“I guess we could go back to that later,” Rosenblatt said hastily. “For now, let’s stick with today. Just the facts, ma’am.”
“Right-oh. It was after most people had left for lunch. That’s usually twelve noon here, isn’t it? Mr. Thorwald said it was long past noon and invited me to lunch at the Algonquin.”
“The Algonquin?” said Gilligan. “That’s quite a joint for an editor to treat a reporter at.”
“Oh dear, is it a speakeasy?” Surely not, or Miss Genevieve would not visit it—or would she? “I can’t believe it, Mr. Thorwald is fearfully respectable.”
Gilligan and Rosenblatt guffawed. Well, at least she had cheered them up, Daisy thought.
“Speakeasy! No, ma’am,” said the D.A., “the Algonquin is one of the smart hotels, though it’s true it’s frequented by literary types. What sort of money spinners were you writing for Thorwald?”
“I’m a journalist really, not a reporter. I write travel articles forAbroadmagazine.”
“That’s wunna them glossies. Still, geez, the Algonquin!”
“I expect,” put in Lambert, “Mr. Thorwald considered it suitable because Mrs. Fletcher is a titled lady.”
“Titled?” yelped Rosenblatt.
“Whaddaya mean, she’s Lady Sumpin or sumpin?”
With a silent groan—what else had Crane told about her?—Daisy said quickly, “No, not Lady anything, and it’s just a courtesy title, not a proper one. Mr. Thorwald and I went out to the elevators. Mr. Carmody was already there. I recognized him at once, though I couldn’t see his face, because …”
“Hang on! You recognized him?” asked Rosenblatt.“You had met him, not just heard him talking? Here or at your hotel?”
“I hadn’tmethim. We hadn’t been introduced. I’d seen him and been told who he was. As I was about to say, I recognized him at once because I’d seen him doing exactly the same thing at the hotel. He’s … he was an impatient sort of chap. If an elevator didn’t appear right away when he rang for it, he’d open the gate and look down the shaft, I suppose to see how far down it was, how long he’d have to wait.”
“Say, there’s five elevators out there,” Gilligan objected, “not counting the freight elevator. Howd’e know which one to look down?”
“They make a frightful racket, and you can see the cables moving.”
“Oh, sure.”
“That’s what he was doing when you saw him,” said Rosenblatt, with exaggerated patience, “peering down the shaft?”
“Yes. He was holding the handle of the gate—you know, the bit you grab to open it—and leaning forward to look down. The shock of being shot must have made him let go. Once he’d done that, he hadn’t a hope.”
“Could you tell which direction the shot came from?”
Daisy shook her head in negation. “I thought the sound was just part of the noise of the machinery until I saw him fall. It could have come from anywhere.”
The sergeant shook his head in disgust. “Coulda come from anywheres, huh? In backaya, in frontaya, anywheres at all.”
“I guess it reverberated,” said Rosenblatt soothingly.
“At the time, I assumed it had come from ahead of me,because I saw a man run across the passage and down the stairs.”
Rosenblatt and Gilligan both leaned towards her. “Yeah,” breathed Gilligan, his pencil poised over his notebook, “the man at headquarters that took the report on the phone said the killer was seen escaping. This guy, whaddy look like?”
Daisy tried to picture the man. “He was very pale,” she said, “and he looked absolutely horrified. I had an impression of something vaguely familiar about him. But I didn’t get a really good look. I thought I ought to keep him in sight, so I started chasing him …”
“Geez!” said Gilligan, shaking his head again, whether in admiration at her courage or disbelief at her folly Daisy did not enquire.
“But then,” she continued, “someone yelled at me to stop and I glanced back and saw Mr. Lambert running after me waving a gun, and …”
“Waving your gun, were you?” Rosenblatt said reprovingly.
“To protect her,” Lambert protested. “I didn’t know what was going on.”
