“Go on,” I said.
“Well, I suppose it must have had something to do with Noreen,” he said tightly.
“Good thinking. But what?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t in the habit of gabbing with Sparky about his social life.”
“If you had to guess, what would make a brother angry — very angry — with someone who had spent time with his sister?”
Halliburton spread his hands. “Well, I mean, there’s an obvious answer to that.”
“Right. Which is?”
“Look, if you’re trying to get me to say something bad about a friend, and one who’s dead, for God’s sake, forget it. They just buried the guy yesterday!”
“So are you saying you don’t know anything about the extent of Linville’s relationship with Noreen James, or you know but you’re not talking?”
Halliburton swore. That boy had a very broad vocabulary. “I don’t know squat,” he said, his voice rising. “But it seems like everything you’re telling me makes it look bad for the brother. Whatever happened between Sparky and Noreen, it sounds to me like the cops got the right guy. Now, is there anything else you want to talk about? If not, I got things to do.”
“Two more questions,” I said, standing as an enticement for him to answer. “As one of Linville’s good friends, can you think of anyone else who might wish him ill?”
“Nobody,” he answered, also getting up. “Sparky was a warm, fun-loving, good guy. He’d do anything for a friend.”
I let the remark stand without comment. “Okay, last question: What happened after you two left Morgana’s last Wednesday night?”
“How do you mean?”
“Where did you go? How long were you and Linville together?”
Halliburton pressed his lips together. “I’ve been over all this with the cops.”
“Fine, now you can go over it with me.”
I got a sigh and a roll of the eyes, but he knew he wasn’t getting rid of me until he answered. “We took a cab to a little place several blocks farther along Second Avenue, the Owl, and had a couple of beers, then I left around eleven-thirty or so and took a cab home. Sparky had parked his car a few blocks away and he offered to drive me — but I said no thanks. That’s way out of his way.”
“So he stayed in the Owl?”
“Just to finish his drink. He said he wanted to make one or two more stops — maybe Orion, he said — and... that’s the last I saw of him, sitting at the bar.”
“Did you run into anybody you knew there?”
“Uh-uh.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a place either of us went much. I think I’d only been in there one other time.”
“All right,” I said coolly. “I guess that’ll hold me — at least for now.” I walked into the foyer, with Halliburton trailing in my wake. I opened the door, pivoted toward him with a neutral expression, and went out into the hallway. Somebody in the building had had corned beef and cabbage for Sunday dinner. The door slammed behind me — hard — and his voice came through the wood clearly: “From now on, stay away from here,” he said.
The big bully.
Seventeen
Although it didn’t seem that late, my watch insisted on telling me it was twenty past two when I got out of a cab in front of the brownstone. After my session with Todd Halliburton, I had toyed with walking north from the Village, which I’ve done on several occasions, but instead decided to use some of Noreen James’s money. After all, I’d just had to spend fifteen minutes with a two-legged weasel, and it seemed to me that that act alone entitled me to something, say another taxi ride.
I buzzed to get in, which, given Fritz’s absence, meant rousting Wolfe from the office to unlock the front door. He swung it open, scowling. “Well, did you miss me?” I asked cheerfully.
“Inspector Cramer telephoned twenty minutes ago,” was his tart response. “The weapon presumably used to dispatch Mr. Linville has been located.”
“You’ve got my attention,” I said when we were in the office. “I’m all ears.”
“That is comforting to know,” Wolfe replied with no trace of irony. “It was indeed a tire iron,” he said after getting himself resettled behind his desk, a feat roughly comparable to docking the QE2. “Apparently the one missing from that pile of tools on the floor in the parking garage. The inspector reported that it was found in a trashcan several doors east of where Mr. Linville lived by a building superintendent.”
“And James said he went west from the garage.”
Wolfe moved his head imperceptibly, which for him constitutes a nod. “Mr. Cramer has a dilemma. As you know, he has arrested someone who readily — almost eagerly — confessed to the murder of Barton Linville, relieving him and the police of intense media and civic pressure. But in so doing, he also took into custody a young man, the members of whose family he has known with affection for more than a generation.”
“Nobody ever said life is easy, particularly for a public servant,” I countered. I can be philosophical at times, despite what anybody says.
“Granted. However, I am inclined to extend a minimum of compassion to the inspector in this instance.”
“That’s doggone decent of you.”
“Or practical,” Wolfe remarked dryly. “When Mr. Cramer telephoned, I told him I wanted you to view the purported weapon.”
“I’ll bet that got a laugh.”
“Hardly. He agreed without complaint.”
“He is in a bind.”
“Yes. He knows he has the wrong person but can do nothing about it and will climb into any lifeboat that will pull him aboard.”
“Even one with Nero Wolfe manning the oars?” I asked.
“Yes. He said that you should call Sergeant Stebbins, who will arrange for you to see the tire iron at police headquarters.”
So that was why, while Saul Panzer and his out-of-town visitor were using my tickets at Shea Stadium watching Dwight Gooden throw a two-hitter against St. Louis in a game that included a Mets’ triple play, I was down at One Police Plaza visiting Purley Stebbins, who, like Cramer, seems never to take time off. A word here about the estimable sergeant: Purley is an old-school policeman, make no mistake. And he looks like an old-line cop ought to look, at least as I visualize it. He’s big without being fat, probably only an inch taller than me but a lot thicker. You’d be pressing it to call Purley handsome, but he’s got a strong face: big ears, big square jaw, bristly brows over eyes that don’t miss a thing. He doesn’t laugh much, but then, in his line of work, he doesn’t see a whole lot to laugh about. He doesn’t like criminals of any variety, and he isn’t much fonder of private detectives, including me and Wolfe. Oh, he’s usually civil, at least as civil as Purley ever gets, but he doesn’t waste words and he doesn’t conceal his disdain for anyone who makes money doing what he feels only the police are qualified to do. And besides, he thinks Wolfe has made him look bad a couple of times, which is hard to argue with.
But Purley also follows the chain of command scrupulously, and if Cramer tells him to bark, he barks — without complaint. “Okay, here we are,” he gruffed after we had entered a small windowless, colorless room where a stocky little guy with glasses and a white smock was doing paperwork at a high table.
“Jenks, show us the item,” Purley said tonelessly.
Jenks, who was wearing what looked like surgical gloves, opened a drawer in a gray cabinet and drew out a silver-colored L-shaped tire iron, the longer leg of which measured about a foot. “No touching,” he cautioned like an elementary-school teacher as he held it out.
“Looks like dried blood,” I said in my most professional voice, remarking on the brownish discoloration around the elbow of the tool.