“I do now, since you’ve told me.” I patted her shoulder. “Any time you’re hard up and need a job, ring me. You have the makings of a lady detective, figuring out why they wanted samples from the typewriters. Did they get them?”
“Yes. You can imagine how Mother liked it, but she let them.”
I patted her shoulder again. “Don’t let it wreck your marriage plans. Undoubtedly they got an anonymous letter, but they’re a dime a dozen. Whatever the letter said about Laidlaw, even if it said he was the father of her baby, that proves nothing. People who send anonymous letters are never—”
“That’s not it,” she said. “If he was the father of her baby, that would show that if I married him we could have a family, and I want one. What I’m worried about is his getting in a jam, and you’re no help.”
Mrs Irwin had certainly sized her up. She had her own way of looking at things. She was going on. “So now suit yourself. If you’d rather duck Mother and the Police Commissioner, you know where your hat and coat are. I don’t like being used for a decoy, and I’ll tell them you got mad and went.”
It was a toss-up. The idea of chatting with Mrs Robilotti had attractions, since she might be stirred up enough by now to say something interesting, but with Police Commissioner Skinner present it would probably be just some more ring-around-a-rosy. However, it might be helpful to know why they had gone to the trouble of using Celia for bait, so I told her I would hate to disappoint her mother, and she escorted me out to the reception hall and on upstairs to the music room, where we had joined the ladies Tuesday evening after going without brandy.
The whole family was there—Cecil standing over by a window, and Mr and Mrs Robilotti and Commissioner Skinner grouped on chairs at the far end, provided with drinks, not champagne. As Celia and I approached, Robilotti and Skinner arose, but not to offer hands. Mrs Robilotti lifted her bony chin, but not getting the effect she had in mind. You can’t look down your nose at someone when he is standing and you are sitting.
“Mr Goodwin came up on his own,” Celia said. “I warned him you were laying for him, but here he is. Mr Skinner, Mr Goodwin.”
“We’ve met,” the Commissioner said. His tone indicated that it was not one of his treasured memories. He had acquired more grey hairs above his ears and a couple of new wrinkles since I had last seen him, a year or so back.
“I wish to say,” Mrs Robilotti told me, “that I would have preferred never to permit you in my house again.”
Skinner shook his head at her. “Now, Louise.” He sat down and aimed his eyes at me. “This is unofficial, Goodwin, and off the record. Albert Grantham was my close and valued friend. He would have hated to have a thing like this happen in his house, and I owe it to him—”
“Also,” Celia cut in, “he would have hated to ask someone to come and see him and then not invite him to sit down.”
“I agree,” Robilotti said.” Be seated, Goodwin.” I didn’t know he had the spunk.
“It may not be worth the trouble.” I looked down at Mrs Robilotti. From that slant her angles were even sharper. “Your daughter said you wanted to see me. Just to tell me I’m not welcome?”
She couldn’t look down her nose, but she could look. “I have just spent,” she said, “the worst three days of my life, and you are responsible. I had had a previous experience with you, you and the man you work for, and I should have known better than to have you here. I think you are quite capable of blackmail, and I think that’s what you have in mind. I want to tell you that I won’t submit to it, and if you try—”
“Hold it, Mom,” Cecil called over. “That’s libellous.”
“Also,” Skinner said, “it’s useless. As I said, Goodwin, this is unofficial and off the record. None of my colleagues know I’m here, including the District Attorney. Let’s assume something, just an assumption. Let’s assume that here Tuesday evening, when something happened that you had said you would prevent, you were exasperated—naturally you would be—and in the heat of the moment you blurted out that you thought Faith Usher had been murdered, and then you found that you had committed yourself. It carried along from the precinct men to the squad men, to Inspector Cramer, to the District Attorney, and by that time you were committed.”
He smiled. I knew that smile, and so did a lot of other people. “Another assumption, merely an assumption. Somewhere along the line, probably fairly early, it occurred to you and Wolfe that some of the people who were involved were persons of wealth and high standing, and that the annoyance of a murder investigation might cause one of them to seek the services of a private detective. If that were a fact, instead of an assumption, it should be apparent to you and Wolfe by now that your expectation is vain. None of the people involved is going to be foolish enough to hire you. There will be no fee.”
“Do I comment as you go along,” I inquired, “or wait till you’re through?”
“Please let me finish. I realize your position. I realize that it would be very difficult for you to go now to Inspector Cramer or the District Attorney and say that upon further consideration you have concluded that you were mistaken. So I have a suggestion. I suggest that you wanted to check, to make absolutely sure of your ground, and came here this evening to inspect the scene again, and found me here. And after a careful inspection—the distances, the positions, and so on—you found that, though you had nothing to apologize for, you had probably been unduly positive. You concede that it is possible that Faith Usher did poison her champagne, and that if the official conclusion is suicide you will not challenge it. I will of course be under an obligation to ensure that you will suffer no damage or inconvenience, that you will not be pestered. I will fulfil that obligation. I know you will probably have to consult with Wolfe before you can give me a definite answer, but I would like to have it as soon as possible. You can phone him from here, or go out to a booth if you prefer, or even go to him. I’ll wait here for you. This has gone on long enough. I think my suggestion is reasonable and fair.”
“Are you through?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Well. I could make some assumptions too, but what’s the use? Besides, I’m at a disadvantage. My mother used to tell me never to stay where I wasn’t wanted, and you heard Mrs Robilotti. I guess I’m too sensitive, but I’ve stood it as long as I can.”
I turned and went. Voices came—Skinner’s and Celia’s and Robilotti’s—but I marched on.
Chapter 12
If, to pass the time, you tried to decide what was the most conceited statement you ever heard anybody make, or read or heard of anybody making, what would you pick? The other evening a friend of mine brought it up, and she settled for Louis XIV saying L’йtat, c’est moi , I didn’t have to go so far back. Mine, I told her, was “They know me.” Of course, she wanted to know who said it and when, and since the murderer of Faith Usher had been convicted by a jury just the day before and the matter was closed, I told her.
Wolfe said it that Friday night when I got home and reported. When I finished I made a comment. “You know,” I said, “it’s pretty damn silly. A police commissioner and a district attorney and an inspector of Homicide all biting nails just because if they say suicide one obscure citizen may let out a squeak.”
“They know me,” Wolfe said.
Beat that if you can. I admit it was justified by the record. They did know him. What if they officially called it suicide, and then, in a day or a week or a month, Wolfe phoned WA9-824I to tell them to come and get the murderer and the evidence? Not that they were sure that would happen, but past experience had shown them that it was at least an even-money bet that it might happen. My point is not that it wasn’t justified, but that it would have been more becoming just to describe the situation.