last, herding us in. Crossing the sill,
I stepped aside for the pleasure of seeing his face when his eyes lit on those
already there and the empty chairs waiting. Undoubtedly he had expected to find
Wolfe alone, reading a book. He came in two paces, glared around, fastened the
glare on Wolfe, and barked, “What’s all this?”

“I was
expecting you,” Wolfe said politely. “Miss Quon, if you don’t mind moving, Mr.
Cramer likes that chair. Good evening, Miss Dickey. Mr. Kiernan, Mr. Stebbins.
If you will all be seated—”

“Panzer!”
Cramer barked. Saul, who had started for a chair in the rear, stopped and
turned.

“I’m
running this,” Cramer declared. “Panzer, you’re under arrest and you’ll stay
with Stebbins and keep your mouth shut. I don’t want—”

“No,” Wolfe
said sharply. “If he’s under arrest take him out of here. You are not running
this, not in my house. If you have warrants for anyone present, or have taken
them by lawful police power, take them and leave these premises. Would you
bulldoze me, Mr. Cramer? You should know better.”

That
was the point, Cramer did know him. There was the stage, all set.

There
were Mrs. Jerome and Leo and Cherry and Emil Hatch, and the empty chairs, and
above all, there was the fact that he had been expected. He wouldn’t have taken
Wolfe’s word for that; he wouldn’t have taken Wolfe’s word for anything; but
whenever he appeared on our stoop
not
expected I always left the chain-bolt on until he had
stated his business and I had reported to Wolfe. And if he had been expected
there was no telling what Wolfe had ready to spring. So Cramer gave up the bark
and merely growled, “I want to talk with you.”

“Certainly.”
Wolfe indicated the red leather chair, which Cherry had vacated. “Be seated.”

“Not
here. Alone.”

Wolfe
shook his head. “It would be a waste of time. This way is better and quicker.
You know quite well, sir, it was a mistake to barge in here and roar at me that
you are running my house. Either go, with whomever you can lawfully take, or
sit down while I tell you who killed Kurt Bottweill.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “Your
chair.”

Cramer’s
round red face had been redder than normal from the outside cold, and now was
redder still. He glanced around, compressed his lips until he didn’t have any,
and went to the red leather chair and sat.

Wolfe
sent his eyes around as I circled to my desk. Saul had got to a chair in the
rear after all, but Stebbins had too and was at his elbow. Margot had passed in
front of the Jeromes and Emil Hatch to get to the chair at the end nearest me,
and Cherry and Al Kiernan were at the other end, a little back of the others.
Hatch had finished his Korbeloff and put the glass on the floor, but Cherry and
the Jeromes were hanging on to their tall ones.

Wolfe’s
eyes came to rest on Cramer and he spoke. “I must confess that I stretched it a
little. I can’t tell you, at the moment, who killed Bottweill; I have only a
supposition; but soon I can, and will. First some facts for you. I assume you
know that for the past two months Mr. Goodwin has been seeing something of Miss
Dickey. He says she dances well.”

“Yeah.”
Cramer’s voice came over sandpaper of the roughest grit. “You can save that for
later. I want to know if you sent Panzer to meet—”

Wolfe
cut him off. “You will. I’m headed for that. But you may prefer this firsthand.
Archie, if you please. What Miss Dickey asked you to do last Monday evening,
and what happened.”

I
cleared my throat. “We were dancing at the Flamingo Club. She said Bottweill
had been telling her for a year that he would marry her next week, but next
week never came, and she was going to have a showdown with him. She asked me to
get a blank marriage license and fill it out for her and me and give it to her,
and she would show it to Bottweill and tell him now or never. I got the blank
on Tuesday, and filled it in, and Wednesday I gave it to her.”

I
stopped. Wolfe prompted me. “And yesterday afternoon?”

“She
told me that the license trick had worked perfectly. That was about a minute
before Bottweill entered the studio. I said in my statement to the District
Attorney that she told me Bottweill was going to marry her, but I didn’t
mention the license. It was immaterial.”

“Did
she tell you what had happened to the license?”

So we
were emptying the bag. I nodded. “She said Bottweill had torn it up and put the
pieces in the wastebasket by the desk in his office. The night before. Thursday
evening.”

“And
what did you do when you went to the office after Bottweill had died?”

“I
dumped the wastebasket and put the stuff back in it, piece by piece. No part of
the license was there.”

“You
made sure of that?”

“Yes.”

Wolfe
left me and asked Cramer, “Any questions?”

“No.
He lied in his statement. I’ll attend to that later. What I want—”

Margot
Dickey blurted, “Then Cherry took it!” She craned her neck to see across the
others. “You took it, you slut!”

“I did
not.” The steel was in Cherry’s chirp again. Her eyes didn’t leave Wolfe, and
she told him, “I’m not going to wait any longer—”

“Miss
Quon!” he snapped. “I’m doing this.” He returned to Cramer. “Now another fact.
Yesterday I had a luncheon appointment with Mr. Bottweill at Rusterman’s
restaurant. He had once dined at my table and wished to reciprocate. Shortly
before I left to keep the appointment he phoned to ask me to do him a favor. He
said he was extremely busy and might be a few minutes late, and he needed a
pair of white cotton gloves, medium size, for a man, and would I stop at some
shop on the way and get them. It struck me as a peculiar request, but he was a
peculiar man. Since Mr. Goodwin had chores to do. and I will not ride in taxicabs
if there is any alternative, I had engaged a car at Baxter’s, and the chauffeur
recommended a shop on Eighth Avenue between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth Streets.
We stopped there and I bought the gloves.”

Cramer’s
eyes were such narrow slits that none of the blue-gray showed. He wasn’t buying
any part of it, which was unjustified, since some of it was true.

Wolfe
went on. “At the lunch table I gave the gloves to Mr. Bottweill, and he
explained, somewhat vaguely, what he wanted them for. I gathered that he had
taken pity on some vagabond he had seen on a park bench, and had hired him to
serve refreshments at his office party, costumed as Santa Claus, and he had
decided that the only way to make his: hands presentable was to have him wear
gloves. You shake your head, Mr. Cramer?”