“You can’t expect me to answer that.”
“I’ll answer it,” Quayle blurted. “Yes. It displeased me.”
“Indeed. By right? Was it a trespass?”
“I don’t know about ‘right.’ I had asked Miss Hinckley to marry me. I had ex — I had hoped she would.”
“Had she agreed to?”
The lawyer cut in. “Take it easy, Wolfe. You mentioned trespass. I think you’re trespassing. I’m here at the request of Mr. Althaus, my client, and I’m not entitled to speak on behalf of Miss Hinckley or Mr. Quayle, but I think you’re overreaching. I know your reputation. I know you’re not a jobber, and I won’t challenge your bona fides unless I have reason, but as an attorney-at-law I have to say you’re spreading it pretty thick. Or perhaps I mean thin. Mr. Althaus, and his wife, and I as his attorney, certainly want to see justice done. But if you have received information strongly indicating the guilt of the FBI, why this inquisition?”
“I thought I made that plain.”
“As an explanation of a position, yes, or as a brief for prudence. Not as an excuse for an inquisition of persons. Next you will be asking me if Morris had caught me committing a felony.”
“Had he?”
“I’m not going to fill a role in a burlesque. I repeat, you’re overreaching.”
“Then I’ll pull in, but I shall not abandon prudence. I’ll ask you this, a routine question in any case of death by violence: If the FBI didn’t kill Morris Althaus, who did? Assume that the FBI is definitely cleared and I am the District Attorney. Who had reason to want that man dead? Who hated him or feared him or had something to gain? Can you suggest a name?”
“No. I have considered that, naturally. No.”
Wolfe’s eyes went right and left. “Can any of you?”
Two of them shook their heads. No one said anything.
“The question is routine,” Wolfe said, “but it is not always futile. I ask you to reflect. Without regard for slander; you will not be quoted. Surely Morris Althaus did not live thirty-six years without giving offense to anyone. He offended his father. He offended Mr. Quayle.” He looked at Yarmack. “Were the articles he wrote for your magazine innocuous?”
“No,” the editor said. “But if they hurt anyone enough for them to murder him I shouldn’t think they would wait until now.”
“One of them had to wait,” Quayle said. “He was in jail.”
Wolfe switched editors. “For what?”
“Fraud. A shady real-estate deal. Morris did a piece we called ‘The Realty Racket,’ and it started an investigation, and one of them got nailed. He was sent up for two years. That was two years ago, a little less, but with time off for good behavior he must be out by now. But he’s no murderer, he wouldn’t have the guts. I saw him a couple of times when he was trying to get us to leave his name out. He’s just a small-time smoothie.”
“His name?”
“I don’t — Yes, I do. Does it matter? Odell. Something Odell. Frank, that’s it. Frank Odell.”
“I don’t understand—” Mrs. Althaus began, but it came out hoarse and she cleared her throat. She was looking at Wolfe. “I don’t understand all this. If it was the FBI, why are you asking all these questions? Why don’t you ask Mr. Yarmack what Morris had found out about the FBI? I have asked him, and he says he doesn’t know.”
“I don’t,” Yarmack said.
Wolfe nodded. “So I assumed. Otherwise you would be harassed not only by the police. Had he told you nothing of his discoveries and conjectures?”
“No. He never did. He waited until he had a first draft. That was how he always worked.”
Wolfe grunted. “Madam,” he told Mrs. Althaus, “as I said, I must be satisfied. I should ask a thousand questions — all night, all week. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is a formidable foe, entrenched in power and privilege. It is not rodomontade but merely a statement of fact to say that no individual or group in America would undertake the job I have assigned myself. If an agent of the FBI killed your son there is not the slightest chance that he will be brought to account unless I do it. Therefore the choice of procedure is exclusively mine. Is that overreaching, Mr. Fromm?”
“No,” the lawyer said. “It would be unrealistic not to agree with you about the FBI. When I learned that nothing about them was found in the apartment I made the obvious assumption, and I told Mr. Althaus that I thought it very unlikely that the murderer would ever be caught. The FBI is untouchable. Goodwin told Mrs. Althaus that a man told you yesterday that he knows that an FBI agent killed her son, and that he supported it with information, and I came here intending to demand the man’s name and the information, but you’re right. The procedure is up to you. I think it’s hopeless, but I wish you luck, and I wish I could help.”
“So do I.” Wolfe pushed his chair back and rose. “It’s possible, if this conversation has been overheard, that one or more of you will be harassed. If so I would like to know. I would like to know of any development that comes to your knowledge, however trivial. Whether the conversation was overheard or not, this house is under surveillance, and the FBI now knows that I am concerning myself with the murder of Morris Althaus. The police do not, as far as I know, and I request you not to tell them; that would only make it more difficult. I apologize for not offering you refreshments; I was preoccupied. Mr. Althaus, you have not spoken. Do you wish to?”
“No,” David Althaus said — his one and only word.
“Then good evening.” Wolfe walked out.
As they left their chairs and moved toward the hall I stood. The gentlemen could help the ladies with their coats; I wasn’t needed. I must have been about as low as you can get, for it didn’t occur to me that it would be a pleasure to hold Miss Hinckley’s coat until I heard the front door open, and then it was too late. I stayed put until I heard it close and then went and bolted it. They were down on the sidewalk.
I hadn’t heard the elevator, so Wolfe must be in the kitchen, and I headed for it. But he wasn’t. Neither was Fritz. Had he actually climbed the stairs? Why? The only other way was down. I chose that, and as I descended I heard his voice. It came from the open door to Fritz’s room, and I stepped to it and entered.
Fritz could have had a room upstairs, but he prefers the basement. His den is as big as the office and front room combined, but over the years it has got pretty cluttered — tables with stacks of magazines, busts of Escoffier and Brillat-Savarin on stands, framed menus on the walls, a king-size bed, five chairs, shelves of books (he has 289 cookbooks), a head of a wild boar he shot in the Vosges, a TV and stereo cabinet, two large cases of ancient cooking vessels, one of which he thinks was used by Julius Caesar’s chef, and so on.
Wolfe was in the biggest chair by a table, with a bottle of beer and a glass. Fritz, seated across from him, got up as I entered, but I moved another chair up.
“It’s too bad,” I said, “that the elevator doesn’t come down. Maybe we can have it done.”
Wolfe drank beer, put the glass down, and licked his lips. “I want to know,” he said, “about those electronic abominations. Could we be heard here?”
“I don’t know. I’ve read about a thing that is supposed to pick up voices half a mile off, but I don’t know about how much area it covers or about obstructions like walls and floors. There could be items I haven’t read about that can take a whole house. If there aren’t there soon will be. People will have to talk with their hands.”
He glared at me. Since I had done nothing to deserve it, I glared back. “You realize,” he said, “that absolute privacy has never been so imperative.”