I have never seen as much top brass in one day as I did during the next eight hours, from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon that Tuesday, one week from the day Pete Drossos had called to consult Wolfe about his case. At the Tenth Precinct station house it was Deputy Police Commissioner Neary. At 240 Centre Street it was the Commissioner himself, Skinner. At 155 Leonard Street it was District Attorney Bowen in person, flanked by three assistants, including Mandelbaum.
It didn’t go to my head because I knew it wasn’t just my fascinating personality. In the first place, the murder of Mrs. Damon Fromm, linked as it was with two other murders, was still, after four days, good for a thousand barrels of ink per day, not to mention the air waves. In the second place, the preliminary jockeying for a mayoralty election had started, and Bowen and Skinner and Neary were all cleaning fish ready for the fry. A really tiptop murder offers some fine possibilities to a guy who is so devoted to public service that he is willing to take on additional burdens in a wider field.
At Manhattan Homicide West, at the Tenth Precinct, we were separated, but that was okay. The only items we were saving were the crisscross we had used on Egan and his notebook, and Saul and Fred knew all about that. I spent an hour in a little room with a stenographer, getting my statement typed and read and signed, and then was taken to Cramer’s office for a session with Deputy Commissioner Neary. Neither Cramer nor Stebbins was there. Neary was gruff but chummy. His attitude implied that if they would just leave him and me alone for forty minutes we’d have it all wrapped up, but the trouble was that in less than half that time he got a phone call and had to let me go. As I was escorted along the corridor and downstairs and out to where a car was waiting, city employees I barely knew by sight, and others I didn’t know from Adam, made a point of greeting me. Apparently the impression was around that I was going to get my picture in the paper, and who could tell, I might get drafted to run for mayor. I acknowledged the greetings as one who appreciated the spirit in which they were offered but was awful busy.
At Leonard Street, Bowen himself, the District Attorney, had a copy of my statement on his desk, and during our talk he kept stopping me, referring to the statement, finding the place he wanted and frowning at it, and then nodding at me as if to say, “Yep, maybe you’re not lying after all.” He didn’t congratulate me on collaring Ervin and Egan and tricking Horan in. On the contrary, he hinted that my taking them to Wolfe’s house instead of inviting cops to the garage was probably good for five years in the coop if only he had time to read up on it. Knowing him as I did, I overlooked it and tried not to upset him. The poor guy had enough to contend with that day without me. His weekend had certainly been bollixed up, his eyes were red from lack of sleep, his phone kept ringing, his assistants kept coming and going, and a morning paper had put him fourth on the list of favored candidates for mayor. Added to all that, the FBI would now be horning in on the Fromm-Birch-Drossos case, on account of the racket Saul and Fred and I had removed the lid from, with the painful possibility that the FBI might crack the murders. So it was no wonder the DA didn’t ask me out to lunch.
In fact nobody did. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that I ever ate. I had had an early breakfast. By the time the session in Bowen’s room broke up, a little after twelve, I had in mind a place around the corner I knew of that specialized in pigs’ knuckles and sauerkraut, but Mandelbaum said he wanted to ask me something and took me down the hall to his room. He got behind his desk and invited me to sit, and started in.
“About that offer you made yesterday to Miss Estey.”
“My God. Again?”
“It looks different now. My colleague Roy Bonino is up at Wolfe’s place now, inquiring about it. Let’s cut the comedy and go on the basis that Wolfe sent you to make her that offer. You say yourself that there was nothing improper about it, so why not?”
I was hungry. “Okay, if that’s the basis, then what?”
“Then the presumption is that Wolfe knew about this blackmail racket before he sent you to make that offer. He was assuming that Miss Estey would be vitally interested in knowing whether Mrs. Fromm had told Wolfe about it. I don’t expect you to admit that; we’ll see what Wolfe tells Bonino. But I want to know what Miss Estey’s reaction was-exactly what she said.”
I shook my head. “It would give you a wrong impression if I discussed it on that basis. Let me suggest a basis.”
“Go ahead.”
“Let’s say that Mr. Wolfe knew nothing about any racket but merely wanted to stir them up. Say he didn’t single out Miss Estey, she was just first on the list. Say I made the offer not only to her, but also to Mrs. Horan, Angela Wright, and Vincent Lipscomb, and would have gone on if Mr. Wolfe hadn’t called me in because Paul Kuffner was at the office accusing me of putting the bee on Miss Wright. Wouldn’t that be a more interesting basis?”
“It certainly would. Uh-huh. I see. In that case I want to know what they all said. Start with Miss Estey.”
“I’d have to invent it.”
“Sure, you’re good at that. Go ahead.”
So there went the best part of another hour. When I was all through inventing, including answers to a lot of bright questions, Mandelbaum got up to leave and asked me to wait there. I said I would go get something to eat, but he said no, he wanted me on hand. I agreed to wait, and there went another twenty minutes. When he finally returned he said Bowen wanted to see me again, and would I kindly go to his room. He, Mandelbaum, had something else on.
When I got to Bowen’s room there was no one there. More waiting. I had been sitting awhile, thinking of pigs’ knuckles, when the door opened to admit a young man with a tray, and I thought hooray, someone in this joint is human after all; but without even glancing at me he went to Bowen’s desk, put the tray down on the desk blotter, and departed. When the door had closed behind him I stepped to the desk and lifted the napkin, and saw and smelled an attractive hot corned-beef sandwich and a slab of cherry pie. There was also a pint bottle of milk. The situation required presence of mind, and I had it. It took me maybe eighteen seconds to get back to my chair, settle the tray in my lap, and bite off a healthy segment from the sandwich. It was barely ready for swallowing when the door opened and the District Attorney entered.
To save him any embarrassment, I spoke up immediately. “It was darned thoughtful of you to have this sent in, Mr. Bowen. Not that I was hungry, but you know the old saying, we must keep the body up with the boy. Bowen for mayor!”
He showed the stuff he was made of. A lesser man would either have grabbed the tray from me or gone to his desk and phoned that a punk had swiped his lunch and he wanted another one, but he merely gave me
