If Death Ever Slept

“No,” Wolfe snapped back at him, “that won’t do. You have admitted you have no proof. I am conducting this conference at your request, and I won’t have you bungling it. These people, including you, are jointly in jeopardy, at least of severe harassment, and I insist on making the appeal to them jointly.” His eyes went right and left. “I appeal to all of you. Mrs. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Wyman Jarrell.” Pause. “Mrs. Otis Jarrell.” Pause. “Miss Jarrell.” Pause. “Mr. Green.” Pause. “Mr. Foote.” Pause. “Miss Kent.” Pause. “Mr. Brigham.”

Lois twisted around in her chair to face me. “He’s good at remembering names, isn’t he?” she asked. Then she made two words, four syllables, with her lips, without sound. I am not an accomplished lip reader, but there was no mistaking that. The words were “Archie Goodwin.”

I was arranging my face to indicate that I hadn’t caught it when Corey Brigham spoke. “I don’t quite see why I have been included.” His well-trained smile was on display. “It’s an honor, naturally, to be considered in the Jarrell family circle, but as a candidate for taking Jarrell’s gun I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”

“You were there, Mr. Brigham. Perhaps I haven’t made it clear, or Mr. Green didn’t. The photograph, taken automatically when the door opened, showed the clock above the door at sixteen minutes past six. You were a dinner guest that evening, Wednesday, and you arrived shortly after six and were in the lounge.”

“I see.” The smile stayed on. “And I rushed back to the library and worked the great rug trick. How did I get in?”

“Presumably, with a key. The door was intact.”

“I have no key to the library.”

Wolfe nodded. “Possession of a key to that room would be one of the many points to be explored in a laborious and prolonged inquiry, if it should come to that. Meanwhile you cannot be slighted. You’re all on equal terms, if we ignore Mr. Jarrell’s specification without evidence, and I do.”

Roger Foote’s voice boomed suddenly, louder than necessary. “I’ve got a question.” There were little spots of color beneath the cheekbones of his big wide face-at least there was one on the side I could see. “What about this new secretary, this Alan Green? We don’t know anything about him, anyway I don’t. Do you? Did he know Eber?”

My pal. My pet panhandler. I had lent the big bum sixty bucks, my money as far as he knew, and this was what I got for it. Of course, Peach Fuzz hadn’t won. He added a footnote. “He had a key to the library, didn’t he?”