“Cramer would love to know that. After giving us the steer. I’ll call him and tell him, to relieve his mind.”
“Pfui. When we have relieved our minds by finishing the job we were hired to do we’ll consider our obligation to him. If it seems feasible without excessive effort we’ll owe him no apology.”
“Then we forget the murder until after Thursday.”
“Yes.”
“That’s just dandy. Agencies are closed today and tomorrow, so Hewitt can’t start looking until Monday. I’ll be at the Flamingo this evening if anything happens; for instance, if Hewitt calls to say he has decided that it’s too much trouble and we have to find someone else. Tomorrow Miss Rowan is having a crowd in for Sunday lunch and dancing and I’ll stay afterwards to help empty ashtrays. Any instructions for this afternoon?”
“Turn off the radio,” he growled.
Chapter 11
It bothered me for four days and four nights, from Saturday afternoon, when Wolfe said we would forget the murder, to Wednesday morning, when I did something about it on my own.
There were two aspects. First, if the conjecture about Sarah Dacos, or something like it, was actually a fact, I had removed evidence from the scene of a murder and was withholding it. Of course the cops had had their whack at it, they had certainly seen the photograph and had left it there, and Mrs. Althaus had given me the keys, but that was only a legal out. It was the second aspect that really bothered me. Cramer had saved our licenses for us, at least so far, and it was me, Archie Goodwin, he had invited to a conference and bought a carton of milk for and turned loose on a homicide. I have no objection to playing games with cops, sometimes you want to, but this was different. I owed Cramer something personally.
So it bothered me, but something else was bothering me still more, the act Wolfe was staging, the fanciest on record. Too much of it, nearly all of it, was entirely out of our control. For instance, when I called Hewitt from a booth Monday evening to ask how he had made out, and he said fine, he had got one actor at one agency and the other at another, and they would both come to his place Tuesday afternoon, and I asked if he had made sure that the one for me could drive a car and had a license, he had forgotten to ask, but everyone could drive a car! And that was absolutely vital and he knew it. He said he would find out right away; he had the actor’s phone number. On some other details he was okay, like his phone call to our number Tuesday noon, as arranged. He told Wolfe he was extremely sorry, he apologized, but he would be able to include only twelve Phalaenopsis Aphrodite in the shipment instead of twenty, and no Oncidium flexuosum at all. He said he would do his best to get it off by noon Wednesday, so it should arrive by two o’clock. He handled that perfectly. He was also okay on the call he made Tuesday evening to report on the supplies and arrangements for the dinner for the Ten for Aristology, but for him that was just routine, and anyway it was straight.
Fred Durkin and Orrie Cather were no worry because they had been left to Saul to handle, and if there was any snag he would let us know. How was up to him.
Off and on all day and evening Monday, and even some on Tuesday, Wolfe and I discussed a problem. It wasn’t an argument; we just discussed it. Should I phone Wragg, the special agent in charge, arrange to meet him somewhere, tell him that Wolfe had got enough dope on the Althaus homicide to make it really tough and I wanted out, and offer to pass everything we had over to him for ten grand or twenty grand or fifty grand? The trouble was we didn’t know him. It might make it next to certain that he would take the bait, but it might do just the opposite, make him smell a rat. Finally, late Tuesday morning, we crossed it off. It was too chancy, and time was too short.
At nine o’clock Wednesday morning, when I heard the elevator taking Wolfe up to the plant rooms, I took my second cup of breakfast coffee to the office, to sit and look at an idea that had been pecking at me off and on since Monday morning. There would be nothing for me until the truckload of orchids arrived at two o’clock, everything had been done that could be done as far as I knew, which wasn’t very far. When I finished the coffee it was only nine-twenty, and Sarah Dacos probably didn’t start the day at the Bruner office until nine-thirty or even ten. I went to the cabinet, unlocked the drawer where we keep assortments of keys, and made some selections. It wasn’t complicated, since I knew the lock was a Bermatt. From another drawer I got a pair of rubber gloves.
At 9:35 I dialed the Bruner number, and it was answered. “Mrs. Bruner’s office, good morning.”
“Good morning. Miss Dacos?”
“Yes.”
“This is Archie Goodwin. I may need to see Mrs. Bruner later today, and I’m calling to ask if she’ll be available.”
She said it depended on how late, Mrs. Bruner expected to be in the office from three-thirty to five-thirty, and I said I would call again if I needed to come.
So she was at her job. I would have to take a chance on the cleaning woman. I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz I was going out to make some phone calls, to the hall for my hat and coat, and out and to Ninth Avenue for a taxi.
For the street door at 63 Arbor Street I still had the key Mrs. Althaus had given me, so I was clean until I stood at Sarah Dacos’s door and got out the collection of keys. When I had knocked twice, and pushed the button twice and heard the ring, with no response, I tried a key. The fourth one did it, smooth and easy. I put the gloves on, turned the knob, opened the door, crossed the sill, and shut the door, and I had broken and entered according to the statutes of the State of New York.
The layout was the same as upstairs, but the furniture was quite different. Rugs here and there instead of carpet, smaller couch smothered with pillows, no desk or typewriter, fewer chairs, about one-fourth as many books, five little pictures on the walls which the bold lover must have considered old hat. The drapes were drawn, and I turned the lights on, put my coat and hat on the couch, and went and opened a closet door.
There were two facts: the cleaning woman might come any minute; and I had no idea what I might find, if anything. The point was simply that there might be something that would help, no matter what was going to happen Thursday night, to square it with Cramer for that carton of milk. A fast once-over was called for, and I spent only ten minutes on the living room and its two closets and then went to the bedroom.
I came mighty close to passing it by. The bedroom closet was crammed — clothes on hangers, shoe racks, luggage, cartons and hatboxes on two high shelves. The bag and two suitcases were packed with summer clothes, and I skipped the hatboxes; I would have given a finif of my money to know if the cleaning woman came Wednesdays. But ten minutes later, going through a drawerful of photographs one by one, I realized that it was dumb to skip the hatboxes and then waste time with a bunch of photographs which could tell me nothing I didn’t already know, so I took a chair to the closet, mounted it, and got the boxes down. There were three. The first one contained three so-called hats and two bikinis. The second one held one big floppy hat. I lifted it out, and there on the bottom was a revolver. I gawked at it for five seconds, then took it out and inspected it. It was an S & W .38 and held one cartridge that had been fired and five that hadn’t.
I stood with it in my hand. It was a hundred to one that it was the gun that Althaus had had a permit for, and it had fired the bullet that had gone through him, and Sarah Dacos had pulled the trigger. To hell with the one chance in a hundred. The question was what to do with it. If I took it, it would never be an acceptable exhibit in a murder trial, since I had got it illegally. If I left it there and went out to a phone booth and rang Cramer to tell him to get a warrant to search Sarah Dacos’s apartment, the cops would get the gun all right, but if the FBI found out about it within thirty-six hours, as they easily might, the big act for Thursday night would be kaput. And of course if I left it in the hatbox and didn’t phone Cramer, Sarah Dacos might decide that tonight would be a good time to take it and toss it in the river.