but also the hocus-pocus about getting here; ten thousand dollars wasn’t much to pay for establishing that you were desperately concerned for your husband’s safety. You couldn’t foresee that I would insist on seeing your secretary, but when I made that demand your check was already on my desk, and you didn’t dare take it back merely because I wished to speak with Miss Utley. Nor could you foresee that I would propose a step that would expose me to the risk of an extended and expensive operation, and that I would demand an additional sum as insurance against possible loss. You didn’t like that at all. Your teeth bit into your lip as you wrote the check, but you had to. Fifty thousand dollars makes a substantial hole in half a million, but you had made it so clear that nothing mattered but your husband’s safety, certainly money didn’t, that you couldn’t very well refuse.”
He poured beer, drank when the foam was right, and went on. “I don’t know if you regretted that you had come to me when you left, but you certainly did later, when Miss Utley returned after seeing me. As I said, I’m not reporting, I’m telling you how I satisfied myself. I got an inkling of Miss Utley’s temperament and character when she was here, and more than an inkling from what your brother told me about her. From questions Mr Goodwin and I asked her, and from our taking her fingerprints, she became apprehensive. She feared that you had somehow aroused my suspicion, that I suspected her, and that I might disclose the fraud; and when she returned she tried to persuade you to give it up. You wouldn’t. All the preliminaries had been performed; you had the money in the suitcase; you had given me sixty thousand dollars; all that remained was the consummation. You tried to remove Miss Utley’s fears, to convince her that there was no danger of exposure, and you thought you succeeded, but you didn’t.
“Shortly before eight o’clock you left in your car with the suitcase in the trunk, not knowing that, instead of subsiding, Miss Utley’s alarm had grown. An hour after your departure she took the typewriter from the house, put it in her car, and drove to the country. Here there are alternatives; either is acceptable; I prefer this one: after disposing of the typewriter she intended to go to where Mr Vail was in hiding, arriving before he left for the rendezvous with you, describe the situation, and insist that the project be abandoned. But something intervened, probably the difficulty of disposing of the typewriter unseen in a spot where it would surely never be found, and to see Mr Vail she had to go to Iron Mine Road, which had been named in one of the notes she had typed.”
Wolfe drank beer. “Some of what I have said is conjectural, but this is not. Miss Utley got to Iron Mine Road before you did. When you and your husband arrived, you in your car and he in his, she told him of her fears and insisted that the project must be abandoned. He didn’t agree. He didn’t stay long to debate it; he was supposed to be concealed somewhere by kidnapers, and even in that secluded spot there was a possibility that someone might come along. He put the suitcase in his car and drove off, leaving it to you to deal with her, and you tried to, but she wouldn’t be persuaded. She may have demanded a large share of the half a million to offset the risk, but I doubt it. From what your brother said of her it’s more likely that she was filled with dismay. Either she made it plain that she would wreck the project by disclosing it, or you were convinced that she intended to. Infuriated, you assaulted her. You hit her on the head with something-a handy rock?-and as she lay unconscious you got in her car and ran it over her, nosed the car into an opening, dragged the body to the ditch and rolled it in, got in your car, and drove away. If, ignoring my advice to say nothing, you ask why I say that you, not Mr Vail, killed her, I repeat that I had to satisfy myself. If he killed her, why was he killed the next day? There was no tenable answer.
“To satisfy myself it wasn’t necessary to supply answers to all relevant questions. For example, where was your husband from Sunday evening to Wednesday morning? I don’t know and need not bother to guess, but since other details were carefully and thoroughly planned I assume that one was too. It had to be some spot where both he and his car could be effectively concealed, especially in the daytime. Of course you had to know where it was, since something might happen that would make it necessary to alter the plan. No doubt you and he chose the spot with great care and deliberation. Wherever it was, probably it lacked the convenience of a telephone, so he had to get to one Tuesday evening in order to make the calls to Fowler’s Inn and The Fatted Calf, but that was after dark, and of course that detail too was prudently contrived.
“For another example of questions that can be left open, why did you tell your son he could have the money if he found it? Why not? Knowing yourself where it was, you knew he wouldn’t find it. Still another example, why did you and your husband insist on keeping silent about the kidnaping for forty-eight hours after he returned home? A good guess is that you wanted enough time to pass to make sure that no trail had been left, but it doesn’t have to be verified for my satisfaction. Regarding any known fact or factor I need only establish that it doesn’t contradict my deduction-my final deduction, that you killed your husband. As for his coming to see me Wednesday morning, posthaste after his return, it would have been surprising if he hadn’t. He wanted to learn how much ground there was, if any, for Miss Utley’s fears; what he learned, over the telephone from you, was that she was dead; and he departed, again posthaste, to go to you.
“He knew, of course, that you had killed Dinah Utley, and you were completely at his mercy. He couldn’t expose you as a murderer without divulging his own complicity in preparations for a swindle, but the swindle hadn’t been consummated; there would be no swindle until the deduction had been made on your income- tax return and you and he had signed it. Meanwhile he had a cogent threat, and he used it. He demanded the entire half a million for himself. You were in a pickle. After all the planning, all the exertion, all the painstaking, all the zeal, even after your desperate resort to murder, you were to get nothing. That was not to be borne. Jimmy Vail must die.”
A noise came from her, but it wasn’t a word; it was merely the kind of involuntary noise that is squeezed out by a blow or a sting. Wolfe went on. “You planned it with the care and foresight you had so admirably demonstrated in planning the kidnaping. You needed a drug, and since you assuredly wouldn’t take the risk of procuring one in haste, you must have had one in your possession-probably chloral hydrate, since you may plausibly have had it in some mixture in your medicine cabinet, but that’s another question I may leave open. Either luck was with you Wednesday evening, or you knew him so well that you could safely calculate that when drowsiness overtook him from the drug you had put in his drink he would lie on the couch instead of going to his room. For the rest you needed no luck. After Mr Frost left you went down to the library, found your husband in a coma as you had a right to expect, dragged him across to the desired spot, and toppled the statue on him. With your marked talent for detail, undoubtedly you took his feet. Shoes dragged along a floor will leave telltale marks, even on a rug, but a head and shoulders won’t. Certainly you didn’t leave it to luck whether the statue would land where you wanted it. You wiggled it to learn its direction of least resistance. Evidently the thump wasn’t heard, because the inmates were all in upper rooms; and the statue didn’t hit the floor, the main impact was on your husband’s chest, and it would have been more of a crunch than a thump.”
Wolfe straightened up, took in air through his nose as far down as it could go, and let it out through his mouth. His eyes narrowed at her. “Mrs Vail,” he said, “I confess that I am not without animus. I have been provoked by the suit you have served against me, and by your complaint against Mr Goodwin, subjecting him to arrest on a criminal charge. But even so I would hesitate to upbraid you on moral grounds for the fraud you conceived and tried to execute. Millions of your fellow citizens will cheat on their income tax this year. Nor would I reproach you without qualification for killing Miss Utley; you did it in the instant heat of uncontrollable passion. But killing your husband is another matter. That was planned and premeditated and ruthlessly executed; and for a sordid end. Merely for money. You killed him in cold blood because he was going to deprive you of the fruit of your swindle. That, I submit, was execrable. That would be condemned even by-”
“That’s not true,” she said. It barely got out through her tight throat, and she repeated it. “That’s not true!”
