Before Midnight

"However, it is the belief of my clents--and their contention--that the paper did not contain the answers, that Mr. Dahlmann was only jesting; and that therefore the secrecy of the answers is still intact. Do you challenge that contention?"

"No."

"You accept it?"

"Yes."

"Then you must have told the police that when Mr. Dahlmann displayed the paper you regarded it as a joke, and the sequel is plain: it would be absurd to suspect you of going to his apartment and killing him to get it. So it is reasonable to suppose that you are not suspected. – -Archie, your phone call from the corner. Did you see anyone?"

"Yes, sir. Art Whipple. He was here on the Heller case."

"Tell Mrs. Wheelock about it."

I met her eyes. "I was hanging out up the street when you came, and a Homicide detective was following you. I exchanged a few words with him. If you want to spot him when you leave, he's about my size, drags his feet a little, and is wearing a dark gray suit and a gray snap-brim hat."

"He was following me?"

"Right."

Her eyes left me for Wolfe. "Isn't that what they do?"

But her left hand had started to tremble, and she had to grasp it with the other one and squeeze it. Wolfe shut his eyes, probably expecting some more tongue control. Instead, she arose abruptly and asked, "May I have--a bathroom?"

I told her certainly, and went and opened the door of the one partitioned off in the far corner, to the left of my desk, and she came and passed through, closing the door behind her.

She was in there a good quarter of an hour without making a sound. The partitions, like all the inner walls on the ground floor, are soundproofed, but I have sharp ears and heard nothing whatever. I said something to Wolfe, but he only grunted. After a little he looked up at the clock: twenty to four. Thereafter he looked at it every two minutes; at four sharp he would leave for the plant rooms. There were just nine minutes to go when the door in the partition opened and she was back with us.

She came and stood at Wolfe's desk, across from him. "I beg your pardon," she said in her low even voice. "I had to take some pills. The food at the hotel is quite good, but I simply can't eat. I haven't eaten much for quite a while. Do you want to tell me anything else?"

"Milk toast," Wolfe said gruffly. "My cook, Fritz Brenner, makes it superbly. Sit down."

"I couldn't swallow it. Really."

"Then hot bouillon. Our own. It can be ready in eight minutes. I have to leave you, but Mr. Goodwin--"