The card stated, in the same simple, cold, matter-of-fact way Mr. Smith talked, that William Garner was an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Lock that door, Dunning,” Wolff said. “Then see what you can do about a little first aid.”
Dunning started toward the door, then halted. Wolff looked around.
Anne Wolff, Dudley’s wife, stood in the doorway watching them.
“What happened, Dudley? Who is that?” Her voice, though surprised, was cool. Anne Wolff was a cool person, poised, and self-assured. Even her rather startling beauty, as warmly alive as it was, had something of the cool smooth quality of a Grecian marble that comes from a too classic regularity of feature. But, in the deep hazel eyes, there was a glow that told plainly of emotions beneath the surface quite capable of flaring hotly.
Dudley Wolff was fifty-five; she was at least fifteen years his junior and appeared even younger. Her clothes, which had the smart ultra fashion of an Eric drawing, accented this youthful appearance, as did the equally extreme coiffure of her dark hair and the alert lithe way she used her body. This last you noticed even when she stood perfectly still, as she did now, staring at the gun in Wolff’s hand and at the still figure on the floor. A thin feather of blue smoke curled slowly upward from the gold-tipped cigarette in her right hand.
Wolff scowled at Dunning over his desk and splashed some whisky into a highball glass.
“He’s a detective who had an odd idea that he could blackmail Dudley Wolff. He’s not so smart in other ways too. I hit him and took what he wanted to sell. You’d better go. He might be a bit nasty when he wakes up. Dunning and I will handle him.”
Anne frowned at the man on the floor. “Doctor Haggard is downstairs, isn’t he? Perhaps I had better call him.”
“No. That won’t be necessary. I don’t want everyone to know—”
Dunning, who had gone to kneel at the man’s side, said nervously, “I think we should have the doctor. I don’t like — I can’t feel his pulse and he doesn’t seem to be breathing.”
Wolff scowled at Dunning over his glass. “Nonsense!” he said. But he put his drink down and crossed to join the secretary. He looked down at the body for a moment. “He doesn’t look too good, does he? All right, get Haggard.”
Dunning hurried into the gun room, ran his finger down a row of buttons beneath the phone and pressed one marked Library.
Anne Wolff said, “I think I’ll stay. I don’t like this.”
Wolff frowned down at the figure at his feet for a moment and then returned to his drink.
Dunning came back after a moment, and then Doctor Haggard hurried in. He stopped just inside the door, blinked once in a startled way at the body, threw a ¢questioning look at Wolff, and scowled briefly at the gun in Wolff’s hand. But he asked no questions. He moved across to the man on the floor and knelt above him.
Wolff, less confident now, poured himself another drink. They all watched the doctor without speaking.
Haggard’s fingers went to his patient’s wrist. The calmly interested professional look on his face suddenly froze. He hesitated a second, scowling. Then, quickly, he turned the body over on its back, threw open the overcoat, ripped away the man’s tie, and unbuttoned vest and shirt. He leaned forward and put his ear against the bare flesh over the heart.
Wolff, distinctly nervous now, watched him intently. Mrs. Wolff seemed to be holding her breath. Dunning was transfixed.
Then, after a long moment, Doctor Haggard straightened up, sat back on his heels, and looked again at Wolff and at the gun in Wolff’s hand. His voice was crisp. “What happened? I don’t see any wound, and no blood. I heard no shot. How long—”
“There wasn’t any shot,” Wolff said quickly. “I hit him. What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to do something? Why—”
“Do something?” Haggard lifted one eyebrow. “I’m a bit late. This man is dead.”
The doctor’s voice was, except for a trace of curiosity, as matter-of-fact as a weather report.
But the words gathered impact in the silence that followed them. Wolff shook his head in a dazed fashion. He opened his lips twice before his words came. Then, hoarsely, he said, “Dead? No. I don’t believe it! He can’t be—”
Haggard frowned. “He is though.” His eyes went again to the gun in Wolff’s hand. “What happened?”
Dudley let the weapon fall onto the green desk blotter. He sank back into the chair. “I hit him,” he said. “But not that hard. He might have cracked his head when he went over backward, but — but — dammit, look at him again. You must be wrong. It isn’t possible—”
Haggard bent above the body again. “There’s some abrasion along the side of the jaw. But that’s all. His head seems to be all right. But he’s still dead.” Haggard stood up. “Bad heart probably. The autopsy will show. Who was he?”
Wolff stared at Haggard for a moment, then took a hasty drink from his glass. His hand shook. He looked at the body on the floor and his voice was like that of a sleepwalker. “Man named Garner. He tried to blackmail me.”
Haggard blinked again, glanced curiously at Anne and Dunning, and said, “Oh. That’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?”
Wolff nodded vaguely, still staring at the body, not believing it. His face was white and his forehead shone damply in the light that came from the green-shaded desk lamp. He sat limply in the chair, all his dynamic energy gone like the air from a pricked balloon.
Haggard picked up the phone, saw the cut wire, blinked once more, and looked around at everyone again. Then he replaced the receiver slowly and, turning, started out the door.
Wolff wasn’t paying attention, but Anne asked, “Doctor Haggard, where are you going?”
“Telephone,” he answered. “Notify the police. Cases of sudden or violent death must be—”
Dudley Wolff heard that. He came up out of his chair abruptly. “Wait a minute, Haggard!” Something of the old punch was back in his voice now.
The doctor turned. “Yes?”
“You’re not going to call the police,” Wolff said heavily.
“No?” Haggard’s eyebrows lifted. “I haven’t any choice in the matter. You can’t possibly avoid—”
“I’m going to though,” Wolff insisted. “Somehow. I’ve got to. I can’t have this hit the papers now. That man was an FBI agent.”
The surprises came so fast Haggard seemed a bit dazed. “But if he was blackmailing you — that’s excuse enough for hitting him.”
“But I can’t admit that. It would only make things worse. The papers would love it. And the Senate Committee—” Wolff’s rugged face had a cornered look, but there was hard determination in the set of his jaw.
Anne, still cool, said, “Perhaps if the body was found somewhere else—”
Haggard protested. “If he was a Federal agent his presence here is probably known. That wouldn’t help a bit. The police would—”
“I’m not so sure,” Wolff interrupted. “The blackmail was obviously a little side line of his own. It’s not at all likely that anyone, least of all his superiors, knows where he went tonight. And—” He hesitated a moment, then looked at the doctor squarely. “And if the body shouldn’t be found at all—”
Haggard shook his head uneasily. “That’s impossible. You can’t—”
His voice trailed off as he saw Wolff turn toward one of the casement windows in the wall opposite the door and unlatch it. The millionaire pulled one side of it in and looked out into the blackness above the waters of the Sound which, on this side, touched the foundations of the house two stories below. Small icy flakes of snow eddied downward out of the dark, caught the light from the window for a brief second, and then vanished.
“It wouldn’t work, Wolff,” Haggard said. “The body would be washed up, and there wouldn’t be any water in the lungs. The conclusion would be only too obvious. Besides, I can’t allow it. I—”