“He’s... ‘distant’ I guess is the best way to put it,” she said. “He hasn’t wanted to talk to anyone since he got, you know... out.”
“Is he staying there?”
“Yes, for now. He’s pretty much closed himself in one of the bedrooms. The lawyer we have, Mr. Hargrove, said he shouldn’t go back to his apartment while he’s out on bond. He doesn’t want him accessible to the press or anyone else. He doesn’t want him talking to anybody.”
“Well, something’s got to give, then, because Mr. Wolfe needs to see Michael — tonight.”
“I’m not sure I can get him there, not the way he’s been acting.” Noreen sounded worried.
“Try hard. You’ve hired Mr. Wolfe, and even though he’s a genius, at least some of the time, he can’t do a hell of a lot without talking face-to-face with the accused.”
There was a silence before she answered. “All right, I’ll do everything I can. What time should I tell him?”
“Nine.”
“Should I come too?”
“Not necessary. If playing chaperon is the only way you can get him here, okay, but Mr. Wolfe probably will ask you to wait in the front room while they talk.”
I phoned upstairs to Wolfe, filling him in on my calls and getting a grumble for my trouble. Five minutes later, I heard the whirr of the elevator, marking his descent from his posy paradise.
“You’re early,” I said when he got settled in his chair and began attacking the mail.
“Early? Perhaps by one minute,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I had completed a delicate repotting — there was nothing more to accomplish this morning.” Heaven forbid he would ever admit to altering his schedule, even slightly, for a visit from anyone, let alone an officer of the law. As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to come down early, and when he finished the small and uninteresting stack of mail, he plunged into his book.
At five past eleven when the doorbell rang, I let Fritz do the honors; Cramer was riled enough without having to deal with me as an official greeter again. It didn’t seem to matter who opened the door to him, though, because he barreled into the office like a locomotive under full throttle anyway.
“All right, dammit,” he bellowed, jabbing a thick forefinger at Wolfe as he steamed toward the red leather chair, “you’ve got my attention. What is all this crap about you and Michael James?”
“I assume Mr. Goodwin was lucid during your telephone dialogue,” Wolfe responded mildly, closing his book and marking the place with the gold strip he was given by an appreciative client years ago.
“For God’s sake, the kid has confessed!” Cramer roared. “He says — or rather, he said once — that he bumped off Linville. Now, of course, his Harvard lawyer is squawking that the confession came under duress.”
“Did it?”
Cramer used his favorite word again, this time only once. “Hah, he practically handed it to us when he came down to headquarters.”
“Which raises a point,” Wolfe said. “What led you to Mr. James in the first place?”
“What difference does that make?” the inspector retorted, coming forward in the chair.
“Quite possibly it is of no significance whatever,” Wolfe conceded. “But the question seems innocent enough.”
Cramer squirmed and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, jamming it into his mouth. “I had men out asking questions in the bars Linville was known to frequent. One of them talked to a bartender at that Orion place who said Michael James was there looking for Linville the night he was killed, and that he, James, was hot — really hot. Said he wanted to find Linville because of—” Cramer snapped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes, looking at me, then back at Wolfe and at me again.
“Go on,” Wolfe prodded.
“I assume both of you know why James was looking for Linville. Oh, hell, of course you do, what with Goodwin here being such a good friend of Lily’s.” Cramer scowled. “And that also explains why Goodwin was mixing it up with Linville out in front of Morgana’s, right? But I still want to hear you say why young James was so fired up that night,” he went on, pointing his cigar at Wolfe. “I need to know that you know.”
“Of course you do,” Wolfe said, inclining toward Cramer and spreading his hands palms down on the desk blotter. “As indeed you should, before you tell us anymore. This is a sensitive matter. To put your mind at ease, Archie and I are aware of what apparently transpired between Mr. Linville and Miss James — the occurrence that aroused Michael James’s anger.”
Cramer snorted. “All right,” he said in a tired voice, shaking his head slowly. “This has taken a lot out of me, dammit. You’re aware that I’ve known the family for most of my life. Hell, I knew their father before Lily and Megan were born — Rowan helped get me on the force. You know that. I feel damn near related to those kids.” He looked at Wolfe and set his jaw. “Not that it would ever interfere with my job,” he said, daring contradiction.
“How did the bartender know Michael James’s identity?”
“He’d spent some evenings in that Orion spot himself,” Cramer said. “I’m told it’s quite a meeting place for the yuppies and preppies and whatever.”
Wolfe winced at the terms. “And young Mr. James told the bartender why he wanted to see Barton Linville?”
“In effect. Apparently he stormed in with a snootful and did some hollering about Linville, wanting to know if he’d been around that evening and saying he had a score to settle with him. Noreen’s name apparently got mentioned once or twice. The bartender said the way Mike talked, it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out what must have happened between Linville and Noreen.”
“And what happened when you took Mr. Linville in for questioning?”
“Like I said before, he practically spilled it all when he walked in the door. Said he’d looked for Linville in a few of his haunts — Morgana’s, Orion, a couple of other joints — then went by his apartment and tried to get in. The doorman on duty confirmed that for us and identified Mike as having been there that night around twelve-thirty, drunk as a skunk and demanding to see Linville, who of course wasn’t home. Then, Mike says, he started walking west on Seventy-seventh, when who should pull into the parking garage a few doors down in his brand new Porsche but Linville.
“Mike says he followed the Porsche into the garage on foot, while the big doors were still open. He says that just inside the doors he found a tire iron and went over to the Porsche, which Linville had by this time parked. He was getting out of the car when Mike called him a bastard, telling him he knew what happened between him and Noreen. Linville took a swing and James coshed him with the tire iron — not once, but several times, he said. Claimed he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to stop himself.”
“Did Michael James ever tell you why he wanted to kill Linville?” Wolfe asked.
“Nope,” Cramer said, folding his arms. “Some notion of protecting his sister’s honor and reputation, I guess. Every time we asked him about it, he clammed up. Wouldn’t discuss Noreen at all.”
“Have you found the weapon?”
“Not yet. Mike says he ran out of the garage and can’t remember what he did with the iron. Apparently he wasn’t seen — there’s nobody on duty that time of night, and permit parkers, which is all they allow, have to open the auto door with a key.”
“And you believe that story?”
Cramer made a production of shrugging. “Why the hell not? The kid was in a panic after hammering Linville. He probably tossed the iron into a Dumpster or a garbage can. We’ll be lucky to ever find it. No doubt it’s on a trash barge by now, headed out to sea or wherever they let the things go these days.”