Chapter Seventeen
There was one chore Wolfe had given me which I haven't mentioned, because I didn't care to reveal the details- and still don't. But the time will come when you will want to know where the gun at the bottom of the brief-case came from, so I may as well say now that you aren't going to know.
Since filing the number from a gun has been made obsolete by the progress of science, the process of getting one that can't be traced has got more complicated and requires a little specialised knowledge. One has to be acquainted with the right people. I am. But there is no reason why you should be, so I won't give their names and addresses. I couldn't quite meet Wolfe's specifications-the size and weight of a.22 and the punch of a.45-but I did pretty well: a Carson Snub Thirty, an ugly little devil, but straight and powerful. I tried it out one evening in the basement at Thirty-fifth Street.
When I was through I collected the bullets and dumped them in the river. We were taking enough chances without adding another, however slim.
The next evening after our conference with Zeck, a Monday, Wolfe and I collaborated on the false bottom for the brief-case. We did the job at 1019.
Since I was now a B and Roeder's lieutenant on his big operation, and he was supposed to keep in touch with me, there was no reason why he shouldn't come to
Thirty-fifth Street for an evening visit, but when I suggested it he compressed his lips and scowled at me with such ferocity that I quickly changed the subject. We made the false bottom out of an old piece of leather that I picked up at a shoe hospital, and it wasn't bad at all. Even if a sentinel removed all the papers for a close inspection, which wasn't likely with the status Roeder had reached, there was little chance of his suspecting the bottom; yet if you knew just where and how to pry you could have the Carson out before you could say Jackie Robinson.
However, something had happened before that: my second talk with Barry Rackham.
When I got home late Sunday night the phone-answering service reported that he had been trying to reach me, both at 1019 and at the office, and I gave him a ring and made a date for Monday at three o'clock.
Usually I am on the dot for an appointment, but that day an errand took less time than I had allowed, and it was only twelve to three when I left the
Churchill tower elevator at Rackham's floor and walked to his door. I was lifting my hand to push the button, when the door opened and I had to step back so a woman wouldn't walk into me. When she saw me she stopped, and we both stared. It was Lina Darrow. Her fine eyes were as fine as ever.
“Well, hallo, I said appreciatively.
“You're early, Goodwin, Barry Rackham said. He was standing in the doorway.
Lina's expression was not appreciative. It didn't look like embarrassment, more like some kind of suspicion, though I had no notion what she could suspect me of so spontaneously.
“How are you? she asked, and then, to make it perfectly clear that she didn't give a damn, went by me towards the elevator. Rackham moved aside, giving me enough space to enter, and I did so and kept going to the living-room. In a moment I heard the door close, and in another moment he joined me.
“You're early, he repeated, not reproachfully.
He looked as if, during the seventy hours since I had last seen him, he had had at least seventy drinks. His face was mottled, his eyes were bloodshot, and his left cheek was twitching. Also his tie had a dot of egg yolk on it, and he needed a shave.
“A week ago Saturday, I said, “I think it was, one of my men described a girl you were out with, and it sounded like Miss Darrow, but I wasn't sure. I'm not leading up to something, I'm just gossiping.
He wasn't interested one way or the other. He asked what I would have to drink, and when I said nothing thank you he went to the bar and got himself a straight one, and then came and moved a chair around to sit facing me.
“Hell, I said, “you look even more scared than you did the other day. And according to my men, either you've started sneaking out side doors or you've become a home-body. Who said boo?
Nothing I had to say interested him. “I said I wanted to see you every day, he stated. His voice was hoarse.
“I know, but I've been busy. Among other things, I spent an hour yesterday afternoon with Arnold Zeck.
That did interest him. “I think you're a goddam liar, Goodwin.
“Then I must have dreamed it. Driving into the garage, and being frisked, and the little vestibule, and fourteen steps down, and the two sentinels, and the soundproof door five inches thick, and the pinkish-grey walls and chairs and rugs, and him sitting there drilling holes in things, including me, with his eyes, and-
“When was this? Yesterday?
“Yeah. I was driven up, but now I know how to get there myself. I haven't got the password yet, but wait.
With an unsteady hand he put his glass down on a little table. “I told you before, Goodwin, I did not kill my wife.
“Sure, that's out of the way.
