It was a lousy weekend. Nothing went right. Nothing went exactly wrong either, but you can say that if you just go to bed and don’t get up.
My Saturday morning date with Oster and Whipple was canceled because Oster was called to Washington for a parley at the Department of Justice. He might be back Sunday night. Saul Panzer is the best free-lance operative who ever stopped a closing door with his foot, but even Saul was stymied when he learned that the man who had been on duty that Monday evening at the garage where the Kenneth Brookes kept their two Herons was off somewhere for the weekend, nobody knew where. At four o’clock Saturday afternoon I was invited to the DA’s office to discuss some selected items in the report I had delivered to Cramer, and was kept so long by an assistant district attorney named Mandel, who would enjoy looking at me through bars with him on the outside, that I was two hours late for a dancing date with friends at the Flamingo. Lon Cohen phoned once Saturday and twice Sunday. Some brainy journalist, maybe Lon himself, having seen the ad, had recalled the fact that Susan Brooke’s married brother lived in the East Sixties, and of course 128th Street was obvious, and Lon wanted to know what gave. I stalled him off Saturday, but he called twice Sunday to ask if the hackie had shown. He hadn’t. Not a peep.
A lousy weekend.
I finally got to Oster early Monday afternoon, at the office of the ROCC, a whole floor of a building on 39th Street near Lexington Avenue. It wasn’t lavish, but neither was it seedy. I was a little surprised to see that the switchboard girl, who doubled in reception, was my color, even a little lighter-a middle-aged female, hair showing some gray, with a chin and a half and a long thin nose, which didn’t fit. I learned later that of the total office staff of thirty-four, five were white, and of the five whites, four were volunteers, what Dolly Brooke would call do-gooders.
Oster’s room was small, one window, but after a few words he took me down the hall to the corner room of the executive director, Thomas Henchy, and it was quite a chamber, with a few dozen photographs on the walls where the cabinets and shelves left room. I had seen Henchy on television a couple of times, and so have you probably-broad shoulders, cheeks a little pudgy but not flabby, short neck. Color, strong coffee with one teaspoon of cream. He got up to shake hands, and I took a little care with the grip. Men with short necks are apt to be knuckle-crushers.
When I left, more than an hour later, the program for the evening was set, with no hard feelings. I had explained that when Wolfe had said “the entire staff” he hadn’t meant it literally. He wanted to see only those, who, because of their contacts or relations with Susan or Dunbar, or both, might possibly be able to supply useful information; and the selection would be up to them, Oster and Henchy, in discussion with me. That was satisfactory, and we proceeded to discuss. I had a list in my pocket when I left, and when I got back to the office I typed it forWolfe:
***
THOMAS HENCHY, around 50, executive director. He was courteous but not cordial. He knows it’s doing ROOC a lot of harm and he hates it. Possibly thinks Whipple killed her.
HAROLD R. OSTER, Counsel. He had evidently told Henchy that a conference at our office was his idea, and I didn’t spoil it.
ADAM EWING, around 40, colored, in charge of public relations, worked closely with Whipple. I met him. Smart and very earnest. Thinks he knows everything, and possibly does. Chips on both shoulders. Light caramel.
CASS FAISON, 45, colored, in charge of fund-raising. Susan Brooke worked under him. I met him. They don’t come any blacker. Turns his grin on and off. I wouldn’t be surprised if he liked Susan and doesn’t like Dunbar. No innuendo intended.
MISS RAE KALLMAN, about Susan’s age, white. She helped Susan arrange meetings and parties. Susan recruited her and paid her personally, but she is staying on for a while. Didn’t meet her. I got the impression that she didn’t approve of Susan’s cottoning to Dunbar. I didn’t go into points like that since I wasn’t supposed to, but I got the impression.
MISS BETH TIGER, colored, 21, stenographer. Only Henchy has a secretary, they’re shorthanded, but she took all of Dunbar’s dictation. Another impression, from a comment by Henchy: she would have been willing to take more than dictation from Dunbar. Didn’t meet her.
MISS MAUD JORDAN, white, 50 or more, switchboard and receptionist. She is included chiefly because she took the phone call from Susan that afternoon and put the message on Dunbar’s desk that Susan couldn’t get to the apartment until nine o’clock. She’s a volunteer, hipped on civil rights, another do-gooder, evidently with a private pile since she takes no pay and Henchy mentioned that she gave $500 to the fund for Medgar Evers’s children. I saw her entering and leaving. An old maid, spinster to you, who had to be hipped on something and happened to stumble on civil rights or maybe wrongs. My impression, based on my infallible understanding of women under 90.
All of them knew about the apartment. Henchy, Ewing, Faison, and Kallman knew where it was. Oster says he didn’t. Jordan knew the phone number. Tiger, I don’t know.
***
When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock he picked it up, read it twice, scowled at it for two minutes, put it in a drawer, and picked up his current book. Not Rowse on Shakespeare; _The Minister and the Choir Singer_, by a lawyer named Kunstler. I had read it and recommended it. At dinner we discussed it and agreed that the New York Police Department and district attorney’s office had never made such an awful mess of a case and never would.
The evening didn’t start off any too well. When four or more are coming for an after-dinner session I equip a portable bar in the kitchen and wheel it into the office, and it was there, by the bookshelves to the left of the safe, when the first one arrived; but twenty minutes later, when they had all come and been seated, and Wolfe entered, I had made no sales. That was remarkable. Out of eight people, at nine o’clock in the evening, you would expect at least two or three to be thirsty enough or bushed enough to want a drink, but they all said no. It couldn’t have been because of my manners, offering to serve people of an inferior race. First, two of them were white, and second, when I consider myself superior to anyone, as I frequently do, I need a better reason than his skin.
The seating was segregated, not by color but by sex. Wolfe had told me to put Whipple, the client, in the red leather chair, and since he had arrived before Oster there had been no clash. In the front row of yellow chairs Oster was at the far end from me, then Henchy, Ewing, public relations, and Faison, fund-raising. In the back row were Rae Kallman, Maud Jordan, and Beth Tiger. It was my first sight of the Misses Kallman and Tiger. Kallman, who had more lipstick than necessary on her full lips, would probably be plump in a few years, but now she was just nice and curvy. Tiger was one of those specimens who cannot be properly introduced by details. I’ll mention that her skin was about the color of an old solid-gold bowl Wolfe has in his room which he won’t allow Fritz to clean, that-if she had been Cleopatra instead of what’s-her-name I wouldn’t have missed that movie, and that I had a problem with my eyes all evening, since with a group there I am supposed to watch expressions and movements. It was especially difficult because Miss Tiger, nearest me in the back row, was at an angle to my right. My mistake.
It was ten past nine when I buzzed the kitchen on the house phone to tell Wolfe they were all there, and in a minute he entered, circled around Whipple to his desk, and stood while I pronounced names. To each one he nodded, his usual eighth-of-an-inch nod, then turned to me and demanded, “The refreshments, Archie?”
“Offered,” I said, “and declined.”
“Indeed. Beer for me, please.” As I rose he turned to the client. “Mr. Whipple, that evening at Upshur Pavilion you took ginger ale.”
Whipple’s eyes widened. “You remember that?”
“Certainly. But the other day you had a martini. Will it be ginger ale now'I’m having beer and invite you to join me-to your taste.”
“All right, I will. Scotch and soda.”
“Mr. Henchy?”
The executive director objected. “It takes time.”
“Come, sir, is time really so precious'Mine isn’t. If yours is, all the more tempting to steal a little.”
Henchy’s eyes smiled, but he wouldn’t let his mouth chip in. “It’s a point,” he conceded. “Bourbon on the rocks.”
With the boss sold, the others came along. Rae Kallman offered to help, and that reduced the loss of time. The only holdout was Maud Jordan, and when the others had been served she made it unanimous by asking for a glass of water. I took gin and tonic because Miss Tiger did. I believe in fellowship.
Wolfe put his glass down, half empty, and sent his eyes left, then right. “I suppose all of you know that I am proceeding on the premise that Dunbar Whipple was not implicated in the murder of Susan Brooke. That needs no discussion unless one or more of you challenge it. Do you?”
Some shook their heads and some said no.
“Let’s make it clear. Will all of you who agree with me on that point please raise your hands?”
As Miss Tiger raised hers, her head turned right. Checking. Two of them, Cass Faison and Rae Kallman, were a little slow. Henchy moved only his forearm, to a forty-five degree angle. “But we’re not the jury and you’re not the judge,” Adam Ewing said.
“The intention, Mr. Ewing, is that it shall never get to a judge and jury.” Wolfe’s eyes went left and right. “Of course all of you have been questioned separately by the police, except Mr. Oster. For our joint purpose, to clear Mr. Whipple, this joint discussion was preferable, but to avoid confusion let’s start with each of you singly. But attend, please; if any of you hear a statement made by another that you challenge or question, say so at once. Intervene. Don’t let it pass. Is that understood?”
No one said it wasn’t.
“Very well. Mr. Goodwin reports that all of you knew of that apartment, and I am assuming that all of you knew where it was, again excepting Mr. Oster. Any comment?”
“I did.” Beth Tiger.
“I didn’t.” Maud Jordan. “I knew the phone number, I knew it was in Harlem, but I didn’t know the address.”
“Nevertheless, I am assuming that you did. You, Miss Jordan, knowing the phone number, could easily have learned the address. Actually, Mr. Oster, I am not excepting even you. However unlikely it may be that one of you went there and killed Susan Brooke, it is by no means unthinkable. The possibility is in my mind, naturally, but at the back. The police have questioned you regarding your whereabouts that evening, but I won’t. If later something points to one of you, we’ll see. An alibi is rarely unimpeachable. What I-“
“Just a minute,” Henchy cut in. “When you asked if we agreed that Whipple didn’t kill her I put my hand up. If you ask if we think no one in this room killed her, I’ll put it up again.” He jerked forward and hit his knee with a fist. “If you want to clear Whipple, all right, I hope you do, but you’re not going to do it by putting it on one of us!”
“I’m not going to ‘put it on’ anybody, Mr. Henchy. I’m going to find the man who ‘put it on’ himself a week ago. I’ll begin with you, Miss Jordan.”
“Me?” Her mouth stayed open.
“Yes. A vital point is the telephone call by Miss Brooke and the message Mr. Whipple found on his desk shortly before six o’clock. Did you put the message on his desk?”
“Yes. I have told the police all about it.”
“Certainly. You received the call by Miss Brooke?”
“Yes. At the switchboard.”
“What time did the call come?”
“At a quarter past five. I put it on the slip, five-fifteen.”
“What did she say?”
“She wanted to speak to Mr. Whipple, and I said he was in a conference, and she told me to tell him that she couldn’t get there until nine o’clock or a little later.”
“Can you give me her exact words?”
She frowned, making her long thin nose look longer. “I have tried to. To the police. When I said, ‘Rights of Citizens Committee,’ she said, ‘This is Susan, Maud. Please give me Mr. Whipple.’ I said, ‘He’s in conference in Mr. Henchy’s room, the people from Philadelphia and Chicago,’ and she said, ‘Then will you tell him I won’t be able to get there until nine or a little later?’ I said, ‘I leave at five-thirty. Will it be all right if I leave a message on his desk?’ and she said, ‘Yes, of course.’ She hung up.”
Wolfe glanced at me, saw that I was getting it in the notebook, and returned to her. “On the next point it’s regrettable that you have already been questioned by the police, but it can’t be helped. Probably it is now fixed in your mind, but I must ask anyway. How sure are you that it was Miss Brooke speaking?”
She nodded. “It was her. They wanted to know if I would swear to it on the witness stand, and I told them I couldn’t swear it was her because I didn’t see her, but if it was someone imitating her voice I would have to hear her do it again before I would believe it.”
“Her using your first name was customary?”
“Yes.”
“At the time, as she spoke, you noticed no oddity whatever?”
“No. Of course not.”
“You say ‘of course,’ Miss Jordan, because your mind is now fixed. You have committed yourself. That’s a pity, since I have no ground at present for a demur.” Wolfe looked right and left. “This is patently crucial. If only I had spoken with Miss Jordan before she committed herself to the police. If I assume that Mr. Whipple is innocent, as I do, I must also assume that Miss Brooke did not make that telephone call. Either that or-“
“No,” Oster said, “not necessarily. She might have made it and got there earlier than she expected to. The question is, did she get there before Whipple, and how long before, and on that there is evidence. She was in that neighborhood, at a package store and a delicatessen, before eight o’clock. So she was there before Whipple came, probably about an hour, and that’s the point.”
Wolfe was shaking his head. “That is not the point. Take the murderer. Since he was not Dunbar Whipple, call him X. He knew about the apartment and that Miss Brooke would be there early in the evening, so in all likelihood he knew that Mr. Whipple would be there too. Would he have entered-presumably admitted by Miss Brooke-and clubbed her to death if Whipple might come at any moment'I don’t believe it. He was done for if Whipple arrived, not only while he was in the apartment, but while he was descending two flights of stairs and leaving the building. I reject it. I think X knew that telephone call had been made and that Whipple would not come until later. Either he knew that Miss Brooke had made the call, or he had himself made it, imitating Miss Brooke’s voice-in which case it is she, not he-or he had a confederate who made the call. So, Miss Jordan, we need you for another point. Who besides you knew of that call?”