If he was that quick on the spring he might be just as quick with his left hand getting out a knife, so I didn’t try to get subtle. I bent my knees, called on my legs for all they had, jumped straight up as high as I could with him on me, jerked backwards in the air to horizontal, and hit the floor — or he did, with me on top. It squashed air out of him and jolted his arm loose. I bounced off to the right, got my feet under me, and came up, facing Tina in case she was prepared to help.
She wasn’t. She was just standing there, frozen, with no blood left in her, anyway not in her face. I moved my head a little from left to right and then slowly in a circle. “I thought he broke my neck,” I told her, “but he didn’t. He only tried to.”
She had no comment. Carl was on the floor, pulling air in for replacement. I stepped to him, reached down for his arm, yanked him upright, and went over him good. The only tool he had was a pocket knife with two little blades.
I backed up a step and remarked, “You act on impulse, don’t you?”
“I couldn’t break your neck,” he said, as if his feelings were hurt. “You’re too strong.”
“You sure could try.”
“No. I only wanted to go. If we stay here there is no hope. It would have made you numb, that was all.”
“Yeah. Napoleon’s been numb for over a century. I hope your ribs hurt. If so, think of me.”
I went to the door to the office, passed through, closed the door, and locked it. There in privacy I took a survey, physical and mental. It was no pleasure to move my head, especially backward, but it did move. My back was sore where his knees had hit it, but some assorted twisting and bending proved that all the joints worked without cracking. I sat at my desk for the mental part. Getting my neck broke, or damn near it, had cleared my brain. Being smart enough to get it in that neither Carl nor Tina could drive a car was all right as far as it went, but it proved nothing at all about the scissors in Jake Wallen’s back; it merely showed that there are motives and motives. The cops thought Wallen had been killed by a cornered hit-and-run driver, but what did I think? And even more important, what did Wolfe think? Was he up ahead of me as usual, or was he being too offhand, since no fee was involved, and maybe letting us in for a bloody nose?
I sat and surveyed and got so dissatisfied that I rang the plant rooms, told Wolfe about Carl’s attempt to numb me, and tried to go on from there, but he brushed me off and said it could wait until six o’clock. I sat some more, practiced moving my head in various directions, and then got up to do back exercises. I was bending to touch the floor with my fingers when the phone rang.
It was Sergeant Purley Stebbins. “Archie? Purley. I’m at the barber shop. We want you here quick.”
Two things told me it was no hostile mandate: his tone and the “Archie.” The nature of my encounters with him usually had him calling me Goodwin, but occasionally it was Archie.
I responded in kind. “I’m busy but I guess so. If you really want me. Do you care to specify?”
“When you get here. You’re needed, that’s all. Grab a cab.”
I buzzed Wolfe on the house phone and reported the development. Then I got a gun from the drawer, went to the kitchen and gave it to Fritz, described the status of the guests, and told him to keep his eyes and ears open. Then I hopped.
V
THE crowd of spectators ganged up in the corridor outside the Goldenrod Barber Shop was twice as big as it had been before, for two reasons. It was just past five o’clock, and home-goers were flocking through for the subway; and inside the shop there was a fine assortment of cops and dicks to look at. The corridor sported not one flatfoot, but three, keeping people away from the entrance and moving. I told one of them my name and errand and was ordered to wait, and in a minute Purley came and escorted me in.
I darted a glance around. The barber chairs were all empty. Fickler and three of the barbers, Jimmie, Ed, and Philip, were seated along the row of waiting chairs, in their white jackets, each with a dick beside him. Tom was not in view. Other city employees were scattered around.
Purley had guided me to the corner by the cash register. “How long have you known that Janet Stahl?” he demanded.
I shook my head reproachfully. “Not that way. You said I was needed, and I came on the run. If you merely want my biography, call at the office any time during hours. If you call me Archie, even after hours.”
“Cut the comedy. How long have you know her?”
“No, sir. I know a lawyer. Lay a foundation.”
Purley’s right shoulder twitched. It was only a reflex of his impulse to sock me, beyond his control and therefore nothing to resent. “Some day,” he said, setting his jaw and then releasing it. “She was found on the floor of her booth, out from a blow on her head. We brought her to, and she can talk but she won’t. She won’t tell us anything. She says she don’t know us. She says she won’t talk to anybody except her friend Archie Goodwin. How long have you known her?”
“I’m touched,” I said with emotion. “Until today I’ve merely leered at her, with no conversation or bodily contact of any kind. The only chat I’ve ever had with her was here today under your eye, but look what it did to her. Is it any wonder my opinion of myself is what it is?”
“Listen, Goodwin, we’re after a murderer.”
“I know you are. I’m all for it.”
“You’ve never seen her outside this shop?”
“No.”
“That can be checked maybe. Right now we want you to get her to talk. Goddam her, she’s stopped us dead. Come on.” He moved.
I caught his elbow. “Hold it. If she sticks to it that she’ll only talk with me I’ll have to think up questions. I ought to know what happened.”
“Yeah.” Purley wanted no more delay, but obviously I had a point. “There were only three of us left, me here at the front, and Joffe and Sullivan there on chairs. The barbers were all working on customers. Fickler was moving around. I was on the phone half the time. We had squeezed out everything we could here, for the present anyhow, and it was a letdown, you know how that is.”
“Where was Janet?”
“I’m telling you. Toracco, that’s Philip, finished with a customer, and a new one got in his chair — we were letting regular customers in. The new one wanted a manicure, and Toracco called Janet, but she didn’t come. Fickler was helping the outgoing customer on with his coat. Toracco went behind the partition to get Janet, and there she was on the floor of her booth, cold. She had gone there fifteen minutes before, possibly twenty. I think all of them had gone behind the partition at least once during that time.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I think.”
“It must have been quite a letdown.”
“I said I was on the phone a lot. Joffe and Sullivan will not be jumped up, and don’t they know it. You know damn well how much we like it, her getting bopped with three of us right here.”
“How bad is she hurt?”
“Not enough for the hospital. Doc let us keep her here. She was hit above the right ear with a bottle taken from the supply shelf against the partition, six feet from the entrance to her booth. The bottle was big and heavy, full of oil. It was there by her on the floor.”
“Prints?”
“For God’s sake, start a school. He had a towel in his hand or something. Come on.”