“Did you?”
“Maybe — a little.”
“When was the other time?”
“Nearly a year ago.”
“What did he want you to influence Philip to do?”
“To... well, to settle down. To take an interest in the business. He knew that Philip was — had wanted to marry me. Of course, Philip isn’t really my first cousin, since he was adopted. He isn’t any relation at all, but I didn’t want to marry him. I wasn’t in love with him.”
“And your uncle tried to persuade you to marry him?”
“Oh, no. He was dead against our marrying — I thought that was odd — but anyway he thought I had enough influence with Philip to reform him.”
“Had Philip, himself, abandoned the idea of marrying you?”
“Well, he... he had quit trying.”
Leonard Cliff was scowling. “Look here,” he blurted at her suddenly, “what does he look like?”
“Philip?”
“Yes.”
“Why — he’s tall. Tall and broad, with a bony face and deep-set eyes. He’s cynical. I mean he looks cynical—”
Cliff hit the arm of his chair with his palm. “It was him! I saw him at police headquarters this morning. It was him!”
“What if it was?” Wolfe demanded impatiently.
“Because that’s what I came to tell you about! He’s the man I saw last night! The one in the raincoat!”
“Indeed,” Wolfe said. “The one who arrived at seven-forty? After Mr. Judd left?”
“Yes!”
“How sure are you?”
“Damned sure. I was sure when I saw him there at headquarters, and I started to try to find out who he was, but they hustled me out. And now, from the description Amy gives—”
Wolfe snapped at Amy, “Do you know where he lives?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t. But, oh — I can’t believe — you don’t think—”
“I haven’t begun to think. First I have to get something to think about.” He turned to me: “Archie, do you know of anyone we might hire to find Philip Tingley and bring—”
That was all I heard. I was on my way out.
This was the third man I had been sent for in less than twenty-four hours. The first one had been dead when I got to him. The second one had threatened to have me jailed. I intended to get this one.
But first I had to find him, and that turned into a job. From the colored maid at Tingley’s house I got the address easily enough, east of Second Avenue on 29th Street, but he wasn’t there. It was a dump, a dingy, dirty, five-story walk-up. I pushed the button labeled “Philip Tingley,” but got no answering click. The button’s position showed that he was four flights up, and since the door was unlatched, I entered and climbed the dark and smelly stairs. There were no buttons on the inside doors, so at the fifth floor rear I knocked half a dozen times, but without result.
I sat down at the top of the stairs and tried not to stew for nearly two hours.
Up to five o’clock that was one of the most unsatisfactory afternoons I remember. The sensible thing would have been to get Fred Durkin, who works for Wolfe on occasion, and leave him on post while I explored, but I wanted to make the delivery without any help. After a dish of beans and a couple of glasses of milk at a joint on Second Avenue I tried again, with the same result. Inquiries of the janitor in the basement and some of the other tenants were a good language lesson, but that was all. At half past four I went out again and did some research from a phone booth and drew nothing but blanks. It was during that expedition that he flew back to the nest. When I returned, a little after five o’clock, and, just to be doing something, pressed the button in the vestibule, the click sounded immediately. I popped in and bounced up the four flights.
The door to the rear flat was standing open and he was there on the sill when I reached his level. My first glance at him showed me not only that Amy’s description had been accurate, but that I was an unwelcome surprise. He didn’t like me at all.
“What do you want?” he demanded as I appeared.
I grinned at him. “You, brother. I’ve been around here wanting you for five hours.”
“Are you from the police?”
“Nope. My name’s Goodwin. I—”
The ape was shutting the door. I got against it and slid inside.
“Get out!” he snarled. “Get out of here!”
“My goodness,” I protested, “you haven’t even asked me what I want! How do you know I’m not Santa Claus?” I kicked the door shut behind me. There was no hurry, since Wolfe wouldn’t be available until six o’clock. “Let’s go in and talk it over—”
I suppose I was careless but what he did was so unexpected that he had me before I knew it. Not only did he get his long, bony fingers around my throat, but the strength of his grip indicated that they weren’t all bone. I grabbed his wrists, but that was no good; he had the leverage. I ducked and twisted, and broke his hold, but he pressed on in, clutching at me, scratching me on the cheek. I don’t like to plug a guy who never learned what fists are for, but I don’t like to be scratched, either, so I pushed him back with my left and hooked with my right. He staggered, but the wall kept him from going down.
“Cut it out,” I said curtly. “I don’t want to—”
He hauled off and kicked me! What with my throat hurting when I talked, and the scratch on my cheek, and now this, I hit him harder, the second time, than I intended to. He didn’t topple over, he folded up. As if he had melted. Then he didn’t move.
I stooped over for a look at him, and then slid past for an inspection of the premises. The only way I could account for his violent lack of hospitality before he ever knew what I came for was that there was someone else there who wasn’t supposed to be. But the place was empty. All there was of it was a bedroom and kitchen and bath. I gave them a glimpse, including the closet and under the bed, and went back to the tenant. He was still out.
In view of his disinclination even to let me state my intentions, it didn’t seem likely that I would get any kind of co-operation from him in my desire to escort him to Wolfe’s house, so I decided to wrap him up. He was too big to do anything with in the narrow little hall, and I dragged him into the kitchen. With a length of old clothesline from a kitchen drawer and a roll of adhesive tape from the bathroom cabinet, I soon had him arranged so that he would at least listen to me without kicking and scratching. I was putting the third strip of tape crosswise on his mouth when a bell rang right behind me.
I jerked up. The bell rang again.
So that was it. Not that someone was there, but someone was expected. I found the button on the wall that released the door latch downstairs, pushed it several times, took a swift look at the job I had just completed, stepped out and closed the kitchen door, and opened the door to the public hall.
I heard faint and hesitating footsteps from below on the uncarpeted stairs. Before a head appeared above the landing I had decided it was a woman; and it was. When she got to my level she stopped again, glanced the other way, and then saw me. She was a new one on me. Fifty or maybe a little more, slim and slick, in a mink coat.
I said politely, “Good evening.”
She asked, with a sort of gasp, “Are you — Philip Tingley?”
I nodded. “Don’t you recognize me?”
That seemed to hit some mark. “How would I recognize you?” she demanded sharply.
“I don’t know. From my statue in the park, maybe.” I stood aside from her passage to the door. “Come in.”
She hesitated a second; then pulled her shoulders up as if bracing herself against peril and swept by me. I followed her in and motioned her to the living-bedroom and shut the door. All was dark before me, figuratively speaking, but anyway I could try some fancy groping and stumbling.