“I got no anonymous letters,” Anderson declared.
“I believe you.” Wolfe didn't look away from Tully Strong. “I rejected, tentatively, the assumption that Mr Anderson had himself received the anonymous letters, on various grounds, but chiefly because it would be out of character for him to show an anonymous letter to the subject of it. He would be much more likely to have the letter's allegations investigated, and there was good reason to assume that that had not been done. So I postulated that it was not Mr Anderson, but some other person, who had once received an anonymous letter or letters about Miss Fraser and who was yesterday provided with a missing link. It was a permissible guess that that person was one of those now present, and so I tried the experiment of having the police insinuate an imminent threat to Miss Vance, in the hope that it would loosen a tongue. I was too cautious. It failed lamentably; and Miss Koppel died.”
Wolfe was talking only to Strong. “Of course, having no evidence, I have no certainty that the information you gave Mr Anderson concerned anonymous letters.
It is possible that your conviction, or suspicion, about Miss Fraser, had some other basis. But I like my assumption because it is neat and comprehensive, and I shall abandon it only under compulsion. It explains everything, and nothing contradicts it. It will even explain, I confidently expect, why Mr Orchard and Miss Poole were killed. Two of the finer points of their operation were these, that they demanded only a small fraction of the victim's income, limited to one year, and that the letters did not expose, or threaten to expose, an actual secret in the victim's past. Even if they had known such secrets they would not have used them. But sooner or later-this is a point on which Mr Savarese could speak with the authority of an expert, but not now, some other time-sooner or later, by the law of averages, they would use such a secret by inadvertence.
Sooner or later the bugaboo they invented would be, for the victim, not a mischievous libel, but a real and most dreadful terror.”
Wolfe nodded. “Yes. So it happened. The victim was shown the letter or letters by some friend-by you, Mr Strong-and found herself confronted not merely by the necessity of paying an inconsequential tribute, but by the awful danger of some disclosure that was not to be borne; for she could not know, of course, that the content of the letter had been fabricated and that its agreement with reality was sheer accident. So she acted. Indeed, she acted! She killed Mr Orchard. Then she learned, from a strange female voice on the phone, that Mr Orchard had not been the sole possessor of the knowledge she thought he had, and again she acted. She killed Miss Poole.”
“My God,” Anderson cut in, “you're certainly playing it strong, with no cards.”
“I am, sir,” Wolfe agreed. “It's time I got dealt to, don't you think? Surely I've earned at least one card. You can give it to me, or Mr Strong can. What more do you want, for heaven's sake? Rabbits from a hat?”
Anderson got up, moved, and was confronting the secretary of the Sponsors'
Council. “Don't be a damn' fool, Tully,” he said with harsh authority. “He knows it all, you heard him. Go ahead and get rid of it!”
“This is swell for me,” Tully said bitterly.
“It would have been swell for Miss Koppel,” Wolfe said curtly, 'if you had spoken twenty hours ago. How many letters did you get?”
“Two.”
“When?”
“February. Around the middle of February.”
“Did you show them to anyone besides Miss Fraser?”
“No, just her, but Miss Koppel was there so she saw mem too.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don't know. I gave them to Miss Fraser.”
What did they say?”
Tully's lips parted, stayed open a moment, and closed again.
“Don't be an ass,” Wolfe snapped. “Mr Anderson is here. What did they say?”
“They said that it was lucky for Miss Fraser that when her husband died no one had been suspicious enough to have the farewell letters he wrote examined by a handwriting expert.”
“What else?”
That was all. The second one said the same thing, only in a different way.”
Wolfe's eyes darted to Anderson. “Is that what he told you, sir?”
The president, who had returned to the couch, nodded. “Yes, that's it. Isn't it enough?”
“Plenty, in the context.” Wolfe's head jerked around to face the lady at my elbow. “Miss Fraser, I've heard of only one farewell letter your husband wrote, to a friend, a local attorney. Was there another? To you, perhaps?”
“I don't think,” she said, “that it would be very sensible for me to try to help you.” I couldn't detect the slightest difference in her voice. Wolfe had understated it when he said she was an extremely dangerous woman. “Especially,” she went on, “since you are apparently accepting those lies. If Mr Strong ever got any anonymous letters he never showed them to me-nor to Miss Koppel, I'm sure of that.”
“I'll be damned!” Tully Strong cried, and his specs fell off as he gawked at her.
It was marvellous, and it certainly showed how Madeline Fraser got people. Tully had been capable of assuming that she had killed a couple of guys, but when he heard her come out with what he knew to be a downright lie he was flabbergasted.
Wolfe nodded at her. “I suppose,” he admitted, “it would be hopeless to expect you to be anything but sensible. You are aware that there is still no evidence, except Mr Strong's word against yours. Obviously the best chance is the letter your husband wrote to his friend, since the threat that aroused your ferocity concerned it.” His face left us, to the right. “Do you happen to know, Mr Cramer, whether that letter still exists?”
Cramer was right up with him. He had gone to the phone on my desk and was dialling. In a moment he spoke: “Dixon there? Put him on. Dixon? I'm at Wolfe's office. Yeah, he's got it, but by the end of the tail. Two things quick. Get Darst and have him phone Fleetville, Michigan. He was out there and knows 'em. Before Lawrence Koppel died he wrote a letter to a friend. We want to know if that letter still exists and where it is, and they're to get it if they can and keep it, but for God's sake don't scare the friend into burning it or eating it. Tell Darst it's so important it's the whole case. Then get set with a warrant for an all-day job on the Fraser woman's apartment. What we're looking for is cyanide, and it can be anywhere-the heel of a shoe, for instance. You know the men to get-only the best. Wolfe got it by the tail with one of his crazy dives into a two-foot tank, and now we've got to hang on to it. What? Yes, damn it, of course it's her! Step on it!”