A squawk came over the wire, loud enough for Daisy to hear, though not to make out the words.
“Heck no, not one of his goddamn tenants. My husband, Otis Carmody. You musta read about it … . No, I don’t believe he did and they haven’t acksherly arrested him, but they’re gonna grill him … . Well, O.K., if he did, it was for my sake, but it’s sure landed us in a heapa trouble. You gotta get down to police headquarters right away.”
She listened for a moment, then said good-bye and hung up the earpiece on its hook.
“Everything all right?” asked Miss Genevieve.
“Mr. Macpherson’s going down there and make sure they don’t violet Bart’s rights. But if the cops got evidence,” Mrs. Carmody went on disconsolately, “he says he might not be able to get him out today. My husband dead, my friend in jail, what the heck am I s’posed to do?”
Miss Genevieve visibly withheld a pithy response.“Won’t you sit down for a moment,” she said, “while you consider your options? Do you know the men who work for Mr. Bender?”
“Nix. Bart didn’t want me to trouble my head with business, not like Otis. Otis was always on at me to take an interest in his work. He used to get all excited and say nine tenths of the people in the government was crooks, but like I told him, who cares? That’s just the way things are, and worrying about it don’t put diamonds around a girl’s neck. Anyways, if Bart gets sent to the chair for having Otis croaked, his guys’ll all be out of a job and no help to me.”
“True,” Miss Genevieve agreed. “So we must try to figure out who else might have disposed of your husband. If you try real hard, maybe you’ll remember which of the many public figures Mr. Carmody antagonized made particularly virulent threats against him.”
“Who got maddest, that he wrote about? Gee, I dunno. Otis read me some real punk letters he got. Most weren’t signed, but he often knew pretty much who they were from.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember.”
“What did he do with them? Did he keep them?”
“Nix. He just laughed and tore ’em up. Said they didn’t none of them have the guts to do anything, specially after President Harding passed on and President Coolidge started cleaning house. You figure it was someone Otis wrote about in Washington had him shot?”
Miss Genevieve shook her head. “I think it’s far more likely that someone in New York wanted to prevent his publishing the results of his latest investigations.”
“You don’t mean Bart, do you? I know Otis was digging up some dirt on Bart.”
“If it was Mr. Bender, the police can be counted on to prove it. They’re going to bend over backwards to avoid pinning it on anyone more closely connected with Tammany, unless someone keeps an eye on them. I guess I’m the one. I’ve still got enough contacts in the right places to keep ’em on their toes if they don’t want to find themselves pilloried in the opposition and Hearst press right before the election.”
“Aw, politics! But you mean you’re gonna help Bart? Gee, I wish you would. Him and me get on real well together, and I don’t wanna hafta go looking for someone else. I’m not as young as I look, see,” Mrs. Carmody confessed with a moue. “I wanna settle down with a man that thinks I’m worth giving a good time.”
“Most understandable,” said Miss Genevieve dryly. “I’ll certainly do what I can to make sure the police and the D.A.’s office don’t brush any Tammany connection under the carpet. Whether that will help Mr. Bender remains to be seen.”
“Least he won’t be railroaded for something he didn’t do. I can’t help wondering, did he …” She stopped as someone knocked on the door.
“Shall I get that, ma‘am?” Lambert asked. At Miss Genevieve’s nod, he went out into the foyer. “Oh, it’s you, Detective O’Rourke. Come in.”
Mrs. Carmody jumped up. “Say, you been real swell, but I guess I better get going now. ‘Bye, folks.”
She hurried out, dodging past O’Rourke as if she was afraid he might without warning clap handcuffs on her. He swung round to stare after her.
“Who wuzzat?” he enquired suspiciously.
“A visitor,” Miss Genevieve informed him, accurate if misleading. “What did you find in Wilbur Pitt’s room?”
“Geez, ma’am, I didn’t oughta tell you.”
“Mr. Rosenblatt has already told me all about the case. I have considerable experience in criminal matters, you know. Did you find a gun?”
“No, ma’am.”
“No gun?” Miss Genevieve was disappointed.
“I thought men in the Wild West always had six-shooters,” ventured Miss Cabot.
Miss Genevieve looked self-conscious, as if she had also been momentarily prey to that misconception. “Mr. Pitt is presently in New York, not the Wild West, sister.”
