He had decided to make the best of it by being whimsical. She ignored that.
“Did they try to persuade you that the murderer is not an NIA member?”
“No.”
“Did you get the impression that they suspect any particular person?”
“No.”
“Do you think one of the five who came to see you committed the murder?”
“No.”
“Do you mean you are satisfied that none of them did commit it?”
“No.”
She made a gesture. “This is silly. You aren’t playing fair. You say nothing but no.”
“I’m answering your questions. And so far I haven’t told you a lie. I doubt if you could say as much.”
“Why, what did I tell you that wasn’t true?”
“I have no idea. Not yet. I will have. Go ahead.”
I broke in, to Wolfe. “Excuse me, but I have no precedent for this, you being grilled by a murder suspect. Am I supposed to take it down?”
He ignored me and repeated to her, “Go ahead. Mr. Goodwin was merely making an opportunity to call you a murder suspect.”
She was concentrating and also ignored me. “Do you think,” she asked, “that the use of the monkey wrench, which no one could have known would be there, proves that the murder was unpremeditated?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the murderer could have come armed, have seen the wrench, and decided to use it instead.”
“But it might have been unpremeditated?”
“Yes.”
“Has any NIA man said anything to you that indicated that he or any of them might know who took that leather case or what happened to it?”
“No.”
“Or where it is now?”
“No.”
“Have you any idea who the murderer is?”
“No.”
“Why did you send Mr. Goodwin after me? Why me, instead of-oh, anyone?”
“Because you had stayed away and I wanted to find out why.”
She stopped, sat erect, sipped at her glass again, draining it, and brushed her hair back.
“This is a lot of nonsense,” she said emphatically. “I could go on asking you questions for hours, and how would I know that a single thing you told me was the truth? For instance, I would give I don’t know what for that case. You say that as far as you know no one knows what happened to it or where it is, and it may be in this room right now, there in your desk.” She looked at the glass, saw it empty, and put it down on the check-writing table.
Wolfe nodded. “That is always the difficulty. I was under the same handicap with you.”
“But I have nothing to lie about!”
“Pfui. Everybody has something to lie about. Go ahead.”
“No.” She stood up and saw to her skirt. “It’s perfectly useless. I’ll go home and go to bed. Look at me. Do I look like a played-out hag?”
That startled him again. His attitude toward women was such that they rarely asked him what they looked like.
He muttered, “No.”
“But I am,” she declared. “That’s the way it always affects me. The tireder I get the less I look it. Tuesday I got the hardest blow I ever got in my life, and since then I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep, and look at me.” She turned to me. “Would you mind showing me which way to go for a taxi?”
“I’ll run you up,” I told her. “I have to put the car away anyhow.”
She told Wolfe good night, and we got our things on and went out and climbed in. She let her head fall back against the cushion and closed her eyes for a second, then opened then, straightened up, and flashed a glance at me.
