“Could be,” Jenks said.
“Yeah, could be,” Purley echoed, throwing me a “You’ve-seen-it-and-I’ve-done-my-duty-so-now-go-home” expression. I had indeed seen all I wanted to, but Purley always brings out the worst in me, so I kept peering at the iron, which Jenks clasped tightly. “Find any prints?” I asked.
Jenks looked at Stebbins for some sign as to whether he should respond, and Purley, bless his uncomplicated self, shook his head. No subtlety there.
“Okay, that’s enough, let’s go,” he told me. “Thank you, Mr. Jenks.”
The little man nodded without expression as we walked out. In the hall, I thanked Purley for his hospitality and told him Wolfe also was appreciative, which must have impressed him, because he blinked once, or maybe it was twice.
Back at the brownstone after yet another taxi ride that would go onto Noreen James’s bill, I rang the bell, and had the door unbolted and opened by Fritz, recently returned from wherever he spent the day — I didn’t ask. In the office, I found Wolfe leaning back with his eyes closed.
“Taking a catnap?” I asked innocently as I slid into my chair.
He snorted, opening his eyes but making no other moves. “Report,” he said.
“Do you mean on my trip downtown to look at the apparent murder weapon, or on all my activities of today?”
“Both,” he said, ringing for beer.
With that, I reconstructed my visits to both Rojek and Halliburton, giving Wolfe plenty of the dialogue, which he appreciates, but making no value judgments. It took me twenty-three minutes.
“Your impressions of the two men?” he asked after I had finished.
“Mixed; I’ll take them one at a time. First, Rojek: basically a decent guy, although more than a tad on the stuffy side. If he has a sense of humor, he’s learned to suppress it masterfully. His feelings about Noreen James? Intense, and he’s obviously interested in her for the long haul — he said as much without hesitation, and I believe him. Did he kill Linville? Possibly. My initial reaction is to say ‘no way,’ but then, he appears to be in love with her. And love, or so I’ve heard, can do strange things to a man’s character, especially when the object of his affection has been ill-used. Take that crazy case over in Jersey where the meek little clothing-store stock clerk shot and wounded the professional wrestler who—”
“Enough!” Wolfe growled, holding up a palm and making a face. “You’ve made your point. What of Mr. Halliburton?”
“I don’t have any higher opinion of him now than when I had the pleasure of meeting him in front of Morgana’s. If he was less rude this time, it was mainly because we were one-on-one and he was scared stiff I’d pop him, which I admit was damned tempting. He’s a little snake, and I get the impression that he hung around with Linville not so much out of friendship as because Linville had nice cars and good-looking women and spent money like water on himself and his friends.”
“Would he have done his friend in?”
“Halliburton? I don’t think so. He’s not only a snake, he’s a coward to boot.”
“But your impression is that he was fond of Miss James?”
I nodded. “Very fond. And I guess the few times they met he must have cleaned up his act, because she seemed to think he was more or less bearable. But I don’t see him conking anybody, let alone a friend, with a chunk of iron.”
“The tire iron,” Wolfe said. “You saw it?”
“In the presence of Purley Stebbins himself, no less. It is, well... a tire iron. Complete with what appears to be dried blood.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Interesting you should ask. I posed that question to Stebbins and the guy who keeps watch over murder weapons and such, and they weren’t in the mood to tell me.”
Wolfe pressed his lips together once or twice. “Get Inspector Cramer,” he said curtly.
I dialed and Stebbins answered on the second ring. When I told him Wolfe wanted to talk to his boss, he balked. “Look, he called Mr. Wolfe earlier today,” I told him. “This is on the same matter.” That drew some muffled grumbling at the other end, which sounded promising. I nodded to Wolfe to pick up.
“Yeah?” Cramer was his usual suave self.
“Inspector, as you know, Mr. Goodwin a short time ago viewed the tire iron that may have been used to kill Mr. Linville. He asked if fingerprints had been found on it and received no answer.”
Cramer swore and covered his mouthpiece, but not well enough to drown out the chewing-out he gave Purley. The gist was “I told you to cooperate with Goodwin,” although he used a number of additional adjectives that I have elected to omit from this narrative. “There were no prints found on the iron,” Cramer said between deep breaths after he had finished his harangue. “Looks like the thing was wiped clean.”
“What about the discoloration Mr. Goodwin observed?”
After a pause, Cramer responded. “Blood, Type O, same as Linville’s. But, hell, damn near half the population is Type O.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wolfe told him. “I have a favor to request.”
“Another one?” Cramer snapped.
“Yes. Has the weapon’s discovery been made known to the press yet?”
“No. The damn thing only turned up this morning. The D.A.’s office doesn’t even know about it yet. Why?”
“I would like to ask that, at least for twenty-four hours, news of the weapon be withheld, even from the district attorney’s office.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because such action, or more correctly lack of action, may well be helpful in determining the identity of Mr. Linville’s murderer,” Wolfe said evenly.
“Balls!” Cramer roared. The only other sound that came through the wires for a quarter of a minute was his heavy breathing. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said, slamming his phone down. At that moment the doorbell rang, and I got up, beating Fritz to the hall. I took one peek through the one-way panel and did a quick about-face back to the office.
“We’ve got some interesting visitors on the stoop,” I said to Wolfe, who had just returned to his book. “Megan and Doyle James, by name. Instructions?”
Eighteen
Wolfe treated me to one of his high-grade scowls, the kind he reserves for occasions that upset his schedule. The scowl deepened as the doorbell chimed a second time. “All right,” he grumped. “Show them in.”
“This is a surprise.” I smiled at the former husband and wife as I swung open the front door. “To what do we owe the honor?”
I got no smiles in return. “We’re here to see Wolfe,” said Megan, who was wearing a gray rough-silk number and an overdose of Opium. She looked grim as she stepped in ahead of Doyle, who had a pretty somber expression himself. “We know he almost never goes out, so don’t try to tell us he’s not here,” she went on.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied lightly, still smiling as we moved along the hall toward the office. Wolfe glanced up from his book as we entered, and I made the introductions.
“Mr. Wolfe,” Megan said before I had a chance to even seat them, “we’re here to talk to you about your so-called investigation. We—”
“Madam, if you please,” Wolfe said, “I prefer that those with whom I converse be at eye level. And since I have no intention of rising, it is in your best interests to be seated.” That took some of her momentum away, which was of course the intent, and I gestured her to one of the yellow chairs while Doyle staked out the red-leather place of honor.
“Now, you wish to discuss what you choose to term my ‘so-called investigation’?” Wolfe asked blandly.
“Yes, we do. We — Doyle and I — want to know precisely what’s going on, and why we haven’t heard anything from you.” Each word was loaded. “I think we are owed an explanation.”