“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.” She turned her head, saw a chair, went to it, and sat. She started to slump, then jerked her shoulders back. “Then you must call the police?”
“Certainly.” I had moved to face her, “It might help if I could give them some information on the phone. Could you answer a few questions?”
“If I choose to.”
“When did you last see your daughter?”
“When she left the house last evening to come here.”
“What time was that?”
“Right after dinner. Half past eight-a little later.”
“Was anyone with her?”
“No.”
“Did she always sleep here?”
“Not always. Frequently. She has her room in the house.”
“Were there guests at dinner?”
“No. Just my husband and I, and her.”
“Was she expecting someone to call?”
“Not that I knew of, but I wouldn’t. I seldom did.”
“You know nothing of any letter or phone call she got yesterday?”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“Did anyone come to see her after she left the house last evening, or call her on the phone?”
“No. Not at the house. Someone might have come here.”
“Someone did. How? By the lane in back?”
“Yes. It’s a public road. Dipper Lane. I’ve forgotten your name. What is it?”
“Goodwin. Archie Goodwin. Did you hear a car on the lane last evening, stopping here or starting here?”
“No.” Abruptly she left the chair. “I’m going to phone my husband. He should be here when the police come. How soon will they come?”
“Ten minutes, maybe less. Have you any idea who killed your daughter? Any idea at all?”
“No.” She turned and marched out, still a sergeant.
I went to the phone, used my handkerchief to lift the receiver, and dialed.
Chapter 12
I ate lunch that day, two hamburgers and a glass of milk, at the office of the Bronx District Attorney, in the room of an assistant DA named Halloran whom I had never seen before. I ate dinner, if two corned-beef sandwiches and lukewarm coffee in a paper cup can be called dinner, in the office of the District Attorney of the County of New York, in the room of an assistant DA named Mandelbaum whom I knew quite well from various contacts on other occasions. When I finally got back to the old brownstone on West 35th Street it was going on ten o’clock. Fritz offered to warm up the lamb loaf and said it would be edible, but I told him I was too tired to eat and might nibble a snack later.
It was nearly eleven when I finished reporting to Wolfe. Actually I knew very little more than I had when Mrs Ogilvy had left the cloister and I had dialed SP 7-3100, but Wolfe was now trying to find a straw to grab at. He wanted everything I had, every sight and sound of my twelve-hour day, even including the session at the Bronx DA’s office, though Halloran had known nothing of the background. He had me repeat my conversation with Mrs Ogilvy three times. He almost never asks me to repeat anything even once, but of course he was desperate. When there was nothing left to ask me he still had a question; he wanted to know what conclusions I had drawn.
I shook my head. “You draw the conclusions. I only make guesses. I guess we might as well quit. I guess this bird is too fast and too slick. I guess he hasn’t left one little crumb for the cops, either with Simon Jacobs or Jane Ogilvy, and as for us, I guess he’s a step ahead and intends to stay ahead. I guess we had better consider how to approach Alice Porter so we can get to her a little sooner than we have the others-say when she’s been dead only an hour or two.”
Wolfe grunted. “I have already considered her.”
“Good. Then she may still be warm.”
“I have also acted. Saul and Fred and Orrie have her under surveillance. Also Miss Bonner and that operative in Miss Bonner’s employ. Miss Corbett.”
My brows went up. “You don’t say. Since when?”
