from his private stock. Do I proceed?”
“No.” It was a growl, as always when he was interrupted in the plant rooms. “Or rather, yes, but first some further inquiry in Mount Kisco. After you left I considered the question of the hot-water bags, and I may have hit on the answer – or I may not. At any rate, it’s worth trying. See Mr. Paul Fyfe and ask him what happened to the ice cream. You will remember -”
“Yeah, he bought it at Schramm’s, to take back to Mount Kisco for a Sunday party, and took it to Bert’s apartment and put it in the refrigerator. You say you want to know what happened to it?”
“I do. See him and ask him. If he accounts for it, check him thoroughly. If he doesn’t, see if Mr. or Mrs. Tuttle can, and check them. If they can’t, ask Miss Goren when you see her about the morphine. If she can’t, find Mr. Arrow and ask him. I want to know what happened to that ice cream.”
“You certainly do. Tell me why so I’ll have some idea what I’m after.”
“No. You are not without discretion, but there’s no point in subjecting it to an unnecessary strain.”
“You’re absolutely right, and I appreciate it deeply. Tuttle’s right here, so shall I see him first?”
He said no, to see Paul first, and hung up. As I left the booth and the store and headed for the address of Paul’s real-estate office, down the street a block, I was looking around inside my skull for a connection between Schramm’s famous mango ice cream and the hot-water bags in Bert Fyfe’s bed, but if it was there I couldn’t find it. Which was just as well, if there really was one, because I hate to overwork my discretion.
I found Paul on the second floor of an old wooden building, above a grocery store. His office was one small room, with two desks and some scarred old chairs which had probably been allotted to him when the family split up the paternal estate. Seated at the smaller desk was a woman with a long thin neck and big ears, about twice Paul’s age, who was perfectly safe even with him. Paul, at the other desk, didn’t get up as I entered.
“You?” he said. “You got something?”
I looked at the woman, who was fiddling with some papers. He told her she could go, and she merely plunked a weight down on the papers, got up, and left. No amenities at all.
When the door had closed behind her I answered him. “I haven’t got something, I’m just after something. Mr. Wolfe sent me up here to ask Doctor Buhl about the morphine and to ask you about the ice cream. The last we heard it was still in the refrigerator in your brother’s apartment. What happened to it?”
“Well, for God’s sake.” He was staring at me, at least with his good eye. It was hard to tell what the one with the shiner was doing. “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
“I don’t know. With Mr. Wolfe, I often don’t know, but it’s his car and tires and gas, and he pays my salary, so I just humor him. It’s the simplest and quickest way for you too, unless there’s something about the ice cream you’d rather keep to yourself.”
“There’s not a damn thing about the ice cream.”
“Then I won’t have to bother to sit down. Did you bring it to Mount Kisco for the Sunday party you mentioned?”
“No. I didn’t come back to Mount Kisco until Sunday night.”
“But you were in New York again the next day, Monday, for the funeral – and to call on Miss Goren again. Did you get the ice cream then?”
“Look,” he said, “we’ll leave Miss Goren out of this.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said warmly. “I’m all for gallantry. But what happened to the ice cream?”
“I don’t know and don’t give a damn.”
“Did you see it or touch it at any time after you put it in the refrigerator Saturday afternoon?”
“I did not. And if you ask me, this is a lot of crap. I don’t know where that fat slob Wolfe got his reputation, but if this is the way he carries on an investi – What’s the big rush?”
I had got as far as the door. Turning as I opened it, I said politely, “Nice to see you,” and went.
Backtracking to Tuttle’s pharmacy, I found there had been a turnover of customers, but business was still humming. Tuttle’s shiny dome loomed behind a showcase of cosmetics. Catching his eye, I crossed over and told him I would like to have a couple of minutes when he was free, and then went to the fountain and ordered a glass of milk. It was nearly all down when he called to me, and beckoned, and I emptied the glass and followed him to the rear, behind the partition. He leaned against a counter and said it was a surprise, seeing me up there.
“A couple of little errands,” I told him. “To ask Doctor Buhl about the morphine, and to ask you about the ice cream. I’ve already asked Paul Fyfe. You remember he bought some ice cream at Schramm’s Saturday afternoon and took it to Bert’s apartment and put it in the refrigerator, intending to take it home with him.”
Tuttle corrected me. “I remember he said he did. What about it?”
“Mr. Wolfe wants to know what became of it. Paul says he doesn’t know. He says he never saw it again after he put it in the refrigerator. Did you?”
“I never saw it at all.”
“I thought you might have. You and your wife stayed there Saturday night. Sunday morning your brother-in-law was there dead, but even so you must have eaten something. I thought you might have gone to the refrigerator for something for breakfast, and you might have noticed the ice cream.”
