discovered your family secretly gathered in the dining room you were not yourself. Instead of upbraiding and bullying them, which would have been in character, you appealed to them. What better explanation could there be of that reversal in form than that you knew your husband was upstairs dead, you having killed him with one swift stab in the back as you passed behind him, leaving him to go down after Mr. Pompa? Your shrewd and careful plan to have it laid to Pompa was badly disarranged by the awful discovery that your sons and daughters were there too; no wonder you were upset. Your plan was not only shrewd and careful, but long and deep, for when, a month ago, you learned of your husband's infidelity, what did you do? Drive him out with a blast of fury and contempt? No. Understand him and forgive him and try to win him all for you? No. You displayed the blooming and ripening of your affection and trust for him by announcing that he was to be put in control of the family business. That made it certain, you thought, that when you chose your moment and he died, you would be above suspicion. And indeed you were, but you had bad luck. It was ruthless, but wise, to arrange for the police to have a victim at hand, but you had the misfortune to select for that role a man who was once a good cook – indeed, a great one.'
Wolfe jerked his head up. 'Mr. Cramer, you are no longer committed. I don't know how you handle a case like this. You have a man in jail charged with murder, but the murderer is here. How do you proceed?'
'I need things,' Cramer rasped. He was flabbergasted and trying not to show it. 'I need those letters. What's that about an open door? I need -'
'You'll get all of it. I mean what happens immediately? What about Mrs. Whitten?'
'That's no problem. There are two men in my car out front. If her wound didn't keep her from riding down here last night it won't keep her from riding downtown now.'
'Good.' Wolfe turned to Julie. 'I was under an obligation to you. I told you that I thought I could arrange it so that Mrs. Whitten would not prosecute, if you would help me. You have unquestionably helped me. You have done your part. Do you agree that I have done mine?'
I don't think she heard a word of it. She was looking at him but not seeing him. 'There was a notice in yesterday's paper,' she said, 'that his funeral would be today at four o'clock, and it said omit flowers. Omit flowers!' She seemed to be trying to smile, and suddenly her head dropped into her hands and she shook with sobs.
XI
I stood facing the door of the South Room, in the hall on the third floor, with my hand raised. Wolfe, positively refusing to do it himself, had left it to me. I knocked. A voice told me to come in, and I entered.
Phoebe tossed a magazine onto the table and left the chair. 'You certainly took long enough. Where's Mother?'
'That's what I came to tell you.'
Her face changed and she took a step and demanded, 'Where is she?'
'Don't push. First I apologize. When you pulled that gag about the front door being open I thought you knew that one of you in the dining room had killed Whitten, and possibly even you had been involved in it, and you thought maybe Mr. Wolfe was getting warm and you wanted to fix an out. Now I know how it was. You couldn't believe Pompa had done it, and you knew none of you had, so it was your mother. So it was her you wanted the out for. Therefore it seems to me I should apologize, and I do.'
'I don't want your apology. Where is my mother?'
'She is either at Police Headquarters or the District Attorney's office, depending on where they took her. I don't know. She is, or soon will be, charged with murder. Mr. Wolfe did most of it of course, but I had a hand in it. For that I don't apologize. You know damn well she's a malicious and dangerous woman – look at her framing Pompa – and while I appreciate the fact that she's your mother, she is not mine. So much for her. You are another matter. What do you want me to do? Anything?'
'No.'
She hadn't batted an eyelash, nor turned pale, nor let a lip quiver, but the expression of her eyes was plenty.
'What I mean,' I told her, 'I got you down here, and you're here alone now, and I would like to do anything at all that will help. Phone somebody, drive you somewhere, get a taxi, send your things to you later -'
'No.'
'Okay. Fritz will let you out downstairs. I'll be in the office typing, in case.'
That was the last chat I had with her for a long time, until day before yesterday, a month after her mother was sentenced by Judge Wilkinson. Day before yesterday, Tuesday afternoon, she phoned to say she had changed her mind about accepting my apology, and would I care to drive her up to Connecticut and eat dinner with her at Ambrosia 26? Even if I hadn't had another date I would have passed. An Ambrosia may be perfectly okay as a source of income, but with the crowd and the noise it is no place to make any progress in human relations.
Door to Death
