“I've had it. Get yours and I'll be up in fifteen minutes.”
“Right.”
Dorothy opened her eyes less than half-way, said, “It must be late,” sleepily, turned over, and returned to unconsciousness.
I put cold water on my face and hands, brushed my teeth and hair, and went back to the hiving-room. “He's coming up,” I told Nora. “He's had breakfast, but you'd better order some coffee for him. I want chicken livers.”
“Am I invited to your party or do I—”
“Sure. You've never met Macaulay, have you? He's a pretty good guy. I was attached to his outfit for a few days once, up around Vaux, and we looked each other up after the war. He threw a couple of jobs my way, including the Wynant one. How about a drop of something to cut the phlegm?”
“Why don't you stay sober today?”
“We didn't come to New York to stay sober. Want to see a hockey game tonight?”
“I'd like to.” She poured me a drink and went to order breakfast.
I looked through the morning papers. They had the news of Jorgensen's being picked up by the Boston police and of Nunheim's murder, but further developments of what the tabloids called “The Hell's Kitchen Gang War,” the arrest of “Prince Mike” Gerguson, and an interview with the “Jafsie” of the Lindbergh kidnapping negotiations got more space.
Macaulay and the bellboy who brought Asta up arrived together. Asta liked Macaulay because when he patted her he gave her something to set her weight against: she was never very fond of gentleness.
He had lines around his mouth this morning and some of the rosiness was gone from his cheeks. “Where'd the police get this new line?” he asked. “Do they think—” He broke off as Nora came in. She had dressed.
“Nora, this is Herbert Macaulay,” I said. “My wife.”
They shook hands and Nora said: “Nick would only let me order some coffee for you. Can't I—”
“No, thanks, I've just finished breakfast.”
I said: “Now what's this about the police?”
He hesitated.
“Nora knows practically everything I know,” I assured him, “so unless it's something you'd rather not —”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “It's—well—for Mrs. Charles's sake. I don't want to cause her anxiety.”
“Then out with it. She only worries about things she doesn't know. WThat's the new police line?”
“Lieutenant Guild came to see me this morning,” he said. “First he showed me a piece of watch-chain with a knife attached to it and asked me if I'd ever seen them before. I had: they were Wynant's. I told him I thought I had: I thought they looked like Wynant's. Then he asked me if I knew of any way in which they could have come into anybody else's possession and, after some beating about the bush, I discovered that by anybody else he meant you or Mimi. I told him certainly—Wynant could have given them to either of you, you could have stolen them or found them on the street or have been given them by somebody who stole them or found them on the street, or you could have got them from somebody Wynant gave them to. There were other ways, too, for you to have got them, I told him, but he knew I was kidding him, so he wouldn't let me tell him about them.”
There were spots of color in Nora's cheeks and her eyes were dark. “The idiot!”
“Now, now,” I said. “Maybe I should have warned you—he was heading in that direction last night. I think it's likely my old pal Mimi gave him a prod or two. What else did he turn the searchlight on?”
“He wanted to know about—what he asked was: 'Do you figure Charles and the Wolf dame was still playing around together? Or was that all washed up?'”
“That's the Mimi touch, all right,” I said. “What'd you tell him?”
“I told him I didn't know whether you were 'still' playing around together because I didn't know that you had even played around together, and reminded him that you hadn't been living in New York for a long time anyway.”
Nora asked me: “Did you?”
I said: “Don't try to make a liar out of Mac. What'd he say to that?”
“Nothing. He asked me if I thought Jorgensen knew about you and Mimi and, when I asked him what about you and Mimi, he accused me of acting the innocent—they were his words—so we didn't get very far. He was interested in the times I had seen you, also, where and when to the exact inch and second.”
“That's nice,” I said. “I've got lousy alibis.”
A waiter came in with our breakfast. We talked about this and that until he had set the table and gone away.
Then Macaulay said: “You've nothing to be afraid of. I'm going to turn Wynant over to the police.” His voice was unsteady and a little choked.
“Are you sure he did it?” I asked. “I'm not.”
He said simply: “I know.” He cleared his throat. “Even if there was a chance in a thousand of my being wrong—and there isn't—he's a madman, Charles. He shouldn't be loose.”
“That's probably right enough,” I began, “and if you know—”
“I know,” he repeated. “I saw him the afternoon he killed her; it couldn't've been half an hour after he'd killed her, though I didn't know that, didn't even know she'd been killed. I—well—I know it now.”
“You met him in Hermann's office?”
“What?”
“You were supposed to have been in the office of a man named Hermann, on Fifty-seventh Street, from around three o'clock till around four that afternoon. At least, that's what the police told me.”
“That's right,” he said. “I mean that's the story they got. What really happened: after I failed to find Wynant or any news of him at the Plaza and phoned my office and Julia with no better results, I gave him up and started walking down to Hermann's. He's a mining engineer, a client of mine; I had just finished drawing up some articles of incorporation for him, and there were some minor changes to be made in them. When I got to Fifty- seventh Street I suddenly got a feeling that I was being followed—you know the feeling. I couldn't think of any reason for anybody shadowing me, but, still, I'm a lawyer and there might be. Anyhow, I wanted to find out, so I turned east on Fifty-seventh and wahked over to Madison and still wasn't sure. There was a small sallow man I thought I'd seen around the Plaza, but— The quickest way to find out seemed to be by taking a taxi, so I did that and told the driver to drive east. There was too much traffic there for me to see whether this small man or anybody else took a taxi after me, so I had my driver turn south at Third, east again on Fifty-sixth, and south again on Second Avenue, and by that time I was pretty sure a yellow taxi was following me. I couldn't see whether my small man was in it, of course; it wasn't close enough for that. And at the next corner, when a red light stopped us, I saw Wynant. He was in a taxicab going west on Fifty-fifth Street. Naturally, that didn't surprise me very much: we were only two blocks from Julia's and I took it for granted she hadn't wanted me to know he was there when I phoned and that he was now on his way over to meet me at the Plaza. He was never very punctual. So I told my driver to turn west, but at Lexington Avenue—we were half a block behind him—Wynant's taxicab turned south. That wasn't the way to the Plaza and wasn't even the way to my office, so I said to hell with him and turned my attention back to the taxi following me—and it wasn't there any more. I kept a look-out behind all the way over to Hermann's and saw no sign at all of anybody following me.”
“What time was it when you saw Wynant?” I asked.
“It must've been fifteen or twenty minutes past three. It was twenty minutes to four when I got to Hermann's and I imagine that was twenty or twenty-five minutes later. Well, Hermann's secretary—Louise Jacobs, the girl I was with when I saw you last night—told me he had been locked up in a conference all afternoon, but would probably be through in a few minutes, and he was, and I got through with him in ten or fifteen minutes and went back to my office.”
“I take it you weren't close enough to Wynant to see whether he looked excited, was wearing his watch- chain, smelled of gunpowder— things like that.”
“That's right. All I saw was his profile going past, but don't think I'm not sure it was Wynant.”
“I won't. Go ahead,” I said.
“He didn't phone again. I'd been back about an hour when the police phoned—Julia was dead. Now you
