The Missing Chapter

“Yet Miss Royce insists that he was about to terminate your engagement.”

Debra Mitchell turned and looked over her left shoulder at Patricia, who was in the row of chairs behind her. “In your dreams,” she sneered at the other woman. “You always wanted him yourself — don’t deny it. And you probably used every opportunity to turn him against me, you bitch.”

“That’s a lie,” Patricia retorted. “I didn’t have to say anything. He finally saw you for what you are, a—”

“Silence!” Wolfe roared. It was hard enough on him, having three women under his roof at once, but feminine bickering stretches him to the limit of his tolerance. “Miss Mitchell, at least one other person — someone who is not acquainted with Miss Royce — also reported that Mr. Childress was about to end your relationship — and perhaps already had.” He was referring to the conversation I’d had with Clarice over coffee in Hoboken.

“So you say. Maybe... maybe Charles and I were having some, well... differences. Some differences, differences...” She seemed to crumble, burying her head in her hands. It was not pretty to behold.

For a moment, I thought Wolfe was going to get up and flee, but he courageously held his ground as Debra’s sobbing gradually subsided. He drained the beer from his glass and forged on. “From the first, I felt it most probable that one of the women in this room was the killer. For starters, would Mr. Childress likely allow any of the three men — Messrs. Ott, Billings, or Hobbs — entrance to his apartment without a struggle? I think not, particularly given his current relationship with each of them. And there was no sign of a struggle, was there, Inspector?”

Cramer shook his head.

“But Mr. Childress would have readily admitted any of the women, even Miss Wingfield. They had feuded, but he continued to tolerate her presence in his abode.”

“Tolerate! Is that what you call it, you pathetic male chauvinist?” Clarice shrieked, throwing up both arms and almost striking Vinson and Ott. “The man who fathers my child and then refuses to have anything to do with either of us deigns to tolerate me?” I thought she was going to dive at Wolfe, and I came halfway out of my chair before she slumped back, her chin against her chest, as she muttered about chauvinism and injustice.

Wolfe considered her through lidded eyes. “Madam, I confess to an unfortunate selection of words; you have my apology. Is it true that despite fractiousness between you, Mr. Childress did not bar your entry to his apartment?”

She looked up. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean I killed him. That doesn’t—”

Wolfe held up a palm, which, to my surprise, silenced her. “Mr. Childress’s ownership of a handgun was widely known. Indeed, he crowed about it. This, as it turned out, was fatal braggadocio. It would have been relatively simple for any of these women to secure the pistol when Mr. Childress was otherwise occupied, to come upon him unawares, and to fire a single lethal shot at close range. After all, he felt no physical peril from their presence. Miss Wingfield’s assaults — at least so far — had been verbal ones.”

“Meaning?” interjected Cramer.

Wolfe ignored the bark of the NYPD and shifted his attention. “Miss Mitchell, when you came to this office several days ago, you accused Patricia Royce of murdering Charles Childress.”

“And you said I was trying to shift suspicion to someone else,” Franklin Ott snapped. “Now there’s your prime example.” He pointed at Debra, who was still pale and shuddering from her earlier crying jag.

“I was misled,” Wolfe conceded. “Miss Mitchell behaved in such a fatuous manner when she was here that I discounted virtually all of her prattling. That was my mistake. I sit before you chagrined.”

“Wha-a-a-t?” Ott bleated. “What is it you’re telling us?”

Debra Mitchell dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and jerked upright. “He’s telling you that Patricia Royce did murder Charles. She loved him, but she couldn’t have him. So she shot him.”

“Miss Royce never had amorous longings for Mr. Childress,” Wolfe stated firmly. “They were good friends until she learned he was a thief — in her eyes a thief of the worst sort.”

That set everybody off again, until Cramer silenced them with a bellowed “Shut up!”

“Okay, Wolfe,” the inspector growled, getting to his feet. “Now I have to agree with Billings that this has dragged on too long. Are you accusing this woman” — he stabbed a finger at Patricia Royce — “of Childress’s murder?”