When Wolfe entered he accepted Jarrell’s offer of a hand, got behind his desk, stood while Jarrell pronounced our names, inclined his head an eighth of an inch, and sat.
Jarrell spoke. “They all know that this is about Eber, and I’ve hired you, and that’s all. I’ve told them it’s a conference, a family conference, and it’s off the record.”
“Then I should clarify it.” Wolfe cleared his throat. “If by ‘off the record’ you mean that I am pledged to divulge nothing that is said, I must dissent. I’m not a lawyer and cannot receive a privileged communication. If you mean that this proceeding is confidential and none of it will be disclosed except under constraint of law, if it ever applies, that’s correct.”
“Don’t shuffle, Wolfe. I’m your client.”
“Only if we understand each other.” Wolfe’s eyes went left to right and back again. “Then that’s understood. I believe none of you know about the disappearance of Mr. Jarrell’s gun. You have to know that. Since his secretary, Mr. Green, was present when its absence was discovered, I’ll ask him to tell you. Mr. Green?”
I had known that would come, but not that he would pick on me first. Their heads were turned to me. Lois twisted clear around in her chair, and her face was only arm’s length away. I reported. Not as I had reported to Wolfe, no dialogue, but all the main action, from the time Jarrell had dashed into my room until we left the library. I had their faces.
The face that left me first was Trella’s. She turned it to her husband and protested. “You might have told us, Otis!”
Corey Brigham asked me, “Has the gun been found?” Then he went to Jarrell too. “Has it?”
Wolfe took over. “No, it has not been found. It has not been looked for. In my opinion Mr. Jarrell should have had a search made at once, calling in the police if necessary, but it must be allowed that it was a difficult situation for him. By the way, Mr. Green, did you get the impression that Mr. Jarrell suspected anyone in particular?”
I hoped I got him right. Since he had asked it he wanted it answered, but he hadn’t asked what Jarrell had said, only if I had got an impression. I gave him what I thought he wanted. “Yes, I did. I might have been wrong, but I had the feeling that he thought he knew who had taken it. It was-”
“Goddamn it,” Jarrell blurted, “you knew what I thought! I didn’t think, I knew! If it’s out let it come all the way out!” He aimed a finger at Susan. “You took it!”
Dead silence. They didn’t look at Susan, they looked at him, all except Roger Foote, next to me. He kept his eyes on Wolfe, possibly deciding whether to place a bet on him.
The silence was broken by Wyman. He didn’t blurt, he merely said, “That won’t get you anywhere, Dad, not unless you’ve got proof. Have you got any?” He turned, feeling Susan’s hand on his arm, and told her, “Take it easy, Sue.” He was adding something, but Wolfe’s voice drowned it.
“That point should be settled, Mr. Jarrell. Do you have proof?”
“No. Proof for you, no. I don’t need any.”
“Then you’d better confine your charge to the family circle. Broadcast, it would be actionable.” His head turned to the others. “We’ll ignore Mr. Jarrell’s specification of the culprit, since he has no proof. Ignoring that, this is the situation: When Mr. Jarrell learned this afternoon that Mr. Eber had been killed with a gun of the same caliber as his, which had been taken from a drawer of his desk, he was concerned, and no wonder, since Eber had been in his employ five years, had lived in his house, had recently been discharged, had visited his house on Wednesday, the day the gun was taken, and had been killed the next day. He decided to consult me. I told him that his position was precarious and possibly perilous; that his safest course was to report the disappearance of his gun, with all the circumstances, to the police; that, with a murder investigation under way, it was sure to transpire eventually, unless the murderer was soon discovered elsewhere; and that, now that I knew about it, I would myself have to report it, for my own protection, if the possibility that his gun had been used became a probability. Obviously, the best way out would be to establish that it was not his gun that killed Eber, and that can easily be done.”
“How?” Brigham demanded.
“With an if, Mr. Brigham, or two of them. It can be established if it is true, and if the gun is available. Barring the servants, one of you took Mr. Jarrell’s gun. Surrender it. Tell me where to find it. I’ll fire a bullet from it, and I’ll arrange for that bullet to be compared with the one that killed Eber. That will settle it. If the markings on the bullets don’t match, the gun is innocent and I have no information for the police. Per contra, if they do match, I must inform the police immediately, and give them the gun, and all of you are in a pickle.” He upturned both palms. “It’s that simple.”
Jarrell snapped at his daughter-in-law, “Where is it, Susan?”
“No,” Wolfe snapped back at him, “that won’t do. You have admitted you have no proof. I am conducting this conference at your request, and I won’t have you bungling it. These people, including you, are jointly in jeopardy, at least of severe harassment, and I insist on making the appeal to them jointly.” His eyes went right and left. “I appeal to all of you. Mrs. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mrs. Otis Jarrell.” Pause. “Miss Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Green.” Pause. “Mr. Foote.” Pause. “Miss Kent.” Pause. “Mr. Brigham.”
Lois twisted around in her chair to face me. “He’s good at remembering names, isn’t he?” she asked. Then she made two words, four syllables, with her lips, without sound. I am not an accomplished lip reader, but there was no mistaking that. The words were “Archie Goodwin.”
I was arranging my face to indicate that I hadn’t caught it when Corey Brigham spoke. “I don’t quite see why I have been included.” His well-trained smile was on display. “It’s an honor, naturally, to be considered in the Jarrell family circle, but as a candidate for taking Jarrell’s gun I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”
“You were there, Mr. Brigham. Perhaps I haven’t made it clear, or Mr. Green didn’t. The photograph, taken automatically when the door opened, showed the clock above the door at sixteen minutes past six. You were a dinner guest that evening, Wednesday, and you arrived shortly after six and were in the lounge.”
“I see.” The smile stayed on. “And I rushed back to the library and worked the great rug trick. How did I get in?”
“Presumably, with a key. The door was intact.”
