Rex Stout: The Zero Clue

She told him, and he wanted to know more about them. I was beginning to suspect that actually he had no more of a lead than I did, that he had given Cramer a runaround to jostle him loose from the NW he had fixed on, and that, having impulsively impounded the five hundred bucks, he had decided to spend the night trying to earn it. The line he now took with Susan Maturo bore me out. It was merely the old grab-bag game — keep her talking, about anything and anybody, in the hope that she would spill something that would faintly resemble a straw. I had known Wolfe, when the pickings had been extremely slim, to play that game for hours on end.

He was still at it with Susan Maturo when an individual entered with a message for Cramer which he delivered in a whisper. Cramer got up and started for the door, then thought better of it and turned.

“You might as well be in on this,” he told Wolfe. “They’ve got Mrs. Tillotson, and she’s here.”

That was a break for Susan Maturo, since Wolfe might have kept her going another hour or so, though I suppose all it got her was an escort to some lieutenant or sergeant in another room, who started at her all over again. As she arose to go she favored me with a glance. It looked as if she intended it for a smile to show there were no hard feelings, but if so it was the poorest excuse for a smile I had ever seen. If it hadn’t been unprofessional I would have gone and given her a pat on the shoulder.

The newcomer who was ushered in was not Mrs. Tillotson but an officer of the law, not in uniform. He was one of the newer acquisitions on Homicide, and I had never seen him before, but I admired his manly stride as he approached and his snappy stance when he halted and faced Cramer, waiting to be spoken to.

“Who did you leave over there?” Cramer asked him.

“Murphy, sir. Timothy Murphy.”

“Okay. You tell it. Hold it.” Cramer turned to Wolfe. “This man’s name is Roca. He was on post at Heller’s place. It was him you asked about the pencils and the eraser. Go on, Roca.”

“Yes, sir. The doorman in the lobby phoned up that there was a woman down there that wanted to come up, and I told him to let her come. I thought that was compatible.”

“You did.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then go ahead.”

“She came up in the elevator. She wouldn’t tell me her name. She asked me questions about how much longer would I be there and did I expect anybody else to come, and so on. We bantered back and forth, my objective being to find out who she was, and then she came right out with it. She took a roll of bills from her bag. She offered me three hundred dollars, and then four hundred, and finally five hundred, if I would unlock the cabinets in Heller’s office and let her be in there alone for an hour. That put me in a quandary.”

“It did.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you get out?”

“If I had had keys to the cabinets I would have accepted her offer. I would have unlocked them and left her in there. When she was ready to go I would have arrested her and taken her to be searched, and we would have known what she had taken from the cabinet. That would have broken the case. But I had no keys to the cabinets.”

“Uh-huh. If you had had keys and had unlocked the cabinets and left her in there, and she had taken something from a cabinet and burned it up, you would have collected the ashes and sent them to the laboratory for examination by modern scientific methods.”

Roca swallowed. “I admit I didn’t think about burning. But if I had had keys I would have thought harder.”

“I bet you would. Did you take her money for evidence?”

“No, sir. I thought that might be instigation. I took her into custody. I phoned in. When a relief came, I brought her here to you. I am staying here to face her.”

“You’ve faced her enough for tonight. Plenty. We’ll have a talk later. Go and tell Burger to bring her in.”

Although my stay in Heller’s waiting room that morning had been brief, I have long been trained to see what I look at and to remember what I see, and I would hardly have recognized Mrs. Albert Tillotson. She had lost five pounds and gained twice that many wrinkles, and the contrast between her lipstick and her drained-out skin made her look more like a woman-hater’s pin-up than an overfed matron.

“I wish to speak with you privately,” she told Inspector Cramer.

She was one of those. Her husband was president of something, and therefore it was absurd to suppose that she was not to expect privileges. It took Cramer a good five minutes to get it into her head that she was just one of the girls, and it was such a shock that she had to take time out to decide how to react to it.

She decided on a barefaced lie. She demanded to know if the man who had brought her there was a member of the police force, and Cramer replied that he was.

“Well,” she declared, “he shouldn’t be. You may know that late this afternoon a police officer called at my residence to see me. He told me that Leo Heller had been killed, murdered, and wanted to know for what purpose I had gone to his office this morning. Naturally I didn’t want to be involved in an ugly thing like that, so I told him I hadn’t gone to see Leo Heller, but he convinced me that that wouldn’t do, so I said I had gone to see him, but on an intimate personal matter that I wouldn’t tell — Is that man putting down what I’m saying?”

“Yes. That’s his job.”

“I wouldn’t want it. Nor yours either. The officer insisted that I must tell why I had gone to see that Heller, and I refused, and he insisted, and I refused. When he said he would have to take me to the district attorney’s office, under arrest if necessary, and I saw that he meant it, I told him. I told him that my husband and I have been having some difficulty with our son, especially his schooling, and I went to Heller to ask what college would be best for him. I answered the officer’s questions, within reason, and finally he left. Perhaps you knew all this.”

Cramer nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, after the officer had gone I began to worry, and I went to see a friend and ask her advice. The trouble was that I had given Heller many details about my son, some of them very intimate and confidential, and since he had been murdered the police would probably go through all his papers, and those details were private and I wanted to keep them private. I knew that Heller had made all his notes in a personal shorthand that no one else could read — anyhow he had said so, but I couldn’t be sure, and it was very important. After I had discussed it with my friend a long time, for hours, I decided to go to Heller’s place and ask whoever was in charge to let me have any papers relating to my family affairs, since they were not connected with the murder.”

“I see,” Cramer assured her.

“And that’s what I did. And the officer there pretended to listen to me, he pretended to be agreeing with me, and then suddenly he arrested me for trying to bribe an officer; and when I indignantly denied it, as of course I did, and started to leave, he detained me by force, and he actually was going to put handcuffs on me! So I came with him, and here I am, and I hope you realize I have a complaint to make and I am making it!”

Cramer was eying her. “Did you try to bribe him?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“You didn’t offer him money?”

“No!”

Purley Stebbins permitted a low sound, half growl and half snort, to escape him. Cramer, ignoring that impertinence from a subordinate, took a deep breath and let it out again.

“Shall I take it?” Wolfe inquired.

“No, thank you,” Cramer said acidly. He was keeping his eyes at Mrs. Tillotson. “You’re making a mistake, madam,” he told her. “All these lies don’t do you any good. They just make it harder for you. Try telling the truth for a change.”