Before Midnight Read online

  "By God," Cramer said, "you were lying after all."

  "Yes? Why?"

  "Because that's dumb and you're not dumb. He goes in and finds a corpse, and he's nervous. It makes people nervous to find a corpse. He wants to turn and run like hell, they all do, especially if there's the slightest reason for them to be suspected, but he makes himself get the wallet from the corpse's pocket. He may even intend to take the paper and put the wallet back and start looking for the paper, but he thinks of fingerprints. Maybe he can wipe the wallet off before he puts it back, but he might miss one. Even so, he might try, if he calmly considered all the consequences of taking the wallet, but he's not calm and there's no time and he has to get out of there. So he gets, with the wallet. Excuse me for taking up your valuable time with kindergarten stuff, but you asked for it."

  He stood up, looked at the cigar in his hand, threw it at my wastebasket, and missed. He glared at it and then at Wolfe. "If that's the best you can do I'll be going." He turned.

  "Manifestly," Wolfe said, "you don't believe Mr. Hansen and the others when they profess their conviction that Mr. Dahlmann's display of the paper was only a hoax?'"

  Cramer turned at the door long enough to growl, "Nuts. Do you?"

  When I returned to the office after seeing him out Wolfe was still at his desk, pinching the lobe of his ear with a thumb and forefinger, staring at nothing. I put my empty milk glass on one of the beer trays, took them to the kitchen, washed and wiped the glasses, disposed of the bottles, and put the trays away. Fritz goes to bed at eleven unless he has been asked not to. Back in the office, the ear massage was still under way. I spoke. "I can finish the typing tonight if there are other errands for the morning. Have I got a program?"

  "No."

  "Oh well," I said cheerfully, "there's no rush. April twentieth is a week off. You can read twenty books in a week."

  He grunted. "Get Saul and ask him to breakfast with me in my room at eight o'clock. Give me two hundred dollars for him---no, make it three hundred---and lock the safe and go to bed. I want some quiet."

  I obeyed, of course, but I wondered. Could he be tossing a couple of C's---no, three---of LBA money to the breeze just to make me think he had hatched something? Saul Panzer was the best man in the city of New York for any kind of a job, but what was it? Tailing five people, hardly. If tailing one, who and why? If not tailing, then what? For me, nothing we had heard or seen had pointed in anyone's direction. For him, I didn't believe it. He wanted company for breakfast, and not me. Okay.

  I got Saul at his apartment on East Thirty-eighth Street, signed him up for the morning, got the money from the cash drawer in the safe and locked the safe, gave Wolfe the dough, and asked him, "Then I don't do the typing tonight?"

  "No. Go to bed. I have work to do."

  I went. Up one flight I stopped on the landing, thinking it might help if I tiptoed back down and went in and caught him with his book up, but decided it would only make him so stubborn he'd read all night.

  Chapter 11

  My morning paper is usually the Times, with the Gazette for a side dish, but that Thursday I gave the Gazette a bigger play because it has a keener sense of the importance of homicide. Its by-line piece on the career and personality of the brilliant young advertising genius who had been shot in the back did not say that there were at least a hundred beautiful and glamorous females in the metropolitan area who might have had reason to erase him, but it gave that impression without naming names.

  However, that was only a tactful little bone tossed to the sex hounds for them to gnaw on. The main story was the contest, and they did it proud, with their main source of information Miss Gertrude Frazee of Los Angeles. There was a picture of her on page three which made her unique combination of rare features more picturesque than in the flesh, and harder to believe. She had briefed the reporter thoroughly on the Women's Nature League, told him all about the dinner meeting Tuesday evening, including Dahlmann's display of the paper and what he said, and spoken at length of her rights as a contestant under the rules and the agreement.

  Of the other contestants, Susan Tescher of Clock magazine had been inaccessible to journalists, presumably after consulting her three windbags. Harold Rollins had been reached but had refused any information or comment; he hadn't even explained why winning half a million bucks would be a fatal blow to him. Mrs. Wheelock, who was living on pills, and Philip Younger, who had paroxysms to contend with, had apparently been almost as talkative as Miss Frazee. They were both indignant, bitter, and pugnacious, but on one point their minds had not met. Younger thought that the only fair way out of the mess was to split the prize money five ways, whereas Mrs. Wheelock did not. She was holding out for the big one, and said the five verses should be scrapped and five new ones substituted, under circumstances that would give each of them an equal opportunity.

  Perhaps I should have confined my reading to the contest part, since we hadn't been hired for the murder, but only Fritz was in the kitchen with me and he wouldn't blab. There were a lot of facts that Cramer hadn't furnished-that Dahlmann was wearing a dark blue suit; that he had taken a taxi from the Churchill to his apartment and arrived a little before 11:30; that the woman who found him when she came to get his breakfast was named Elga Johnson; that his apartment was two rooms and bath; that the bullet had hit a rib after passing through the heart; and many other details equally helpful. The name of the murderer wasn't given.

  Having got an early start, I was through with breakfast and the papers and was in the office at the typewriter when Saul Panzer came. Saul is not a natural for Mr. America. His nose is twice as big as he needs, he never looks as if he had just shaved, one shoulder is half an inch higher than the other and they both slope, and his coat sleeves are too short. But if and when I find myself up a tree with a circle of man-eating tigers crouching on the ground below, and a squad of beavers starting to gnaw at the trunk of the tree, the sight of Saul approaching would be absolutely beautiful. I have never seen him fazed.

  He came at eight sharp and went right upstairs, and I went back to the typewriter. At five to nine he came back down but I didn't hear him until he called to me from the door to the hall. "Want to come and bolt me out?"

  I swiveled. "With pleasure. That's what the bolt's for, such as you." I arose. "Have a good breakfast?"

  "You know I did."

  I was with him. "Need any professional coaching?"

  "I sure do." He was at the rack getting his things. "I'll start at the bottom and work down."

  "That's the spirit." I opened the door. "If you get your throat cut or something just give me a ring."

  "Glad to, Archie. You'd be the one all right."

  "Okay. Keep your gloves on."

  He went, and I shut the door and went back to work. There had been a day when I got a little peeved if Wolfe gave Saul a chore without telling me what it was, and also told him not to tell me, but that was long past. It didn't peeve me any more; it merely bit me because I couldn't guess it. I sat at my desk a good ten minutes trying to figure it, then realized that was about as useful as reading a novel in verse, and hit the typewriter.

  My speed at typing notes of interviews depends on the circumstances. Once in a real pinch I did ten pages an hour for three hours, but my average is around six or seven, and I have been known to mosey along at four or five. That morning I stepped on it, to get as much done as possible before Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven o'clock, since he would certainly have some errands ready for me. I was interrupted by phone calls--- one from Rudolph Hansen, wanting a progress report, one from Oliver Buff, wanting the same, one from Philip Younger, wanting me to arrange an appointment for him with the LBA crowd and getting sore when I stalled him, and one from Lon Cohen of the Gazette, wanting to know if I felt like giving him something hot on the Dahlmann murder. Being busy, I didn't start an argument by saying we weren't working on the murder; I just told him he'd have to stand in line, and didn't bother to ask him how he kn
ew we were in the play. Probably Miss Frazee. In spite of the interruptions, I had finished Wheelock and Younger and Tescher by eleven o'clock, and started on Rollins.

  The sound of Wolfe's elevator came, and he appeared, told me good morning, crossed to his chair and got his poundage adjusted, and spoke. "I left my papers in my room. May I have yours?"

  I should have put them on his desk, since I knew he had had company for breakfast. I took them to him and then resumed at the typewriter. He glanced through the morning mail, which was mostly circulars and requests from worthy causes, then settled back with the news. That was okay, since there could have been an item that might affect the program for the day. He is not a fast reader, and I pounded along in high so as to be finished by the time he was ready. It was still before noon by ten minutes when I rolled the last page of Rollins from the machine, and after collating the originals and carbons I turned for a glance at him.

  He had put the papers down and was deep in Beauty for Ashes.

  No commonplace crack would fit the situation. It was serious and could be critical. I stapled the reports, labeled a folder "Lippert, Buff and Assa" and put them in it, went and put the folder in the cabinet, came back to my desk and put things away, turned to him and announced, "I'm all set. Hansen and Buff phoned to ask how we're coming, and I told them there was no use crowding. Philip Younger wants you to get him a conference with LBA, and I said maybe later. Lon Cohen wants the murderer's name with a picture by five o'clock. That's the crop. I'm ready for instructions."

  He finished a paragraph---no, it was verse. He finished something, then his eyes came at me over the top of the book. "I haven't any," he stated.

  "Oh. Tomorrow, maybe? Or some day next week?"

  "I don't know. I gave it some thought last night, and I don't know."

  I stared at him. "This is your finest hour," I said emphatically. "This is the rawest you have ever pulled. You took the case just twenty-four hours ago. Why didn't you turn it down? That you have the gall to sit there on your fanny and read poetry is bad enough, but that you tell me to do likewise ..." I stood up. "I quit." "I haven't told you to read poetry." "You might as well. I'm quitting, and I'm going to the ball game."

  He shook his head. "You can't quit in the middle of a case, and you can't go to the ball game because I couldn't get you if you were suddenly needed."

  "Needed for what? Bring you beer?"

  "No." He put the book down, drew a long deep sigh, and leaned back. "I suppose this has to be. You're enraged because I haven't devised a list of sallies and exploits for you. You have of course pondered the situation, as I have. I sympathize with your eagerness to do something. What would you suggest?"

  "It's not up to me. If I did the suggesting around here, that would be my desk and this would be yours."

  "Nevertheless, I put it to you. Please sit down so I can look at you without stretching my neck. Thank you. There is nothing you can do about any of these people that the police have not already done, and are doing, with incomparably greater resources and numbers. Keeping them under surveillance, investigating their past, learning if any of them had a gun, checking their alibis, harassing them by prolonged and repetitive inquisition---do you want to compete with the police on any of those?"

  "You know damn well I don't. I want you to go to work and come up with instructions for me. Unless Saul is handling it?"

  "Saul has been given a little task I didn't want to spare you for. You will accept my decision that at the moment there is nothing to be done by either you or me. That condition may continue for a week, until after the deadline has come and gone. Messrs. Hansen and Buff and O'Garro and Assa---and Mr. Heery too---are quite wrong in thinking that the culprit must be exposed before the deadline; on the contrary, it will be much more feasible after the deadline, unless---"

  "That won't do us any good. You can't stall them that long. They'll bounce you."

  "I doubt it. I'd have something to say about it. And anyway, I was saying that it will be more feasible after the deadline unless something happens, and I rather think that something will. The tension is extremely severe, not only for the culprit, but also for the others, in one way or another. That's why you can't go to the ball game; you must be at hand. Also for the phone calls. They'll get increasingly exigent and must be handled discreetly but firmly. I could help some with them, but it would be best for me to be so deeply engaged with the problem that I am unavailable. Of course they are not to be told that I think the solution may have to wait until after the deadline."

  "Say by the Fourth of July," I suggested bitterly.

  "Sooner than that or not at all." He was tolerant. "Commonly I take your badgering as a necessary evil; it has on occasion served a purpose; but this may go on for a while and I wish to be spared. I assure you, Archie---"

  The phone rang. I answered it, and a trained female voice told me that Mr. O'Garro wanted to speak with Mr. Wolfe. Evidently they were reverting to type up at LBA. I told her Mr. Wolfe was engaged, but Mr. O'Garro could speak with Mr. Goodwin if he cared to. She said he wanted Mr. Wolfe, and I said I was sorry he couldn't have him. She told me to hold on, and after a wait resumed by asking me to put Mr. Goodwin on, and I said he was on. Then I got a male voice: "Hello, Goodwin? This is Pat O'Garro. I want to speak to Wolfe!"

  "So I understand, but I have strict instructions not to disturb him, and I don't dare to. When he's buried in a case, as he is right now in yours, it's not only bad for me if I interrupt him, it's bad for the case. You've given him a tough one to crack, and you'd better leave him alone with it."

  "My God, we've got to know what he's doing!"

  "No, sir. Excuse me, but you're dead wrong. You either rely on him to get it or you don't. When he's working as hard as he is on this he never tells anybody what he's doing, and it's a big mistake to ask him. As soon as there's anything you'd like to know or need to know or can help with, you'll hear without delay. I told Mr. Hansen, and also Mr. Buff, about Inspector Cramer calling on us last night."

  "I know you did. What time this afternoon can I drop in?"

  "Any time that suits you. I'll be here, and you can look at the transcripts of the talks with the contestants if you want to. Mr. Wolfe will be upstairs and not available. When he's sunk in a thing as he is in this it's a job to get him to eat."

  "But damn it, what's he doing?"

  "He's using the brain you hired. Didn't you gentlemen decide you needed a special kind of brain? All right, you got one."

  "We certainly did. I'll see you this afternoon."

  I told him that would be fine, and hung up, and turned to ask Wolfe if that would do, but he had lifted his book and opened it and I didn't want to disturb him.

  Chapter 12

  Thank the Lord those next four days are behind me instead of ahead. I admit that there are operations and situations where the best you can do is set a trap and then wait patiently for the victim to spring it, and in such a case I can wait as patiently as the next one, but we had set no trap. Waiting for the victim to make the trap himself and then spring it called for more patience than I had in stock.

  Wolfe had asked me what I would suggest, and I spent part of the time from Thursday noon to Friday noon, in between phone calls and personal appearances of LBA personnel and Talbott Heery, trying to hit on something. I had to agree with him that there was no point in tagging along after the cops on any of the routines. Altogether, while sitting at my desk or on the stool in the kitchen, or brushing my teeth, or shaving, or looking out the window, I conceived at least a dozen bright ideas, none of them worth a damn when you turned them over. I did submit one of them to Wolfe after dinner Thursday evening: to get the five contestants together in the office, and tell them it had been thought that Dahlmann had put the answers to the last five verses in a safe deposit box, but evidently he hadn't, since none could be found, and there was no authentic list of answers against which their solutions could be checked, and therefore other verses, not yet devised, would hav
e to replace the ones they had. He asked what good it would do. I said we would get their reactions. He said we already had their reactions, and besides, LBA would properly reject a procedure that made them out a bunch of bungling boobies.

  There was nothing in Friday's papers that struck a spark, but at least they didn't announce that Cramer had got his man and the case was solved. Just the contrary. No-one had been tapped even as a material witness, and it was plain, from the way the Gazette handled it, that the field was still wide open. Lon Cohen phoned again around noon to ask what Wolfe was waiting for, and I told him for a flash. He asked what kind of flash, and I told him to ask Miss Frazee.

  The climax of the phone calls from the clients began soon after lunch Friday. Wolfe was up in his room to be away from the turmoil. He had finished Beauty for Ashes and started on Party of One, not in verse, by Clifton Fadiman. The climax was in three scenes, the hero of the first one being Patrick O'Garro. It was the third call from him in the twenty-four hours, and he made it short and to the point. He asked to speak to Wolfe and I gave him the usual dose. He asked if I had anything to report and I said no.