Leon Furey wasn’t liking himself as well as he had been the last time I saw him. As he walked in, looked around at us, and dropped into a chair by invitation, he was not jaunty. It was doubtful if he had been in his pajamas until noon that day, because his clothes looked as if he had not taken them off at all. Sizing him up as he sat there, with lumps under his bloodshot eyes and a two-day growth of beard, I saw nothing inconsistent with the theory that he had tied that scarf around Ann Amory’s throat, except the alibi, and that didn’t show.
“You want to say something?” Cramer asked.
“Yes, I do.” Leon spoke too loud for a man out in the clear and really satisfied with the surroundings. “I want to know why you’ve got men following me. I’ve been absolutely straight on this and I’ve accounted for every minute of my time, and you’ve verified it. What right have you got to treat me like a criminal? Having me followed, checking up on my draft registration, investigating everywhere I’ve been and everything I’ve done for God knows how long. What’s the big idea?”
“Routine in a murder case,” Cramer said shortly. “We waste a lot of time that way. If you’re claiming injury, get a lawyer. Is it pinching you somewhere?”
“That’s not the question.” Leon’s voice stayed loud. “I’ve proved that I had nothing to do with any murder, you know damn well I have, and you’ve got no right to go on investigating me as if I might have had. And I’ve got a right to make a living the same as anybody. Doing it by killing hawks may or may not meet with your approval, but if Miss Leeds wants to pay me for it what business is it of yours or anybody else’s?”
Cramer grunted. “Oh, that’s it.”
“Yes, that’s it. Wasting the taxpayer’s money telephoning all over the state of New York. All right, so you find out that farmers have been shipping me hawks they shot and I’ve been paying them five dollars per hawk. So what? Is that a crime? If Miss Leeds is willing to cough up twenty dollars for a dead hawk, and that gives me a little profit for my trouble, does that make it a crime? It made her happy, didn’t it? Hawks are destructive. They kill chickens. My plan benefits the state, it benefits the farmers, it benefits Miss Leeds, it benefits me, and it hurts nobody.”
“Then what are you beefing about?”
“I’m beefing because I think you’re going to tell Miss Leeds about it, and that would put me out of business. If it so happens that she has got the impression that the hawks are killed right here in New York City, and that gives her pleasure, what’s that to you? Or to me either? What it amounts to, in its simplest terms, I’m doing her a favor. And I’m not hogging it. I keep it down to an average of three or four a week. I could make it twice or three times that if I—”
“Beat it.” Cramer growled in disgust. “Get the hell out of here. I don’t— Wait a minute. You organized this dead hawk business quite a while ago, didn’t you?”
“Why — no, I wouldn’t say—”
“How long ago?”
Leon hesitated. “I don’t remember exactly.”
“Say a year ago?”
“Why, yes, sure, at least a year ago.”
“What did old Mrs. Leeds pay you? Same as her daughter does? Twenty dollars per hawk?”
“That’s right. She set the figure, I didn’t.”
“And after she hurt her leg and had to stay in bed she refused to pay you any more? And wouldn’t let her daughter pay you? And ordered you to move out?”
“Oh, that.” Leon waved it away contemptuously.
“Was that because she found out that you weren’t killing the hawks, as you said you were, but were collecting them from farmers?”
“It was not. It was because she couldn’t enjoy life any more and didn’t want anyone else to. How could she have found out about the hawks? She was laid up in bed.”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’ve answered you.” Leon leaned forward. “What I want to know is, are you going to ruin my business or not? You’ve got no right—”
“Take him away,” Cramer said wearily. “Stebbins! Take him away!”
Sergeant Stebbins performed.
With the company gone, the three of us looked at one another. I yawned. Wolfe was letting his shoulders sag. He was already forgetting to keep them straight. Cramer got out a cigar, scowled at it, and stuck it back in his pocket.
“Thoughtful of them,” Wolfe said conversationally. “To come and tell you things like that.”
“Yeah.” Cramer was massaging the back of his neck. “That was a big help. There’s a precinct report on the death of old Mrs. Leeds and all it’s good for is scrap paper. Say they did all have a motive to get rid of her. Then what? Where does that get me on the murder of Ann Amory? With the alibis they’ve got. And Mrs. Chack’s story about what she can’t remember that her granddaughter told her about Roy Douglas. That’s just fine. With Goodwin here claiming that Douglas was with him at the only time it could have happened.” He glared at me. “Look, son, I’ve known you to put over some fast ones; you know I have. By God, if you’re covering up on Douglas I don’t care if you’re a brigadier general—”
“I’m not,” I told him firmly. “I’m not covering up on anyone or anything. You’re not going to pass the buck to me. Here you are, the head of the New York Homicide Squad and the great and only Nero Wolfe, and apparently the best you can do with a murder case is to sit and wonder whether I’m a liar or not. Well, I’m not. Cross that off and go to work. Douglas is out. I did that much for you last night on the telephone. Forget him. You say Leon Furey’s alibi stands up. Then forget him too. In my opinion, if you want it, Miss Leeds and Mrs. Chack are also out. I knew that girl, and I don’t believe either of those women strangled her. So all you’ve got left is the population of the city of New York, between seven and eight million—”
“Including,” Cramer growled, “Lily Rowan.”
“By all means,” I agreed, “include her. I don’t pretend I would open a bottle of milk to celebrate her going to the electric chair, but whoever did that to Ann Amory isn’t getting any discount from me. If it was Lily Rowan, you don’t have to worry about means and opportunity. She admits she was there, and so was the scarf; I suppose you know it was Ann’s. So dig up a motive for her, and you’re set.”
“A motive would help.” Cramer was eyeing me. “Up at the Flamingo Club Monday night. It’s hard to get anything definite from that bunch, but the impression seems to be that she was getting ready to throw the furniture at you when you ran. Taking the Amory girl with you. Was she sore because she was jealous? Was she jealous of Ann Amory? Was she jealous enough to go down there the next day and lose her temper? I’m asking.”
I shook my head. “You’re flattering me, Inspector. I don’t arouse passions like that. It’s my intellect women like. I inspire them to read good books, but I doubt if I could inspire even Lizzie Borden to murder. You can forget the Flamingo Club. It wasn’t even a tiff. You say you know Lily Rowan. She had given me the tip on Ann Amory being in trouble, as I’ve told you, and she was sore because I was following it up without letting her in on it. You’ll have to do better on motive than that. I’m not saying—”
The phone rang. Cramer answered it, listened a minute, grunted instructions, pushed the phone back, and stood up.
“They’re there,” he announced. “Both of them. Let’s go.” He didn’t look happy. “You handle her, Wolfe. I don’t want to see her until I have to.”