desk, stretched, and announced that I was going for a walk, which got no reaction from Wolfe.
The morning was tough to improve on. Yesterday’s rain had cleansed the air, proving that in the spring, even Manhattan can smell terrific. I walked east all the way to Lexington, then turned north. By the time I’d hoofed it to Forty-second, my tension had pretty well dissolved, although I kept turning the case over. Had Wolfe overplayed it this time? Outwardly, I was more or less agreeing with his murder theory, but in conversations with myself, the idea was hard to swallow.
As far as my gut feelings about the so-called suspects went, I wasn’t too wild about any of them as people, with the possible exception of Bishop. Lon liked and respected him, and I had to score that fairly high on the plus side, even though I had a little trouble warming to him. But maybe that was because of my feeling that he didn’t completely trust me. Dean was a pompous, self-important windbag, but beyond that, he seemed relatively harmless. As for the Haverhills, Donna was easy to look at, but a little driven for my taste. David and Scott both needed a trip back to the factory for more parts. Neither one was fully equipped, in brainpower or in manners, but that hardly qualified either of them as a trigger-puller. And there was Carolyn: tough, cooler than iceberg lettuce, and as unaffected as a TV game-show host. But a killer? My built-in hunch-meter gave her long odds.
That left MacLaren. If I were to pick someone I’d like to hang a murder on, he would lap the field. He seemed like a long shot himself, though; he had nothing to gain. The Gazette was as good as his—at least if he scooped up nephew Scott’s shares. And what about Scott? Had he really been offered the publisher’s throne? If so, would we ever know it? Maybe Saul was learning the answer to that from Ann Barwell right now.
After I’d played the whole mess through a couple more times, I woke up and found myself all the way up at Bloomingdale’s with nothing to show for the last hour-plus except perspiration and a bag filled with improbable suspects. I thought about grabbing a glass of milk and a sandwich at a little place I like on East Fifty-eighth before I remembered that oyster pie was on Fritz’s lunch menu. My watch read twelve-forty-four, which meant that if I wanted those oysters, I’d have to flag a cab. I stepped to the curb and started waving my hands like a trader on the commodities exchange.
The oyster pie was easily worth the fare, even if you throw in the aggravation of having to listen to the cabbie gripe the whole trip about how messengers on bicycles are the greatest menace on the New York streets. He turned around to talk to me so often that I was ready with my own nomination as the number-one menace on the streets.
Back in the office after lunch, Wolfe settled in with his book while I picked at some paperwork but mainly kept looking at my watch. When the call came, I almost knocked my milk glass over reaching for the phone. “Saul,” I said, and Wolfe picked up his instrument while I stayed on.
“How was your trip?” he asked.
“Uneventful. The flights were actually on time, the drive was a snap. I just got finished talking to Ann Barwell. She wasn’t exactly tickled to see me, but she let me have a few minutes.”
“And?”
“And I got what you wanted. She says Harriet did talk about giving Scott the brass ring.”
“Indeed? Details, please.”
I like to think I’m at the head of the class when it comes to repeating conversations verbatim, but Saul is no slouch himself, and he gave a word-for-word account while I got it down in shorthand. Wolfe interrupted once or twice, but otherwise just listened.
“Well, that’s it,” Saul said after he unloaded. “I wish there was more.”
“Satisfactory,” Wolfe told him for the second time in a week. “Stay the night if you wish.”
Saul answered that he might, but that he’d be back in New York no later than noon tomorrow.
“Okay,” I said, swiveling to face him after we’d hung up. “What’s next, world famous and reclusive detective?”
“Chapter four,” he replied, gesturing to his book, which he picked up and hid behind. And there he stayed, pausing only to ring for beer and consume two bottles’ worth.