“Whereas I know,” said Daisy with a smile, “that you listen to every word and spend as little time as possible in your elevator. Do you know anything about the man Bridget heard addressed as Willie? Do you know his last name, for a start?”
“Pitt,” said Kevin promptly. “Wilbur Pitt, tenth floor.”
“So he is a resident! Wilbur Pitt?” Daisy mused. “I assumed he must be William. That name sounds familiar. Was he related to Carmody?”
“Dunno ‘bout that, ma’am. I guess maybe. I saw ‘em together a few times and they didn’t look like they liked each other, so they wasn’t friends, anyways. Yeah, maybe theywasrelated. You wouldn’t notice seeing ’em apart, but when you saw ’em next to each other, there was something about their faces … Yeah, they wasn’t twins or nothing like that, but they coulda been related.”
“Cousins, perhaps.”
“Could be. Mr. Pitt’s older’n Mr. Carmody, and he don’t look so well fed, ’fya know what I mean. Kinda tough andstringy. More like he worked hard outta doors, like my brother on the waterfront.”
“I know what you mean. Pitt! That’s the chap Miss Genevieve saw quarrelling with Carmody in the lobby. I don’t suppose you know what they were arguing about?”
“Not zackly,” Kevin admitted regretfully. “I wasn’t there, but what I heard is it was sumpin about interductions. Seems like Mr. Carmody wouldn’t give Mr. Pitt an interduction.”
One didn’t kill one’s cousin simply because he refused to provide an introduction, Daisy thought, disappointed. Now if they had been fighting over money, or a woman … But so much for Cousin Wilbur. A great pity, she had rather fancied him as the villain.
“What about Mrs. Carmody and Mr. Bender?” she asked.
“They was mighty lovey-dovey, them two. Spooning in the elevator,” said Kevin with scorn, “like I wasn’t there. Course, last time they came, it wasn’t me took ’em down, but I heard she was blubbing and he promised he’d fix things so they can get married. He said he wasn’t going to let any pen pusher push him around, no sirree!”
“That sounds promising,” said Daisy. “But isn’t that someone ringing for the lift again? You’d better take me down now.”
“Darn it, can’t they leave a guy in peace for two minutes?” the boy complained. “O.K., here we go.”
Lambert was skulking in the lobby. He looked so relieved to see Daisy that she wondered whether he was afraid she had done a moonlight flit. With an inward sigh, she decided she could not decently avoid inviting him to join her for breakfast.
“Don’t worry,” she said as they sat down, “Alec arrives late this afternoon and you’ll be relieved of your arduous duty.”
Lambert blushed. “Not at all,” he stammered. “It’s been a pleasure. But I’ll be helping Mr. Whitaker, who’s coming to figure out whether it was Tammany sent the thug that killed Carmody, or someone in Washington. That’s real police work.”
Real police preconceived notions, Daisy thought, but she held her tongue. They gave their orders, which led to a discussion of the differences between American and English food and language. Daisy was still bewildered by an offer of eggs “over easy” or “sunny-side up,” but she approved of waffles and simply adored maple syrup. She hadn’t quite accustomed herself to getting syrup on her sausages or bacon, though.
After breakfast, Lambert expressed his willingness to escort her to visit any of the sights of New York she wished to see.
“No, thanks,” said Daisy. His face fell. “It’s all right, you don’t have to tail me,” she reassured him. “I expect you’re tired of lurking round corners and behind trees.”
“I have to go wherever you go,” he said stubbornly.
“I’m not going anywhere. Unless Sergeant Gilligan has absolutely written me off as a useful witness, he’s bound to get around sometime to wanting me to look at his ‘mug book,’ don’t you think? I’d better stay where he can find me.”
“I guess so. But you shouldn’t see him alone.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Gee whiz!” Lambert ran his finger round inside his collar. “Uh, well, after all, you were there when Carmody waskilled, and you admitted to having held my gun, so your fingerprints would have been on it—not that they checked and I’ve polished it since, of course, but they might wonder if you just made the admission to explain the fingerprints, and if I’m protecting you by saying it’s mine and I had it when Carmody was killed, not forgetting that all they know about you is what I’ve told them, though it hasn’t been fired of course, so even if it’s the same caliber bullet, but who knows if the New York cops can figure out what kind of gun it’s been fired from …”
Daisy rescued him from his entangled clauses. “In short, you think they regard me as a suspect?”
“They might.”
“But I didn’t do it,” she reminded him, “and I haven’t done anything else nefarious which I need to conceal, unless you count taking a sip of Mr. Thorwald’s revolting rye whiskey. So I have nothing to worry about.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t in England, but these are American cops, remember. With the election coming up, the D.A. needs to solve the case quick, and without involving Tammany.”
“With the election coming up, the D.A. would be an absolute ass to try any funny business on the wife of a Scotland Yard detective in America on official business. Not to mention a writer whose publisher also puts out an opposition news weekly. I can imagine what our papers at home would make of that. I don’t suppose yours would exactly ignore it.”
“Gee whiz, I hadn’t thought of it like that. I guess you’re right.”
