extensive research. There had to be numerous contacts between members of the CAN staff and people who knew about bombs and had had experience with them. Call them the sources . Now I ask you regarding three weeks ago—Friday, May sixteenth, to Sunday, May eighteenth—where and how did you spend that weekend? It may help to remember that the Tuesday following, two days later, Mr. Odell died.”
“But why do you—” She wasn’t squinting; her eyes were wide in a stare. “Oh. You think I went to one of the ‘sources’ and got a bomb. Well, I didn’t.”
“I don’t ‘think’ anything. I’m trying to get a start for a thought. I asked where and how you spent that weekend. Have you a reason for not telling me?”
“No. I have no reason for telling you either, but I might as well. I’ve told the police four or five times. I took a train to Katonah late Friday afternoon and was a house guest of friends—Arthur and Louise Dickinson. They know nothing about bombs. I came back by train Sunday evening.”
I had got my notebook and a pen and was using them. Wolfe asked, “Mr. Meer? Have you any objection to telling me how you spent that weekend?”
“Certainly not. I drove to Vermont Friday evening and I hiked about forty miles in the mountains Saturday and Sunday, and drove back Sunday night.”
“Alone, or with companions?”
“I was alone. I don’t like companions on a hike. Something always happens to them. I helped some with the research for that program, and none of the ‘sources’ was in Vermont.”
“I am hoping that Mr. Browning will tell me about the sources. Later. Miss Lugos?”
Her face was really worth watching. As he pronounced her name, she turned her head for a glance at Browning, her boss. It was less than a quarter-turn, but from my angle it wasn’t the same face as when she was looking at Wolfe. Her look at Browning didn’t seem to be asking or wanting anything; evidently it was just from habit. She turned back to Wolfe and said, “I stayed in town all that weekend. Friday evening I went to a movie with a friend. Saturday afternoon I did some shopping, and Saturday evening I went to a show with three friends. Sunday I got up late and did things in my apartment. In a file at the office we have a record of all the research for that program, all the people who were contacted, and I didn’t see any of them that weekend.”
Wolfe’s lips were tight. In his house, “contact” is not a verb and never will be, and he means it. He was glad to quit her. “Mr. Falk?”
Falk had been holding himself in, shifting in his chair and crossing and uncrossing his legs. Obviously he thought it was all crap. “You said,” he said, “that you wouldn’t try to emulate the police, but that’s what you’re doing. But Peter Odell was my best and closest friend, and there may be a chance that you’re half as good as you’re supposed to be. As for that weekend, I spent it at home—my place on Long Island. We had four house guests—no, five—and none of them was a bomb expert. Do you want their names and addresses?”
“I may, later.” As Wolfe’s eyes went to Mrs. Browning, her husband spoke: “My wife and I were together that weekend. We spent it on a yacht on the Sound, guests of the man who owns it, James Farquhar, the banker. There were two other guests.”
“The whole weekend, Mr. Browning?”
“Yes. From late Friday afternoon to late Sunday afternoon.”
I put my eyes on my notebook and kept them there. With all the practice I have had with my face, I should of course always have it under control, but I had got two jolts, not just one. First, was that why Wolfe had started the whole rigmarole about that weekend, to check on Browning, and second, had Browning heard it coming and got set for it, or had he just given a straight answer to a straight question? I don’t know how well Wolfe handled his face, since my eyes were on my notebook, but otherwise he did fine. There were
“But why do you—” She wasn’t squinting; her eyes were wide in a stare. “Oh. You think I went to one of the ‘sources’ and got a bomb. Well, I didn’t.”
“I don’t ‘think’ anything. I’m trying to get a start for a thought. I asked where and how you spent that weekend. Have you a reason for not telling me?”
“No. I have no reason for telling you either, but I might as well. I’ve told the police four or five times. I took a train to Katonah late Friday afternoon and was a house guest of friends—Arthur and Louise Dickinson. They know nothing about bombs. I came back by train Sunday evening.”
I had got my notebook and a pen and was using them. Wolfe asked, “Mr. Meer? Have you any objection to telling me how you spent that weekend?”
“Certainly not. I drove to Vermont Friday evening and I hiked about forty miles in the mountains Saturday and Sunday, and drove back Sunday night.”
“Alone, or with companions?”
“I was alone. I don’t like companions on a hike. Something always happens to them. I helped some with the research for that program, and none of the ‘sources’ was in Vermont.”
“I am hoping that Mr. Browning will tell me about the sources. Later. Miss Lugos?”
Her face was really worth watching. As he pronounced her name, she turned her head for a glance at Browning, her boss. It was less than a quarter-turn, but from my angle it wasn’t the same face as when she was looking at Wolfe. Her look at Browning didn’t seem to be asking or wanting anything; evidently it was just from habit. She turned back to Wolfe and said, “I stayed in town all that weekend. Friday evening I went to a movie with a friend. Saturday afternoon I did some shopping, and Saturday evening I went to a show with three friends. Sunday I got up late and did things in my apartment. In a file at the office we have a record of all the research for that program, all the people who were contacted, and I didn’t see any of them that weekend.”
Wolfe’s lips were tight. In his house, “contact” is not a verb and never will be, and he means it. He was glad to quit her. “Mr. Falk?”
Falk had been holding himself in, shifting in his chair and crossing and uncrossing his legs. Obviously he thought it was all crap. “You said,” he said, “that you wouldn’t try to emulate the police, but that’s what you’re doing. But Peter Odell was my best and closest friend, and there may be a chance that you’re half as good as you’re supposed to be. As for that weekend, I spent it at home—my place on Long Island. We had four house guests—no, five—and none of them was a bomb expert. Do you want their names and addresses?”
“I may, later.” As Wolfe’s eyes went to Mrs. Browning, her husband spoke: “My wife and I were together that weekend. We spent it on a yacht on the Sound, guests of the man who owns it, James Farquhar, the banker. There were two other guests.”
“The whole weekend, Mr. Browning?”
“Yes. From late Friday afternoon to late Sunday afternoon.”
I put my eyes on my notebook and kept them there. With all the practice I have had with my face, I should of course always have it under control, but I had got two jolts, not just one. First, was that why Wolfe had started the whole rigmarole about that weekend, to check on Browning, and second, had Browning heard it coming and got set for it, or had he just given a straight answer to a straight question? I don’t know how well Wolfe handled his face, since my eyes were on my notebook, but otherwise he did fine. There were
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