“I’m afraid the police practically always want to hearone’s story at least twice. One often recalls later details which seemed insignificant at the time.”
“My description of the scene did differ in significant respects from the original of yesterday,” he admitted, “according to the sergeant, that is. He made no allowance for the fact that I was at that time … ahem … indisposed. He appeared to believe that I had deliberately misled him!” Thorwald took off his pince-nez again and blotted his forehead with his handkerchief. “I cannot say, my dear Mrs. Fletcher, how inestimably grateful I am for the advice you gave me over the telephone, to insist upon my lawyer’s attendance.”
“It seemed a sensible precaution. In England, the police have to warn suspects that their words may be used against them, and that they have a right to legal representation. I suppose there’s nothing like that here?”
“If so, it is, I believe, ‘more honoured in the breach than the observance,’ but I am unacquainted with criminal law. Certainly Sergeant Gilligan never made any such communication to me.”
“I expect it’s just because you’re a witness, not a suspect,” Daisy said soothingly. “Your lawyer put an end to the harassment, I take it.”
She paused as the waiter returned with tea for the two editors—two small pots. Pascoli must have given Stanley an order for the real thing for Thorwald and Irish for himself. Thorwald poured himself a cup, the rising steam confirming half Daisy’s guess.
“By the way,” she went on, “did you recall anything helpful about the crime? Were you able to tell Gilligan where the shot came from?”
“I’m convinced it came from beyond the elevators.”Thorwald sounded confident. “However, when I so declared to the sergeant, he became abusive. If I understood him correctly, he is hoping for evidence which will implicate Mr. Lambert, who, like us, approached from the opposite direction.”
“Who, me?” asked Lambert, aghast. “He wants to send me up the river? What about Barton Bender?”
“If Barton Bender is the person bedizened with gold and diamonds whom I was asked to identify, then I believe he has been released, there being no grounds to arrest him. My impression was that he is still under extreme suspicion. Detective Sergeant Gilligan’s interest in Mr. Lambert, on the other hand, is of a purely sanguine nature. He little expects to succeed, but should he find credible evidence against Mr. Lambert, it will enable him to—as he expressed it—get the Feds off of his back.”
“But it won’t!” Lambert squawked. “Itoldhim Washington is sending another agent. A guy called Whitaker’s going to arrive this afternoon.”
“Perhaps Gilligan hoped Mr. Whitaker would be too taken up with exonerating you to delve into the police department’s or Tammany’s misdeeds,” Daisy suggested. “Anyway, you needn’t worry. Mr. Thorwald is sure the shot came from the opposite direction. Which makes me think: what if the man on the stairs was neither the murderer nor a frightened witness but actually the intended victim?”
“Gee whiz,” said Lambert, impressed, “that would sure explain why he ran away.”
Daisy pursued the idea. “And if he was Wilbur Pitt, it would explain why no one has seen him since then.”
“Who is Wilbur Pitt?” Thorwald wanted to know.
“Otis Carmody’s cousin. He has a room here at theChelsea, but he hasn’t come in since yesterday.”
“Might the attack possibly stem from some species of primitive feud?” Thorwald proposed hesitantly. “That is, the murderer is an individual with animosity towards both Carmody and his relative?”
“Gee, yes, a grudge against the family! After all, they come from the sticks, like the Hatfields and the McCoys.”
“Capulets and Montagues.”
“Hardly,” Daisy deflated them. “There was only one shot. There’s no reason to suppose more than one victim was aimed at. But there is reason to suppose the shooter was a rotten shot—otherwise why wasn’t Carmody killed outright? He could very well have aimed at Pitt and hit Carmody by accident.”
“Ifthe man on the stairswasPitt,” Lambert said a bit sulkily. He had rather fancied his Hatfields and McCoys, whoever they were, and whatever the sticks were. “How do you know Pitt hasn’t come in since yesterday?”
“Actually, I don’t,” Daisy was forced to concede. “All I know is that Kevin—the lift boy—hasn’t seen him since yesterday, and there’s not much escapes that lad’s eye.”
“He’s only here days,” Lambert pointed out. “Besides, if Pitt’s fleeing a would-be murderer, he could always come in the back way like we went out.”
“The man in the bowler hat!” said Daisy triumphantly.
Thorwald blinked at her, looking thoroughly bewildered. “You said his name was William.”
“At that time, I’d only heard him referred to as Willie. Oh, never mind, that’s all conjecture. Did you learn anything of substance when you saw Mr. Rosenblatt? Tell me about that interview. Did you see him in the same place as Gilligan?”
“No, no, the Criminal Courts Building presents quite a different ambiance. Though distinctly shabby now, it was once an elegant edifice, with marble pillars and balustrades and ornate iron scrollwork. Mr. Rosenblatt’s office has beautiful golden-oak woodwork and a bronze and porcelain chandelier depending from the high ceiling. The view from the window, however, is unpleasant, not to say sinister.”
“How so?”
“It looks out onto the Tombs,” pronounced Thorwald in a voice of doom.
“Whose tombs?” Daisy asked.
