Plot It Yourself

Wolfe shook his head. “If by ‘in it’ you mean a conspiracy with Miss Wynn to make you pay for her crimes, no. If you mean a trap to force the truth out of you, yes. As for Mr Cather and Miss Corbett and Mr Durkin, they told no lies; they merely permitted you to infer that the photographs they showed to various people were of you, but they weren’t. They were photographs of Amy Wynn-and by the way, we can now hear from Miss Bonner. You needn’t leave your chair. Miss Bonner. Report briefly.”

Dol Bonner cleared her throat. “I showed a photograph of Amy Wynn to the woman who runs Collander House on West Eighty-second Street, Mrs Ruth Garvin. She said that Amy Wynn lived there for three months in the winter of 1954 and ‘55, and that Alice Porter also lived there at that time. Is that enough?”

“For the present, yes.” Wolfe’s eyes moved to take in his client, the committee. “That, I think, should suffice. I have established a link between Miss Wynn and each of her four accomplices. You have heard Miss Porter. If you wish, I can proceed to collect ample evidence to persuade a jury to convict Miss Wynn of her swindles, but it would be a waste of your money and my time, since she will go to trial not for extortion, but for murder, and that is not your concern. The police and the District Attorney will attend to that. As for-”

Reuben Imhof suddenly exploded. “I can’t believe it!” he cried. “By God, I can’t believe it!” He appealed to Amy Wynn. “For God’s sake, Amy! Say something! Don’t just sit there! Say something!”

I was back in my chair, and by stretching an arm I could have touched her. She hadn’t moved a muscle since Wolfe had asked Alice Porter about the envelope. Her hands were pressed flat against her breasts, as if to hold them up, and her shoulders were pulled back, far back. Down her right cheek, from just below the eye almost to her jaw, were two red streaks where Alice Porter’s nails had scraped. She paid no attention to Imhof and probably she didn’t hear him. Her eyes were fixed on Wolfe. Her lips moved but there was no sound. Someone muttered something. Mortimer Oshin took his empty glass from the stand, went to the table at the far wall, poured a triple portion of brandy, took a swallow, and came back.

Amy Wynn spoke to Wolfe, her voice so low that it was just audible. “You knew that first day,” she said. “The first time we came. Didn’t you?”

Wolfe shook his head. “No, madam. I had no inkling. I am not clairvoyant.”