murder.'
I insisted. 'Yeah, but how could you figure Eric Hagh? If she had lived a week longer he would still have his document and she would have a lot more property for him to claim half of.'
'One possibility,' Viola Duday suggested, 'would be that she had denied that she had signed the document, or he thought she was going to, and he was afraid he would get nothing at all.'
'But she had stated that she had signed the document.'
'Had she? To whom?'
I couldn't very well say to Nero Wolfe and me, so I went official on her. 'I'm asking the questions, Miss Duday. As I said, this is only preliminary, so I'll cover the rest of you on the routine.' I focused on Daphne. 'Miss O'Neil, how did you spend your time last night between ten-thirty and two o'clock? You understand that-'
There was the sound of a door opening behind me, the one by which I had entered, and I turned my head to see. Three men were filing in, one of whom, the one in front, I knew only too well. Seeing me, he stopped, gawked, and said from his heart, 'Well, by God!'
There has never been a time when the sight of Lieutenant Rowcliff of Manhattan Homicide has done me good. Circumstances under which the sight of Rowcliff would do me good are not remotely imaginable. But if I had been keeping a list of the moments for him not to appear, that one would have been at the top, and there he was.
'You're under arrest,' he said, nearly choking on it.
I controlled the impulse I always have when he comes in view, and which I will not describe. 'In writing?' I inquired.
'I don't need any writing. I'm taking-' He checked himself, advanced to my elbow, and looked at the Softdown quintet. 'Which of you is Jay L. Brucker?'
'I am.'
'I'm Lieutenant George Rowcliff of the Police Department. Downstairs this man said he was a policeman. Did he-'
'Isn't he?' Brucker demanded.
'No. Did he-'
'We're a pack of fools,' Miss Duday snapped. 'He's a reporter!'
Rowcliff raised his voice a notch. 'He's no reporter. His name is Archie Goodwin, and he's the confidential assistant of Nero Wolfe, the private detective. Did he say he was a policeman?'
Three of them said yes. He shifted his fishy popeyes to me. 'I'm taking you in the act of impersonating an officer of the law, which is a felony and justifies severity. Handcuff him and search him, Doyle.'
His two colleagues came toward me. I thrust my hands deep in my pants pockets, slumped, and slid forward in my chair, so that more than half of me was beneath the table. To frisk and cuff a 180-pound man relaxed in that position takes a determined attitude and plenty of muscle, and I was sure that the colleagues would halt at least to take a breath.
'You may remember,' I told Rowcliff, 'that on April third, nineteen forty-nine, by order of Commissioner Skinner, you signed a written apology to Mr. Wolfe and me. This one will be only to me, if I decide to accept one instead of hanging it on you.'
'I'm taking you in the act.'
'You are not. These people are nervous. Both downstairs and up here I identified myself with just two words, my name and the word 'detective,' and I showed my license, which no one took the trouble to examine. I didn't say I was a policeman. I am a detective, and I said so. I asked questions, and they answered. Apologize now and get it over with.'
'What were you asking questions about?'
'Matters connected with the death of Priscilla Eads.'
'About a homicide.'
I conceded it. 'Yes.'
'Why?'
'As an interested citizen.'
'What kind of interest? You lied to Inspector Cramer. You told him that Wolfe had no client, but here you are.'
'It wasn't a lie. He had no client.'
'Then he's got one since?'
'No. He has none.'
'Then what are you here for? What kind of interest?'
'My own. I am interested for personal reasons, and Mr. Wolfe has nothing to do with it. I'm strictly on my own.'
'For God's sake.' From the tone of Rowcliff's voice, he had reached the limit of exasperated disgust. From my slumped position I couldn't see his face, but from a corner of my eye I had a view of his hand tightened into a fist. 'So Wolfe
