me?” “I don’t know,” she said reasonably. “Tell me what it is first.” “It’s this. You’ll never accomplish anything with this sort of cackle-not with Mr. Goodwin or me. Anyway, even if I accepted your ridiculous offer, you might be wasting your money. Your assumptions may not be sound. Evidently you assume that if we do a competent job of investigating Mr. Moore’s death it is certain, or at least highly probable, that a public scandal will result. What makes you so sure of that?” She looked at him appreciatively. “That’s quite clever,” she said generously.
“If I really were sure and told you why, it would be a great help to you. But I’m not sure at all. I just don’t want to run the risk.” “Do you share your brother’s opinion that Mr. Moore was murdered?” “Certainly not. It was an accident.” “Had you seen Mr. Moore that day? The day he was killed?” “No. I hadn’t seen him for months.” She laughed. It came from her throat on out, as if something had really struck her as funny. “He was going to get married! To a girl at the office named Livsey, Hester Livsey. He phoned me one day to tell me about it. Of course you can’t realize how grotesque that was because you didn’t know him.” “Did you advise him not to marry?” “Heavens, no. It wouldn’t have done any good. If I had known the girl I might have given her some advice, but not Waldo.” Mrs. Pine turned to me. “Is this a habit of his, Archie? He said he had a suggestion for me, and instead he cross-examines me.” “Yeah,” I agreed. “He doesn’t do it deliberately. His mind jumps the track.” “The suggestion,” Wolfe told her, ignoring me, “is a contingent one. It’s no good unless you’ve been telling the truth. If you have no knowledge of facts the disclosure of which would cause a sensation, and all you’re after is insurance against a risk, why not trust to my discretion? I have some, and I would gain neither pleasure nor profit from starting a public uproar unnecessarily. Why not help me get it over with? Its kernel is your brother’s tenacity, his fondness for the notion of murder-or at least for the word. I suppose you know your brother better than anyone else does. Why not help with him? Why not start now by telling us about him? For instance, I understand that you asked him to give Mr. Moore a job. Did he have any objection to that?” It was a fair try, but it didn’t work. Apparently Wolfe hadn’t noticed that she was allergic to talk of her brother, but that doesn’t seem likely, since he notices everything. At any rate, it was no go. She didn’t abruptly end the interview-on the contrary, she seemed quite willing to sit and chat all night -but she was utterly disinclined to furnish us with a biography of her brother.
The most specific statement Wolfe could drag out of her was that her brother was peculiar, and she had already told us that, and we knew it anyway.
Finally Wolfe got hold of the edge of his desk, pushed his chair back, and stood up. Mrs. Pine arose too, and I went and helped her on with her coat.
In the hall, with my hand on the knob of the front door, she stood where I couldn’t open it without banging her toe, and told me sympathetically, “I hope your face is better tomorrow.” “Thanks. So do I.” “And you didn’t answer my question about how much it would take for you to start your own business.” “That’s right, I didn’t. I’ll figure it up.” “Do you like symphony concerts?” “Yes, some, when I’m lying down. I mean on the radio.” She laughed. “Anyway, it’s nearly April. Boating? Golf? Baseball?” “Baseball. I go as often as I can get away.” “It’s a wonderful game, isn’t it? Yankees or Giants?” “Both. Either one, whichever’s in town.” “I’ll send you season tickets. Frankly, Archie, I think my brother is crazy.
Don’t tell Mr. Wolfe I said that.” “I never tell him anything.” “Then that’s our first secret. Good night.” I escorted her out, down the stoop and to the curb, but didn’t get to open the car door for her because her chauffeur was already attending to that. As I reascended the steps I was telling myself that I mustn’t forget to phone Lon Cohen in the morning and inform him that the job was practically mine but nothing doing on his ten per cent because I was landing it strictly on merit.
Back in the house I made a beeline for the stairs, taking no chances, but found it desirable to mount one step at a time. My room was two flights up. On the first landing I turned and yelled back down, “I’m going up and figure how much it will set her back to furnish my office! Good night!”
CHAPTER Fifteen
The next morning, Thursday, the arena of the stock department was a different place as far as I was concerned. Whenever I showed my face, coming and going, the change could be seen, felt, and tasted. Wednesday morning I had been a combination of a new male, to be given the once over and labeled, and an intruder from outside who could be expected to regard the lovely little darlings merely as units of personnel. Thursday morning I was a detective after a murderer. That’s what they all thought, and they all showed it. Whether Kerr Naylor had started another ball rolling, or whether it was just seepage from various leaks, I didn’t know, but the reaction that greeted me wherever I went left no doubt of the fact.
The bits of tobacco in the folder had not been disturbed. That was no great disappointment, since I had no good reason to suppose that anyone in the place was sitting on tacks, and I left the set-up intact. At ten o’clock I got Jasper Pine on the phone and gave him a report of the Mr. and Mrs. Harold Anthony episode.
I also said, “Your wife came to see us last night.” “I know she did,” he replied, and let it go at that. It was a fair guess that his position was that there was no point in asking what she had said because she had already said everything to him about everything. When I told him that the whole department apparently had me tagged as a bloodhound he said grimly that in that case I might as well act like one and gave me the run of the pasture.
My first gallop was out of the pasture entirely, up to the Gazetee office to see Lon Cohen, having first called him. I had a healthy curiosity not only about Pine’s attitude toward his wife’s fondness for pets, but also about her and Moore. Wanting the low-down, I came away, after a session with Lon and talks with a couple of legmen, satisfied that I had it. Either Pine had years ago adopted the philosophy that a wife’s personal habits are none of a husband’s business, and really didn’t give a damn, and Mrs. Pine had completely lost interest in Moore early in 1946, except to see that he got a job, or the Gazetee boys were living in a dream world, which didn’t seem likely.
I bought them a lunch at Pietro’s and then returned to William Street. There was nothing in my office for me, no message from Wolfe or Pine or even Kerr Naylor, and the drawer of the cabinet hadn’t been touched. I was still without a bridle and could pick my own directions. Across the arena to Miss Livsey’s room was, I thought, as good as any.
Her door was open and she was inside, typing. I entered, shut the door, lowered myself onto the chair at the end of her desk, and inquired, “What thoughts have you got about Rosa Bendini?” “What on earth,” she inquired back, “have you been doing with your face?” She was gazing at it.
“You may think,” I said, “that you’re changing the subject, but actually you’re not. There’s a connection. It was Rosa’s husband who embroidered my face. What’s your opinion of her in ten thousand words?”
