ten. I went to the cabinet, unlocked the drawer where we keep assortments of keys, and made some selections. It wasn't complicated, since I knew the lock was a Bermatt. From another drawer I got a pair of rubber gloves.
At 9:35 I dialed the Bruner number, and it was answered. 'Mrs Bruner's office, good morning.'
'Good morning. Miss Dacos?'
'Yes.'
'This is Archie Goodwin. I may need to see Mrs Bruner later today, and I'm calling to ask if she'll be available.'
She said it depended on how late, Mrs Bruner expected to be in the office from three-thirty to five- thirty, and I said I would call again if I needed to come.
So she was at her job. I would have to take a chance on the cleaning woman. I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz I was going out to make some phone calls, to the hall for my hat and coat, and out and to Ninth Avenue for a taxi.
For the street door at 63 Arbor Street I still had the key Mrs Althaus had given me, so I was clean until I stood at Sarah Dacos's door and got out the collection of keys. When I had knocked twice, and pushed the button twice and heard the ring, with no response, I tried a key. The fourth one did it, smooth and easy. I put the gloves on, turned the knob, opened the door, crossed the sill, and shut the door, and I had broken and entered according to the statutes of the State of New York.
The layout was the same as upstairs, but the furniture was quite different. Rugs here and there instead of carpet, smaller couch smothered with pillows, no desk or typewriter, fewer chairs, about one-fourth as many books, five little pictures on the walls which the bold lover must have considered old hat. The drapes were drawn, and I turned the lights on, put my coat and hat on the couch, and went and opened a closet door.
There were two facts: the cleaning woman might come any minute, and I had no idea what I might find, if anything. The point was simply that there might be something that would help, no matter what was going to happen Thursday night, to square it with Cramer for that carton of milk. A fast once-over was called for, and I spent only ten minutes on the living room and its two closets and then went to the bedroom.
I came mighty close to passing it by. The bedroom closet was crammed-clothes on hangers, shoe racks, luggage, cartons and hatboxes on two high shelves. The bag and two suitcases were packed with summer clothes, and I skipped the hatboxes; I would have given a finif of my money to know if the cleaning woman came Wednesdays. But ten minutes later, going through a drawerful of photographs one by one, I realized that it was dumb to skip the hatboxes and then waste time with a bunch of photographs which could tell me nothing I didn't already know, so I took a chair to the closet, mounted it, and got the boxes down. There were three. The first one contained three so-called hats and two bikinis. The second one held one big floppy hat. I lifted it out, and there on the bottom was a revolver. I gawked at it for five seconds, then took it out and inspected it. It was an S & W.38 and held one cartridge that had been fired and five that hadn't.
I stood with it in my hand. It was a hundred to one that it was the gun that Althaus had had a permit for, and it had fired the bullet that had gone through him, and Sarah Dacos had pulled the trigger. To hell with the one chance in a hundred. The question was what to do with it. If I took it, it would never be an acceptable exhibit in a murder trial, since I had got it illegally. If I left it there and went out to a phone booth and rang Cramer to tell him to get a warrant to search Sarah Dacos's apartment, the cops would get the gun all right, but if the FBI found out about it within thirty-six hours, as they easily might, the big act for Thursday night would be kaput. And of course if I left it in the hatbox and didn't phone Cramer, Sarah Dacos might decide that tonight would be a good time to take it and toss it in the river.
Since that left only one alternative, the only decision that had to be made was where to put it. I returned the hat to the box and the boxes to the shelf, put the chair back where it belonged, and looked around. No spot in the bedroom appealed to me, and I moved to the living room. It was now more than ever desirable not to be interrupted by a cleaning woman or anyone else. I went and examined the couch and found that underneath the cushion was a box spring, and underneath the spring was a plywood bottom. Good enough. If she got the hatbox down and found the gun gone, she certainly wouldn't suppose it had merely been moved to another spot in the apartment and start looking. I put it on the bottom under the spring, glanced around to see that things were as I had found them, grabbed my hat and coat, and got out of there in such a hurry that I almost appeared on the sidewalk wearing rubber gloves.
In the taxi I had to answer another question: did I or didn't I tell Wolfe? Why not wait until Thursday night had come and gone? The answer was really simple, but of course that's one thing we use our minds for, finding complicated reasons for dodging simple answers. By the time the cab stopped in front of the old brownstone my mind had run out of reasons and I was facing the fact that it wouldn't improve with age.
It was ten minutes past eleven, so Wolfe would be down from the plant rooms, but he wasn't in the office. There was noise in the kitchen, the radio going loud, and I went there. Wolfe was standing by the big table scowling at Fritz, who was bending over to sniff at a slab of smoked sturgeon. They didn't hear me enter, but Fritz saw me when he straightened up, and Wolfe turned and demanded, 'Where have you been?'
I told him I had a report. He told Fritz to have the cutlets ready at a quarter past two, he wasn't going to wait longer than that, and headed for the office, and I followed. I turned the radio on. As I brought a yellow chair around I saw three screwdrivers on his desk pad-one from my desk drawer and two from the kitchen, and I had to grin. He had the tools ready, himself. As I sat I told him I had assumed that he would eat an early lunch. He said no, if a man has guests he should be at table with them.
'Then there's plenty of time,' I said, 'to discuss a brief report. With so much on your mind I could save it, but you'll like to know that I have clinched the alternative we prefer. I went for a walk and happened to pass Sixty-three Arbor Street, and I happened to have a key in my pocket that fitted the lock on Sarah Dacos's door, so I went in and looked around, and in a hatbox in a closet I found a revolver, an S and W thirty-eight. One cartridge had been fired. As you know, Cramer told me that Althaus had a permit for an S and W thirty-eight and it wasn't in his apartment, though there was a box of cartridges in a drawer. So she-'
'What did you do with it?'
'I moved it. It seemed out of place in a box with a lady's hat, so I put it under a box spring on a couch.'
He took a deep breath, held it in a second, and let it out. 'She shot him,' he growled.
'Right. As I was saying when you interrupted.'
