His head turned. “Mr. Dell. Have you paid your room rent for the past three months?”
Chapter 6
Raymond Dell’s chin lifted another quarter of an inch. “We could all refuse,” he said.
Wolfe nodded. “You could indeed. If you think that would serve your friend in whose debt you are. Shall I try the others?”
“No. As for that question, if Hattie is your client you could ask her. Perhaps you already have. I have paid no room rent for three years and she has asked for none.”
Wolfe’s head moved. “Miss Kirk?”
She was still staring at him. “The cops didn’t ask me that,” she said.
Wolfe grunted. “They have their technique and I have mine. That question applies to the problem as I see it. Does it embarrass you?”
“No. I have lived there nearly a year and I have paid five dollars every week.”
“From current income?”
“I haven’t any current income. I get a check from my father every month.”
“I trust it doesn’t embarrass him. Mr. Ferris?”
Noel Ferris passed his tongue over his lips. “How this applies is beyond me,” he said, “but I don’t dare to refuse to answer. I haven’t figured how I stand on rent, but you can. I’ve had a room there for eighteen months. Last summer I was on television for thirteen weeks and I gave Hattie a hundred and fifty dollars. A show I was in flopped in November, and since then it has been television crumbs. Two weeks ago I gave her sixty dollars. You figure it.”
“You’re a hundred and eighty dollars short. Mr. Hannah?”
Paul Hannah was looking determined. “I’m not taking any dare,” he blurted. “You may think your question applies, but I don’t. You say you know one of us killed Tammy Baxter, but I don’t believe it. I know damn well I didn’t. You don’t kill someone without a reason, and what was it? She had only been there three weeks and we barely knew her. The knife doesn’t prove anything. Whoever killed her got in the house somehow, and if he was in the house he could have got the knife. I’m not taking any dare.”
Wolfe shook his head. “Your spunk is impressive, Mr. Hannah, but it bounces off. If you are innocent the question whether you’ll take a dare doesn’t arise; the question is, what are you here for? To oblige a friend or parade your conceit?”
“I’m here because of what Hattie said to Martha and I wanted to hear what you had to say. And you asked if I’ve paid my room rent, for God’s sake. All right, I have. I’ve been there four months and I’ve paid every week. That proves something?”
“Obviously. That you are not a pauper. You have an income?”
“No. I have money that I saved.”
“So. That point is covered.” Wolfe’s eyes went to Martha. “Now, Miss Kirk, for what you have told the police — at least one detail. Your movements this morning, say from ten-thirty until one o’clock. Where were you?”
“I was in my room,” she said, “until about a quarter after twelve. The police wanted to know exactly, but I couldn’t tell them. I got in late last night, and I always do exercises for an hour when I get up. About a quarter after twelve I went down to the kitchen. There were no oranges and I went out and got some. I wasn’t gone more than ten minutes. I was cooking bacon and eggs when Mr. Dell came in, and Hattie with Mr. Goodwin, and Hattie said he was going to do a piece for a magazine, and they went—”
“That’s far enough. Which room is yours?”
“The third floor front, above Hattie’s.”
“And the others? Their rooms?”
“Ray’s is the second floor rear — Raymond Dell’s. The rear room on my floor, the third, is Tammy Baxter’s. The one above mine, on the fourth floor, is Noel Ferris’s, and the rear one on that floor is Paul Hannah’s.”
“Did you see any of them this morning?”
“No. Not until Ray came to the kitchen, and that was afternoon.”
“Did you hear any of them moving or speaking?”
“No.”
“Not even Mr. Ferris in the room above you?”
“No. I suppose he was up and gone before I woke up.”
“Did you hear or see anything at all that might be of significance?”
She shook her head. “The police thought I must have, when I was in the kitchen, but I didn’t.”
Wolfe’s head went left, to Raymond Dell in the red leather chair. “Mr. Dell. I know you came downstairs when Miss Annis entered the house with Mr. Goodwin shortly after one o’clock. Before that?”
“Nothing,” Dell rumbled.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. That was when I left my room for the first time. Until then I had seen no one, heard nothing, and seen nothing. I had been asleep.”
“Then how did you know there were no oranges?”
Dell’s chin jerked up. “What’s that? Oh.” He gestured. “That man Goodwin. I knew because there had been none when I went down for some in the early hours — the late hours. I don’t sleep at night; I read. I was reading Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, and when I finished it, at five o’clock perhaps, or six, I wanted oranges. I always do around that hour. Finding none, I returned to my room and finally dozed.”
“So that was customary? You rarely stir before twelve?”
“I never do.”
“And at night you read. How do you spend your afternoons?”
Dell frowned. “Could that conceivably apply?”
“Yes. Conceivably.”
“I want to be present when you apply it. That would be a revelation worthy of the Cumaean sybil. I babysit.”
“You what?”
“The current abhorrent term is ‘babysit.’ I have a friend who is a painter, by name Max Eder, who lives in an East Side tenement. His wife is dead. He has a son and daughter aged three and four, and five days a week I am their keeper for five hours, from two till seven. For a stipend. Mondays and Tuesdays I am free to roam the market if I am so inclined. You frown. To offer my talents in television dens. I am so inclined only by necessity.”
“What is Mr. Elder’s address?”
Dell shrugged, an actor’s shrug. “This approaches lunacy. However, it’s in the phone book. Three-fourteen Mission Street.”
“How long have you been — uh — performing this service for him?”
“Something over a year.”
Wolfe left him. “Mr. Hannah. Since I am now merely asking for what you have already told the police, your whereabouts today from ten-thirty to one, I hope you won’t be provoked.”
“You do like hell,” Hannah blurted. “Parading my conceit, huh? I’m sticking only because I told Martha I would. I left the house a little after nine o’clock and spent a couple of hours around the West Side docks, and then I took a bus downtown and got to the Mushroom Theater a little before twelve. We start rehearsal at noon. Around two o’clock a man came and flashed a badge and said I was wanted for questioning and took me to Forty-seventh Street.”
“What were you doing around the docks?”
“I was looking and listening. In the play we’re doing, Do As Thou Wilt, I’m a longshoreman, and I want to get it right.”
“Where is the Mushroom Theater?”
“Bowie Street. Near Houston Street.”
“Do you have a leading role in the play?”
“No. Not leading.”
“How many lines have you?”
“Not many. It’s not a big part. I’m young and I’m learning.”
“How long have you been rehearsing?”
“About a month.”
“Have you appeared at that theater before?”
“Once, last fall. I had a walk-on in The Pleasure Is Mine.”
“How long did it run?”
“Six weeks. Pretty good for off-Broadway.”
“Do you favor any particular spot when you visit the docks?”