certainly look kosher. Do you suppose they’re all loaded?”
“I don’t know. The laboratory can answer that one.” He closed the box with the tip of his knife. “Damn orders anyhow.” He tapped the papers with his finger. “This is awful pat. The wife let out a hint or two, and I’ve sent for Blaney. I hope to God it’s a wrap-up, and maybe it is. How did Poor seem this afternoon, scared, nervous, what?”
“Mostly stubborn. Mind made up.”
“What about the wife?”
“Stubborn too. She wanted him to get out from under and go on breathing. She thought they could be as happy as larks on the income from a measly quarter of a million.”
The next twenty minutes was a record. Inspector Cramer and me conversing without a single ugly remark. It lasted that long only because of various interruptions from his army. The last one, toward the end, was from Rowcliff walking up to the table to say: “Do you want to talk to this young woman, Inspector?”
“How do I know? What about her?”
“Her name is Helen Vardis. She’s an employee of Poor’s firm, Blaney and Poor-been with them four years. At first she showed signs of hysteria and then calmed down. First she said she just happened to come here. Then she saw what that was worth and said she came to see Poor by appointment, at his request, on a confidential matter, and wants us to promise not to tell Blaney because she would lose her job.”
“What confidential matter?”
“She won’t say. That’s what I’ve been working on.”
“Work on it some more. She’s got all night.”
“Yes, sir. Goodwin gave her Nero Wolfe’s card and told her to go to see him.”
“Oh, he did. Go and work on her.” Rowcliff left and Cramer glared at me. “You did?”
I looked hurt. “Certainly. Don’t we have to do something to earn that five grand?”
“I don’t know why, since you’ve already got it. How would you like to go somewhere else? Next thing you’ll be liberating this box of cigars or maybe the corpse, and I can’t spare a squad to watch-now what?”
There was a commotion at the outer door, and it came on through the foyer into the living room in the shape of a municipal criminologist gripping the arm of a wild-eyed young man who apparently didn’t want to be gripped. They were both talking, or at least making noises. It was hard to tell whether they were being propelled by the young man pulling or the cop pushing.
Cramer boomed, “Doyle! What the hell? Who is that?”
The young man goggled around, declaiming, “I have a right-oh!”
It might have been supposed that what had stopped him was the sight of Poor’s body, especially the face, but his eyes weren’t aimed that way. They were focused toward the far corner where Rowcliff was working on the girl. She was focusing back at him, rising slowly to her feet, her lips moving without opening. They stared at each other long enough to count ten, with everyone else in the room knocking off to watch the charade.
The young man said, as if he was conveying information, “There you are.”
She said, as if she didn’t need any information from snakes or rats, “You didn’t lose any time, did you? Now you think you can have her, don’t you?”
He held the stare, showing no reaction except clamping his jaw, and their audience sat tight. In a moment he seemed to realize it was rather a public performance, and his head started to pivot, doing a slow circle, taking in the surroundings. It was a good thorough job of looking, without any waver or pause, so far as I could see, even when it hit the most sensational item, namely, the corpse. During the process his eyes lost their wild look entirely, and when he spoke his voice was cool and controlled. It was evident that his mental operations were enough in order for him to pick the most intelligent face in the bunch, since it was to me he put the question.
“Are you in charge here?”
I replied, “No. This one. Inspector Cramer.”
He strode across and looked Cramer in the eye and made a speech. “My name is Joe Groll. I work for Blaney and Poor, factory foreman. I followed that girl, Helen Vardis, when she left home tonight, because I wanted to know where she was going, and came here. The police cars and cops going in and out made me want to ask questions, and finally I got the answer that a man named Poor had been murdered, so I wanted to find out. Where is Blaney? Conroy Blaney, the partner-”
“I know,” Cramer said, looking disgusted. Naturally he was disgusted, since what he had hoped would be a wrap-up was spilling out in various directions. “We’ve sent for Blaney. Why were you following-”
“That isn’t true!”
More diversions. Helen Vardis had busted out of her corner to join the table group, close enough to Joe Groll to touch him, but they weren’t touching. Instead of resuming their staring match, they were both intent on Cramer.
Looking even more disgusted, Cramer asked her, “What isn’t true?”
“That he was following me!” Helen was mad clear to her temples and pretty as a picture. “Why should he follow me? He came here to-”
She bit it off sharp.
“Yeah,” Cramer said encouragingly. “To what?”
“I don’t know! But I do know who killed Mr. Poor! It was Martha Davis!”
