The idea, I don’t know whose, was to go in a body, after gathering at the Tenth Precinct station, and it was quite a cavalcade, with two limousines — Skinner’s and Bowen’s — and four PD sedans.
I was in Skinner’s limousine, and at my suggestion it headed the procession. I thought I should be the first to enter, and intended, on crossing the threshold, to change over and become a host, but discovered that it had been planned differently. It was not Fritz who let us in, but Saul Panzer, and he greeted me as an arriving guest, offering to take my hat. He could kid me, and often did, but not in the presence of the Police Commissioner. Wolfe had told him to, no question about it. So I said, “Thank you, sonny,” and handed him the hat, and he said, “Don’t mention it, officer.”
Wolfe and Fritz, with Saul’s help evidently, had managed well enough. The chairs were placed exactly as they had been at the start of proceedings Thursday evening, and the portable bar was at its spot, fully equipped. There was some displacement when Purley and a dick came with the tape recorder and accessories and got it installed, but things were properly rearranged. Since I was being regarded as a guest I thought it was only polite to act like one, so I went to my desk and sat, which was where I belonged as a member of the cast. The other members likewise disposed themselves, and none of them needed any coaching. Nearest me was Viola Duday, then Oliver Pitkin, Jay Brucker, and Bernard Quest, and Perry Helmar in the red leather chair. The couch, to my right and rear as I faced Wolfe’s desk, was not occupied. Sarah Jaffee had sat there Thursday. On a chair near it was Eric Hagh, and beyond him were the two lawyers, Irby and Parker. Andy Fomos was off by himself, over by the bookshelves.
Additional chairs, some of the smaller yellow ones, had been lined up along the wall on the other side of Wolfe’s desk, for the audience. It seemed bad etiquette for VIPs like the Police Commissioner and the District Attorney and Inspector Cramer to be perched on those skimpy little numbers while Helmar, a mere Wall Street lawyer and murder suspect, had the red leather chair all to himself, but the occasion required it. Also in the row of audience were Assistant DA Mandelbaum, Captain Olmstead, and Purley Stebbins. The recorder was on a table at Purley’s elbow.
Saul Panzer stood facing the cast, not the audience. There is nothing impressive about Saul. He is undersized, his nose and ears are too big, and his shoulders slant. With Saul a thousand wrongdoers had made the mistake of believing what they saw. He spoke. “I believe this is the way it was Thursday evening when Mr. Wolfe entered. Does anyone disagree?”
No one did. He went on, “HI sit on the couch where Mrs. Jaffee was. I wasn’t here, but it has been described to me, and if I do anything wrong it can be corrected. Archie, will you ring for Mr. Wolfe as you did Thursday?”
He passed between Viola Duday and me to get to the couch. I stepped to Wolfe’s desk and pressed the button, one long and two short, and returned to my chair. Wolfe entered. On account of the row of audience he couldn’t bear right along the wall, so he navigated through the cast to make his desk. Standing beside his chair, he took his time for a look from right to left, ending with those against the wall, the representatives of the People of the State of New York.
“You gentlemen don’t look very comfortable,” he muttered.
They said they were all right. He sat. There was a tingle in my spine. I knew his look and manner as well as I did his voice, and there was no doubt about it, he was going to pull one, or try to.
He addressed the District Attorney. “I assume, Mr. Bowen, that these people know why you have brought them here?”
Bowen nodded. “Yes, it’s been thoroughly explained to them, and they have all agreed to cooperate. Mr. Helmar, Mr. Parker, and Mr. Irby have made certain reservations about the use of the recording, and they have been covered in a memo. Do you want to see it?”
“Not if Mr. Parker has approved it. Then we may proceed?”
“Please do.”
Wolfe turned. “Miss Duday and gentlemen. You understand that the purpose of this gathering is for us to iterate our words and movements of last Thursday evening. The first thing that happened after I entered the room was Mr. Goodwin’s identification for me of Miss Duday and Messrs. Brucker, Quest, and Pitkin. Then I sat down. Then Mr. Helmar said he had a statement he would like to read, and that, I suppose, is where we should start, but before we do so I wish to make some remarks.”
A sound came from one person, not one of the cast. It was Inspector Cramer, and the sound was a cross between a growl and a snort. Cramer knew Wolfe better than anyone there except me.
Wolfe leaned back and got comfortable. “I told you Thursday evening that my sole interest was investigation of the murder of Priscilla Eads, and that is still true, except that now the murder of Sarah Jaffee is joined to it. After you people left that evening I told Mr. Goodwin that I thought I knew who killed Miss Eads and Mrs. Fomos. That surmise, for that is all it was then, was based on two things: first, the impression I had got of you five people that evening; and second, the fact that Mrs. Fomos had been killed.
“The supposition that the attack on Mrs. Fomos was solely for the purpose of getting the keys to Miss Eads’s apartment was clearly not acceptable if any alternative could be had. If that was all that was wanted it would only have been necessary to snatch her bag. A dozen women’s bags are snatched every day in this city. Killing Mrs. Fomos greatly increased the hazard of killing Miss Eads. If her body had been discovered sooner, as it might easily have been, and if that city detective — Auerbach, was it, Mr. Cramer?”
“Yes.” Cramer’s eyes were narrowed at him.
“If he had got his notion about the keys more promptly, he would have got to Miss Eads’s apartment before her return and would have found the murderer ambushed there. Surely the murderer was capable of calculating such a risk, and he would not have killed Mrs. Fomos except under a strong impulsion. This objection of course occurred to the police, and I understand that they met it by assuming that in his attempt to get the bag from Mrs. Fomos her assailant was recognized and so was compelled to kill her. That assumption was not impossible, but it implied that the murderer was an egregious bungler, and I doubted it. I preferred to assume exactly the opposite — that Mrs. Fomos had been killed, not because she had recognized her attacker, but because he knew she couldn’t recognize him.”
“Is this for effect?” Skinner demanded. “Or do you think you’re getting somewhere?”
“I am already somewhere,” Wolfe retorted. “I’ve just told you who the murderer is.”
Purley Stebbins stood up with his gun in his hand, his eyes on the cast, trying to keep them all in focus at once.
“Go on and spell it,” Cramer growled.
“He wanted the keys, certainly,” Wolfe conceded, “but he didn’t have to kill Mrs. Fomos to get them. He killed her because she was herself a danger to him, as great a danger as Miss Eads. It would have done him no good to kill the one unless he killed the other. That was my hypothesis as early as Tuesday evening, but there were then too many alternatives, more easily tested, to give it priority. Wednesday Mr. Goodwin called on Mrs. Jaffee and Mr. Fomos, and late that afternoon Mr. Irby came and provided me with bait to get you people here. Thursday morning Mrs. Jaffee came, as the result of a brilliant maneuver by Mr. Goodwin the day before, and gave me much better bait than Mr. Irby had supplied, and, as you all know, I used it. But for that maneuver by Mr. Goodwin, Mrs. Jaffee would not have come to see me, and almost certainly she would be alive now. That seems to me much firmer ground for his feeling of responsibility for her death than her phone call to him Thursday night and its sequel. It is regrettable, but not surprising, that his feeling was so intense as to warp his mental processes and pervert his judgment. I did and do sympathize with him.”
“Is all this necessary?” Bowen wanted to know.
“Perhaps not,” Wolfe allowed, “but I’m exposing a murderer and claim a measure of indulgence. You must have expected to spend hours here. Am I tedious?”
“Go ahead.”
“And Thursday afternoon Mr. Irby returned with his client, Mr. Hagh, who had flown from Venezuela. I no longer needed him or his client as bait for you, but I invited them to join us that evening, provided they came as observers and not participants. As you know, they were here. What is it, Archie?”
“I’ll tend to me,” I told him. I had left my chair and was moving. I won’t say I had caught up with him, but at least I could see his dust, and I admit that I had also seen Saul Panzer, not with any flourish, take a gun from his pocket and rest it on his thigh. I did not display a gun. I merely circled around the end of the couch and stopped, and stood less than arm’s length northwest of Eric Hagh’s right shoulder. He didn’t turn his head, but he knew I was there. His eyes were glued to Wolfe.
“Okay,” I told Wolfe. “I’m not warped enough to break his neck. How come?”
Satisfied that I wasn’t going to throw a tantrum, he returned to the Softdown quintet. “When you left here Thursday evening, I had nothing new about you with regard to the murder of Miss Eads, but it seemed more than ever doubtful, under my hypothesis, that a motive could be found for any of you to kill Mrs. Fomos. As I said, I told Mr. Goodwin that I thought I knew who had committed the murders, but I also told him that there was a contradiction that had to be solved, and for that purpose I asked him to have Mrs. Jaffee here at eleven o’clock the next morning.”
He turned left. “What was the contradiction, Mr. Cramer?”
Cramer shook his head. “I’m not clear up with you. I suppose the point was that this Eric Hagh is not Hagh, he’s a ringer, from what you said about him killing Mrs. Fomos because he knew she couldn’t recognize him, but then where were you?”
“I was facing a contradiction.”
“What?”
“You should know. Among the items furnished by me to Lieutenant Rowcliff on Friday was a carbon copy of a report, typed by Mr. Goodwin, of his conversation with Mrs. Jaffee on Wednesday at her apartment. Surely you have read it, and this is an excerpt from it. I quote: ‘That was the last letter I ever got from Pris. The very last. Maybe I still have it — I remember she enclosed a picture of him.’
“Mrs. Jaffee said that to Mr. Goodwin. It contradicted my hypothesis that the man calling himself Eric Hagh was an impostor; for if Mrs. Jaffee had seen a picture of Hagh, why didn’t she denounce this man when she saw him here? It was to get an answer to that question that I asked Mr. Goodwin to have her here Friday morning.”
“Why didn’t you ask her then and there?”
“If that’s a challenge, Mr. Cramer, I ignore it. If it’s a request for information, the—”
“It is.”
“Good. The circumstances were not favorable. My suspicion of Hagh had no support but a hypothesis, and I was not certain of the bona fides of Mrs. Jaffee herself. I wanted first to get an opinion from Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Parker, and Mrs. Jaffee was leaving with Mr. Parker. It was late at night, and I was tired. Of course I regret it. I regretted it only two hours after I had gone to bed, when I was awakened by the phone and Mr. Goodwin told me that Mrs. Jaffee had been murdered. Then, too late for her, I knew. I even got out of bed and sat in a chair, something I never do.”
“This is being recorded, Wolfe,” Bowen warned him. “You say you knew the identity of a murderer. Whom did you notify?”
“Pfui. That’s childish, Mr. Bowen. I had no evidence. You have had every scrap of information I have had, and the services of Mr. Goodwin to boot, which is a great advantage when his head is on straight. I had started, remember, with pure hypothesis, in an effort to account for the murder of Mrs. Fomos as a preamble to the murder of Miss Eads. In fact, I had started with several different hypotheses, but by far the most attractive was this: that someone in Caracas had got hold of the document Miss Eads, then Mrs. Hagh, had signed, giving her husband a half interest in her property, and was impersonating Hagh to make the claim; that, deciding he would have to come to New York in person to press the claim, he had determined to get rid of the only two people who, because they knew Hagh, made his appearance here impossible; and that either he came here himself and killed them, or contrived it.
“It became more than hypothesis when Mrs. Jaffee was killed. The killer had got her keys from her bag here that evening, and, so far as was known, no one else, of those present, had the slightest motive for killing Mrs. Jaffee. And my contradiction was resolved. Mrs. Jaffee had realized that Eric Hagh was not the man whose picture had been sent her by her friend six years ago, but she had not denounced him because it was not in her character to do so. She had revealed her character with some clarity to Mr. Goodwin. She didn’t like to get involved with anyone or anything. She had never gone to a stockholders’ meeting of the corporation whose dividends were her only source of income. She came here Thursday to lend her name to a legal action only because she was under great obligation to Mr. Goodwin. No, she did not denounce the impostor, but indubitably she made him aware that she knew he was not Eric Hagh. She may have done so merely by the way she looked at him, or she may have asked him some naive and revealing question. In any case, he knew he was in deadly peril from her, and he acted quickly and audaciously — and with dexterity, taking her keys from her bag. No, he is not a bungler, but—”
A voice broke in. It was Dewdrop Irby, and his voice was good and loud, with no oil at all in it, “I want to state at this time, for the record, that I had no—”
“Shut up!” Cramer barked at him.
“But I want—”
“You’ll get what you want. I’ll deliver it personally.”
Wolfe asked, “Shall I finish?”
“Yes.”
“As I said, I got out of bed and sat in a chair. It took little consideration for me to conclude that my hypothesis had been violently, tragically, and completely validated. I did not phone your office, Mr. Cramer, because it is not my habit to make the police a gift, unasked, of the product of my brain, because I was personally concerned, and because I knew how badly Mr. Goodwin’s self-esteem had been bruised and I thought he would be gratified if we, not you, got the murderer. I did phone not long after getting the news from Mr. Goodwin — though not to you — and at three o’clock in the morning succeeded in reaching a man in Caracas whom I know a little and can trust within reason. Five hours later he called me back to say that Eric Hagh was new to Caracas and apparently had no background there.”
“I could have told you that,” Cramer grumbled. “He has been living at the Orinoco Hotel for two months.”
“It’s a pity I didn’t ask you and save twenty dollars. While waiting for the report from Caracas, I had phoned Saul Panzer. He had come and eaten breakfast with me, and I had supplied him with money from my emergency cash reserve. From here he went to a newspaper office and got pictures of the man calling himself Eric Hagh, and from there he went to Idlewild Airport. At ten o’clock he boarded a plane for South America.”
“Not for Caracas,” Purley Stebbins objected. He was still standing with his gun in hand. “Not at ten o’clock.”
“He didn’t go to Caracas. He went to Cajamarca, Peru. The document signed by Priscilla Eads Hagh was written there. At Cajamarca he found people who had known Hagh, and two who also remembered Mrs. Hagh, and he learned, one, that Hagh was a professional gambler; two, that he had not been in Cajamarca for three years; and three, that the pictures he had with him were not of Hagh. He flew to Lima, engaged the interest of the police by a method not utterly unknown in our own city, and within twelve hours had collected enough items to phone me. The items included — you tell them, Saul. Briefly.”
Saul gave his voice a little more volume than usual, because he wasn’t facing the bulk of his audience. He had his eyes straight at Eric Hagh and had no intention of shifting them.
“They had all known Eric Hagh,” he said. “Hagh had been a gambler working up and down the coast for years. As far as they knew he had been in the States only twice, once for a spell in Los Angeles and once in New Orleans, and from New Orleans he brought back a rich American bride. They all knew about the paper he had, signed by his wife, giving him half her property. Hagh had shown it around, bragging about it. He said it had been her idea to give it to him, but he was too proud a man to sponge on a woman and he was keeping it as a souvenir. They said he had meant it; he was like that. I couldn’t ask him because he was dead. He had been caught in a snow slide in the mountains three months ago, on March nineteenth. Nobody knew what had happened to the document.”
Saul cleared his throat. He’s always a little husky. “The man I had pictures of, the man I’m looking at now — his name is Siegfried Muecke. Twenty-six people in Lima recognized him from the pictures. He was first seen there about two years ago, and no one knows where he came from. He is also a professional gambler, and he went around a good deal with Hagh. He was with him in the mountains, working a tourist resort with him, when Hagh was killed by a snow slide. Nobody has seen Siegfried Muecke around Lima since Hagh’s death. Do you want more details?”
“Not at present, Saul,” Wolfe told him.
Purley Stebbins was moving. He passed in front of Helmar and between Brucker and Quest, and around me, and posted himself directly behind Siegfried Muecke, who was now fairly well seen to, with Saul at his left, Purley at his rear, and me at his right.
Wolfe was going on. “Mr. Muecke’s preparations for his coup, crossing the Andes to Caracas so as to operate from a base where he and Mr. Hagh were both unknown, can of course be traced. At Caracas he selected a lawyer, with some care probably, and decided to present his claim in a letter — not to the former Mrs. Hagh, but to the trustee of the property, Mr. Helmar. At some point he also decided that effective pursuit of the claim would require his presence in New York, and of course it would be fatal to his plans if either Miss Eads or Mrs. Fomos ever got a glimpse of him. There was only one way to solve that difficulty: they must die.”
“But not until after June thirtieth,” Bowen objected.
Wolfe nodded. “That’s a point, certainly, but it’s not inexplicable. Looking at his face, which appears rigid in paralysis, I doubt if he’ll explain for us, not now at least. I offer alternatives: some incident may have alarmed him and precipitated action, or he may not have known that if Miss Eads died before June thirtieth the Softdown stock, the bulk of her fortune, would go to others. I think the latter more likely, since he was offered, through Mr. Irby, a cash settlement of one hundred thousand dollars and wouldn’t even discuss it.
“Another point should soon be clarified, whether Mr. Muecke is persuaded to help or not. Did he arrange for the murders of Miss Eads and Mrs. Fomos, or did he commit them himself? That can of course be established by inquiry in Caracas and of airline personnel I think, you’ll find that he did them himself. You should be able to verify his first flight to New York, and surely you will have no trouble with his return to Caracas, since he must have left New York on Tuesday to be in Caracas to speak with Mr. Irby on the telephone on Wednesday. Also, he had to leave Caracas again Wednesday afternoon or evening to get back to New York Thursday, and we know he did that.”
Wolfe’s eyes fixed on Muecke, and he spoke to him for the first time. “For myself, Mr. Muecke, there is no room for doubt. You set your pattern and kept to it with pigheaded constancy. You waylaid Mrs. Jaffee, and struck and strangled her, exactly as you had done with Miss Eads, and previously with Mrs. Fomos. I said you were no bungler, but the truth is — Archie!”
I had noticed once before, when he had slammed the door in my face, that Andy Fomos could move fast when he wanted to. He was out of his chair and across the room to our little group like a flying saucer. Apparently his idea was to do something to Muecke with his bare hands, as his personal comment on what Muecke had done to Mrs. Fomos, but there was no time to analyze ideas, including my own. Now, at leisure, I can and I have, and to complete the record I report the results.
The question is, since the worst Andy Fomos could have done was to disfigure Muecke superficially, why did I want to interfere? Why didn’t I give him gangway and even block Purley? Why did I haul off and plug Andy’s iron jaw with so much behind it that he sailed through the air before he stretched out, and my wrist and knuckles were stiff for a week? The answer is, if I had touched Muecke I would have killed him, but I had to touch somebody or something, and Andy Fomos, bless his hundred and ninety pounds that made it really satisfactory, gave me the excuse.
Then Cramer was there, and Skinner, and I sidestepped to make room, and stood, licking blood from my knuckles and watching Purley get handcuffs on Siegfried Muecke.