man who was murdered seven weeks ago, and the murderer has not been exposed. I intend to expose him. I intend to establish that Morris Althaus was killed by an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That intention-'
They made two demands simultaneously. Yarmack demanded, 'How?' and Fromm demanded, 'Why?'
Wolfe nodded. 'That intention stands on two legs. Recently I undertook a job which made it necessary for me to make inquiries regarding certain activities of the FBI, and they retaliated immediately by trying to have me deprived of my license as a private investigator. They may succeed; but even if they do, as a private citizen I can pursue an investigation in my private interest, and it will certainly be in my interest to discredit their pretension that they are faultless champions of law and justice. That's one leg. The other leg is my long-standing grievance against the Homicide Squad of the New York Police Department. They too have pretensions. On numerous occasions they have hampered my legitimate activities. They have threatened more than once to prosecute me for withholding evidence or obstructing justice. It would be gratifying to me to reciprocate, to demonstrate that they know or suspect that the FBI is implicated in a murder and they are obstructing justice. That would also-'
'You're talking plenty,' Fromm cut in. 'Can you back it up?'
'By inference, yes. The police and the District Attorney know that Morris Althaus had been collecting material for an article about the FBI, but they found no such material in his apartment. Mr Yarmack. I believe you were involved in that project?'
Vincent Yarmack was more my idea of a senior editor than Timothy Quayle-round sloping shoulders, tight little mouth, and eyes so pale you had to guess they were there behind the black-rimmed cheaters.
'I was,' he said in a voice that was close to a squeak.
'And Mr Althaus had collected material?'
'Certainly.'
'Had he turned it over to you, or was it in his possession?'
'I thought it was in his possession. But I have been told by the police that there was nothing about the FBI in his apartment.'
'Didn't you draw an inference from that?'
'Well… one inference was obvious, that someone had taken it. It wasn't likely that Morris had put it somewhere else.'
'Mrs Althaus told Mr Goodwin this afternoon that you suspected it was the FBI. Is that correct?'
Yarmack turned his head for a glance at Mrs Althaus, and back to Wolfe. 'I may have given her that impression in a private conversation. This conversation isn't very private, according to you.'
Wolfe grunted. 'I said the eavesdropping is possible but not verified. If you drew that inference, certainly the police would.' His eyes moved. 'Wouldn't they, Mr Fromm?'
The lawyer nodded. 'Presumably. But that doesn't warrant a conclusion that they are obstructing justice.'
'A conclusion, no. A surmise, yes. If not obstruction, at least nonfeasance. As a member of the bar, you are aware of the tenacity of the police and the District Attorney in an unsolved murder case. If they-'
'I don't practice criminal law.'
'Pfui. Surely you are aware of what every child knows. If they were not satisfied with the assumption that the FBI is responsible for the disappearance of that material and therefore was probably involved in the murder, they would certainly he exploring other possibilities-for instance, Mr Yarmack. Are they, Mr Yarmack? Are they harassing you?'
The editor stared. 'Harassing me? What about?'
'The possibility that you killed Morris Althaus and took that material. Don't erupt. Many murders have prompted less plausible theories. He told you of a discovery he had made and evidence he had obtained which, perhaps unknown to him, was in some way a mortal threat to you, and you removed him and the evidence. An excellent theory. Surely-'
'Tommyrot. Absolute tommyrot.'
'To you, perhaps. But surely, in a muddle with an unsolved murder, they would dog you; but they don't. I am not accusing you of murder, sir, not at the moment; I am merely showing that the police are either shirking or slighting their duty. Unless you have given them an impregnable alibi for the night of November twentieth. Have you?'
'No. Impregnable, no.'
'Have you, Mr Quayle?'
'Nuts,' Quayle said. Bad manners again.
Wolfe eyed him. 'You are here by sufferance. You wanted to know what I am up to. I am making that clear. Impelled solely by my private interest, I hope to disclose the implication of the FBI in a murder and the failure of the police to do their duty. In that effort I must guard against the danger of being balked by circumstance. Yesterday I received in confidence information strongly indicating the guilt of the FBI, but it is not conclusive. I dare not ignore the possibility that the apparent inaction of the police is merely tactical, that they and the FBI both know the identity of the murderer, and that they are holding off until they have decisive evidence. I must be fully satisfied on that point before I move. You can help to satisfy me, and if instead you choose to flout me I don't want you here. Mr Goodwin has ejected you once and he can do so again if necessary. He would be even more effective with an audience; he likes an audience as well as I do. If you prefer to stay, I asked you a question.'
Quayle's jaw was set. The poor guy was in a fix. Seated next to him, so close he could have reached
