I wasn’t here.
I had gone out, leaving this bird here waiting for six o’clock.
The phone was answered by Fritz Brenner, Mr. Wolfe’s chef and household pride.
Want to see him?”
“Yeah.
If you don’t mind.”
Wolfe rang.
Fritz came.
Wolfe told him he was to answer the gentleman’s questions, and Fritz said
“Yes, sir” and stood up straight All Foltz got out of Fritz was the same as I had got.
He had put down the time of the phone call, 5:26, in accordance with Wolfe’s standing instructions for exactness in all details of the household and office.
It was a roan phoning, and he had not given his name and Fritz had not recognized his voice. Fritz had not overheard any of the conversation.
Harlan Scovil had immediately left, without saying anything.
Fritz went back to the kitchen.
The dick frowned at the piece of paper.
“I wasn’t expecting to draw a blank here.
I came here first.
There’s other names on this paper—Clara Fox, Michael Walsh, Michael spelled wrong, Hilda Lindquist, that’s what it looks like, and a Marquis of Clivers.
I don’t suppose you—”
I homed in, shaking my head.
“As I said, when this Harlan Scovil popped in here at half past four today, I had never seen him before.
Nor any of those others.
Strangers to me.
I’m sure Mr. Wolte hadn’t either.
Had you, sir?”
“Seen them?
No.
But I believe I had heard of one of them.
Wasn’t it the Marquis of Clivers we were discussing yesterday?”
“Discussing?
Yes, sir.
When you dropped that javelin.
That piece in the paper.”
I looked at Foltz helpfully.
“There was an article in the Times yesterday, magazine section—”
He nodded.
“I know all about that.
The sergeant was telling me.
This marquis seems to be something like a duke, he’s immune by reason of a foreign power or something. It don’t even have to be a friendly foreign power.
The sergeant says this business might possibly be an international plot.
Captain Devore is going to make arrangements to see this marquis and maybe warn him or protect him.”
“Splendid.” Wolfe nodded approvingly. “The police earn the gratitude or all of us.
But for them, Mr. Foltz, we private investigators might sit and wait for clients in vain.”
“Yeah.” Foltz got up. “Much obliged for the compliment, even if that’s all I get.
I mean, I haven’t got much information.
Except that telephone call, that may lead to something.
Scovil was shot only four blocks from here, on Thirty-first Street, only nine minutes after he got that phone call, at fivethirty-five.
He was walking along the sidewalk and somebody going by in a car reached out and plugged him, filled him full.
He was dead right then.
It was pretty dark around there, but a man nearby saw the license, and the car’s already been found, parked on Ninth Avenue.