The two sons were supporting their mother, one on either side, and continued to do so along the hall and on into the office. She was wearing a tan summer outfit, dotted with brown, which I would have assumed to be silk if I had not heard tell that in certain shops you can part with three centuries for a little number in rayon. Eve was in white, with yellow buttons, and Phoebe was in what I would call calico, two shades of blue. My impulse to smile at her of course had to be choked.
Thinking it might prevent an outburst, or at least postpone it, I formally pronounced their names for Wolfe and then saw that their chairs were arranged the way he liked it when we had a crowd, so that he wouldn’t have to work his neck too much to take them all in. Jerome and Mortimer, declining my offer of the big couch for Mom, got her comfortable in the red leather chair, but it was Phoebe who took the chair next to her. Mortimer stayed on his feet. The others sat.
Wolfe’s eyes swept the arc. “You all look mad,” he said inoffensively.
“If you think that’s witty,” Eve snapped.
“Not at all,” he assured her. “I was merely acknowledging an atmosphere.” His eyes moved to Mrs. Whitten. “Do you want me to talk, madam? You came here, and you might like to tell me why.”
“Your lousy punk,” Mortimer blurted, “might like to step outside and ask me why!”
“Mortimer!” Mrs. Whitten turned to him. “Sit down.”
He hesitated, opened his trap and shut it again, moved, and sat, next to Phoebe. A fine brother she picked.
“You will please remember,” Mrs. Whitten told the flock, “that I am to do the talking. I wanted to come alone, but you talked me out of it, and now you will please keep silent. Including you, Dan,” she added to the son-in-law. She returned to Wolfe. “I was getting my breath. The exertion was — not too much, but enough.” She was still using sighs to get oxygen, and she was even paler than when I had seen her in bed.
“I can wait,” Wolfe said placidly. “Would you like some brandy?”
“No, thank you.” She breathed long and deep. “I don’t take alcohol, even as medicine, though all my children do. Their father permitted it. I apologized for my son calling your associate, Mr. Goodwin, a lousy punk. Do you wish an apology from him?”
“Certainly not. He wouldn’t mean it.”
“I suppose not. Do you share Mr. Goodwin’s opinions?”
“Often. Not always, heaven knows.”
“He told Dr. Cutler that Virgil Pompa did not kill my husband, that he is innocent. Do you believe that too?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Wolfe regarded her. “It seems to me,” he suggested, “that you’re going a long way round, and it’s an hour past midnight, you need rest and quiet, and I have myself a great many questions to ask — all of you. What you most urgently want to know is whether I intend to tell the police about the assault that was made on you, and if not, what do I intend. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t only a matter of intention,” Daniel Bahr said like a lecturer. “It may well be asked, by what right do you—”
“Dan, what did I tell you?” came at him from his mother-in-law.
“Hold it, chum,” Mortimer growled. “We’re just tassels.”
“Goodness knows,” Mrs. Whitten told Wolfe, “I didn’t get up and dress and come down here just to have an argument. My children all love to argue, just like their father, but I don’t. About my being assaulted, it was silly for me to ask my doctor not to report it, but I thought I simply couldn’t stand more talks with policemen.” She took a long breath. “That would have been better than this, but how could I know an extremely intelligent young man was going to come to see me on behalf of Miss Alving? He said he didn’t know why she sent him, but that you did. What does she want — money? I don’t owe her anything. Then he told my doctor that Virgil Pompa is innocent. Why did he tell my doctor that? Maybe he can prove Pompa is innocent — I don’t know, maybe he can. If he can, that police inspector is the man to tell, not my doctor. So I thought there were several things you might tell me about.”
“We agreed with her,” Jerome said quietly.
“I see.” Wolfe pursed his lips. His eyes took them in and settled on Mrs. Whitten. “Three things, apparently. First, Miss Alving. That is a private matter and should be tête-à-tête, so we’ll postpone it. Second, the innocence of Mr. Pompa. My reasons for assuming it would convince neither the police nor you, so we won’t waste time on them. Third, the assault on you with a knife. We might get somewhere discussing that.”
“One thing I didn’t tell Dr. Cutler,” Mrs. Whitten offered. “I didn’t notice it until after he had gone. My bag was stolen. The person who stabbed me must have taken it and run with it.”
“Good heavens.” Wolfe’s eyes widened at her. “You’re only making it worse, and it was bad enough already. It was a mistake to say you didn’t know whether it was a man or a woman, but this is pure poppycock. A bag snatcher who carries a naked knife and uses it on your torso as he snatches? Bah!”
“She probably dropped it,” Eve explained.
“And no one noticed its absence for an hour?” Wolfe shook his head. “No, this makes it worse. I offer an alternative. Either you, all of you, will discuss with me what happened up there Monday evening, and give me responsive answers to questions, or I put a case to Inspector Cramer.”
“What case?” Bahr demanded.
“I’ll give Mr. Cramer both the facts and my inferences. I’ll tell him of Mrs. Whitten’s injuries, and why her explanation of them is unacceptable. I’ll say that the use of a deadly weapon on her, soon after the fatal use of a similar weapon on her husband, is highly suggestive and demands the fullest inquiry; that if the same person made both attacks, which is at least a permissible conjecture, it could not have been Mr. Pompa, since he is locked up; that if the same person made both attacks it must have been one of you five here present, since only you and Mr. Pompa had an opportunity to kill Mr. Whitten; that—”
“Why, you bastard!” Mortimer blurted.
“Keep quiet, Mort,” Phoebe muttered at him.
“—that,” Wolfe continued, “this conjecture gets strong support from Mrs. Whitten’s untenable explanation of her injuries.” Wolfe upturned a palm. “That’s the kernel of it.” He spoke to Mrs. Whitten. “Why would you make up a story, good or bad? To conceal the identity of your assailant. Why would you want to protect one who had used a deadly weapon on you? Because it was one of these five people, a member of your family. But it must have been one of these five people who, if Mr. Pompa is innocent, killed Mr. Whitten. It fits neatly. It deserves inquiry; I propose to inquire; and if you won’t let me, then it will have to be the police.”
“This was inherent in the situation,” Bahr announced, as if that took the sting out of it.
“You’re accusing one of us of murder,” Jerome Landy told Wolfe.
“Not one, Mr. Landy. All of you. I’m not prepared yet to particularize.”
“That’s serious. Very serious.”
“It is indeed.”
“If you expect us to answer questions we have a right to have a lawyer present.”
“No. You have no right at all, except to get up and leave. I am not speaking for the people of the State of New York; I am merely a private detective who has you cornered. There are two ways out, and you are free to choose. But before you do so it is only fair to warn you that I have concealed weapons. I’ll show you one. I do not surmise that all of you lied to the police; I know it. You said that your clandestine meeting was for a discussion of a difficulty your brother Mortimer had encountered.”
“It was,” Jerome asserted.
“No, it wasn’t. Mr. Bahr told Mrs. Whitten that you had gathered to consider the problem posed by her new husband. What was indicated for the future by putting him at the head of the family business? Was he to be permitted to take it over and own it? If so, what about the Landy children? Mrs. Whitten, shocked by this concerted onset, did not counterattack as might have been expected. She did not even remind you that the business belonged to her. She reproached you for assuming that she was capable of violating your rights as your father’s children. During the talk Mr. Bahr twice suggested that the proper course was to have Mr. Whitten join you, and have it out. The second time he made the suggestion it was approved by all of you, including the one who knew it was futile because Mr. Whitten was dead. So, as I say, you all lied to the police.”
“I didn’t,” Bahr declared. “I only said it was a family matter which I could not discuss.”
“You see?” Wolfe snapped at them. “Thank you, Mr. Bahr. That might not be corroboration for a jury, but it is for me. Now.” He aimed his eyes at Eve. “I’ll start with you, Mrs. Bahr. There’s no point in sequestering you, since there has been ample time to arrange for concord. During the time you five were in the dining room Monday evening, who left the room and when?”