must understand that I didn't think Wynant had killed her—not for a minute. You can understand that—you still don't think he did. So when I went over there and the police began to ask me questions about him and I could see they suspected him, I did what ninety-nine out of a hundred lawyers would've done for their clients—I said nothing about having seen him in that neighborhood at about the time that the murder must have been committed. I told them what I told you—about having the date with him and him not showing up—and let them understand that I had gone over to Hermann's straight from the Plaza.”
“That's understandable enough,” I agreed. “There was no sense in your saying anything until you had heard his side of the story.”
“Exactly and, well, the catch is I never heard his side of the story. I'd expected him to show up, phone me, something, but he didn't—until Tuesday, when I got that letter from him from Philadelphia, and there was not a word in it about his failure to meet me Friday, nothing about—but you saw the letter. What'd you think of it?”
“You mean did it sound guilty?”
“Yes.”
“Not particularly,” I said. “It's about what could be expected from him if he didn't kill her—no great alarm over the police suspecting him except as it might interfere with his work, a desire to have it all cleaned up with no inconvenience to him—not too bright a letter to have come from anybody else, but in line with his particular form of goofiness. I can see him sending it off without the faintest notion that the best thing he could do would be to account for his own actions on the day of the murder. How sure are you he was coming from Julia's when you saw him?”
“I'm sure now. I thought it likely at first. Then I thought he may have been to his shop. It's on First Avenue, just a few blocks from where I saw him, and, though it's been closed since he went away, we renewed the lease last month and everything's there waiting for him to come back to it, and he could have been there that afternoon. The police couldn't find anything there to show whether he had or hadn't.”
“I meant to ask you: there was some talk about his having grown whiskers. Was he—”
“No—the same long bony face with the same ragged near-white mustache.”
“Another thing: there was a fellow named Nunheim killed yesterday, a small—”
“I'm coming to that,” he said.
“I was thinking about the little fellow you thought might be shadowing you.”
Macaulay stared at me. “You mean that might've been Nunheim?”
“I don't know. I was wondering.”
“And I don't know,” he said. “I never saw Nunheim, far as I—”
“He was a little fellow, not more than five feet three, and would weigh maybe a hundred and twenty. I'd say he was thirty-five or —six. Sallow, dark hair and eyes, withi the eyes set pretty close together, big mouth, long limp nose, bat-wing ears—shifty-looking.”
“That could easily be him,” he said, “though I didn't get too close a view of my man. I suppose the police would let me see him”—he shrugged—“not that it matters now. Where was I? Oh, yes, about not being able to get in touch with Wynant. That put me in an uncomfortable position, since the police clearly thought I was in touch with him and lying about it. So did you, didn't you?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“And you also, like the police, probably suspected that I had met him, either at the Plaza or later, on the day of the murder.”
“It seemed possible.”
“Yes. And of course you were partly right. I had at least seen him, and seen him at a place and time that would've spelled Guilty with a capital G to the police, so, having lied instinctively and by inference, I now lied directly and deliberately. Herrnann had been tied up in a conference all that afternoon and didn't know how long I had been waiting to see him. Louise Jacobs is a good friend of mine. Without going into details, I told her she could help me help a client by saying I had arrived there at a minute or two after three o'clock and she agreed readily enough. To protect her in case of trouble, I told her that if anything went wrong she could always say that she hadn't remembered what time I arrived, but that I, the next day, had casually mentioned my arrival at that time and she had no reason for doubting me—throwing the whole thing on me.” Macaulay took a deep breath. “None of that's important now. What's important is that I heard from Wynant this morning.”
“Another one of those screwy letters?” I asked.
“No, he phoned. I made a date with him for tonight—for you and me. I told him you wouldn't do anything for him unless you could see him, so he promised to meet us tonight. I'm going to take the police, of course. I can't go on justifying my shielding him like this. I can get him an acquittal on grounds of insanity and have him put away. That's all I can do, all I want to do.”
“Have you told the police yet?”
“No. He didn't phone till just after they'd left. Anyway, I wanted to see you first. I wanted to tell you I hadn't forgotten what I owed you and—”
“Nonsense,” I said.
“It's not.” He turned to Nora. “I don't suppose he ever told you he saved my life once in a shell-hole in —”
“He's nuts,” I told her. “He fired at a fellow and missed and I fired at him and didn't and that's all there was to it.” I addressed him again: “Why don't you let the police wait awhile? Suppose you and I keep this date tonight and hear what he's got to say. We can sit on him and blow whistles when the meeting's about to break up if we're convinced he's the murderer.”
Macaulay smiled wearily. “You're still doubtful, aren't you? Well, I'm willing to do it that way if you want, though it seems like a— But perhaps you'll change your mind when I tell you about our telephone conversation.”
Dorothy, wearing a nightgown and a robe of Nora's, both much too long for her, came in yawning. “Oh!” she exclaimed when she saw Macaulay, and then, when she had recognized him, “Oh, hello, Mr. Macaulay. I didn't know you were here. Is there any news of my father?”
He looked at me. I shook my head. He told her: “Not yet, but perhaps we'll have some today.”
I said: “Dorothy's had some, indirectly. Tell Macaulay about Gilbert.”
“You mean about—about my father?” she asked hesitantly, staring at the floor.
“Oh, dear me, no,” I said.
Her face flushed and she glanced reproachfully at me; then, hastily, she told Macaulay: “Gil saw my father yesterday and he told Gil who killed Miss Wolf.”
“What?”
She nodded four or five times, earnestly.
Macaulay looked at me with puzzled eyes.
“This doesn't have to've happened,” I reminded him. “It's what Gil says happened.”
“I see. Then you think he might be—?”
“You haven't done much talking to that family since hell broke loose, have you?” I asked.
“No.”
“It's an experience. They're all sex-crazy, I think, and it backs up into their heads. They start off—”
Dorothy said angrily: “I think you're horrid. I've done my best to—”
“What are you kicking about?” I demanded. “I'm giving you the break this time: I'm willing to believe Gil did tell you that. Don't expect too much of me.”
Macaulay asked: “And who killed her?”
“I don't know. Gil wouldn't tell me.”
“Had your brother seen him often?”
“I don't know how often. He said he had been seeing him.”
“And was anything said—well—about the man Nunheim?”
“No. Nick asked me that. He didn't tell me anything else at all.”
I caught Nora's eye and made signals. She stood up saying: “Let's go in the other room, Dorothy, and give these lads a chance to do whatever it is they think they're doing.”
Dorothy went reluctantly, but she went out with Nora.
Macaulay said: “She's grown up to be something to look at.” He cleared his throat. “I hope your wife
