Triple Jeopardy Read Free Page A

in the arc facing Wolfes desk was Benjamin Rackell, whose check had been deposited in our bank that afternoon, with his long narrow face more mournful even than the day before. At his right was a specimen who was a female anatomically but otherwise a what-is-it. Her name was Delia Devlin, and her age was beside the point. She was a resident buyer of novelties for out-of-town stores. There are ten thousand of her in midtown New York any weekday, and theyre all being imposed on. You see it in their faces. The problem is to find out who it is thats imposing on them, and some day I may tackle it. Aside from that there was nothing visibly wrong with Delia Devlin, except her ears were too big.
    Next to her was a celebrity - though of course they were all celebrities for the time being, you might say ex officio. Henry Jameson Heath, now crowding fifty,
    had inherited money in his youth, quite a pile, but very few people in his financial bracket were speaking to him. There was no telling whether he had contributed dough to the Communist party or cause, or if so how much, but there was no secret about his being one of the chief providers and collectors of bail for the Commies who had been indicted. He had recently been indicted too, for contempt of Congress, and was probably headed for a modest stretch. He wore an old seersucker suit that was too small for him, had a round pudgy face, and couldnt look at you without staring.
    Beyond Heath, at the end of the arc, was Carol Berk, the only one toward whom I had a personal attitude worth mentioning. Whenever we have a flock of guests I handle the seating, and if there is one who seems worthy of study I put her in the chair nearest mine. I had done so with this Carol Berk, but while I was in the hall admitting Leddegard, who had come last, she had switched on me, and I resented it. I felt that she deserved attention. Checking on her, along with the others, that afternoon with Lon Cohen of the Gazette, I had learned that she was supposed to be free-lancing as a TV contact specialist but no one actually claimed her, that she had a reputation as an extremely fast mover, and that there were six different versions of why she had left Hollywood three years ago.
    Added to that was the question whether it was a pleasure to look at her or not.
    In cases where its a quick no, the big majority, or a quick yes, the small minority, that settles it and what the hell; but the borderline numbers take application and sound judgment. I had listed Carol Berk as one when, crossing the doorsill, she had darted a sidewise glance at me with brown eyes that were dead dull from the front. Now, in the chair she had changed to, she was a good five paces away.
    Mrs. Benjamin Rackell, her lips tighter than ever, was in the red leather chair at the end of Wolfes desk.
    Wolfes gaze swept the arc. I wont thank you for coming, he rumbled at them,
    because it would be impertinent. You are here at the request of Mr. and Mrs.
    Rackell. Whether you came to oblige them or because you thought it unwise not to is immaterial.
    Also, it seemed to me, it was close to immaterial whether they were there or not. Apparently, since he had sent me to Foley Square and Homicide to clear,
    Wolfe was proceeding on the Rackell theory that Arthur had got it because a Commie or Commies had discovered that he was an FBI plant.
    But that theory had not been published, and Wolfe couldnt blurt it out. You dont disclose the identity of FBI undercover men, even dead ones, if you make your living as a private detective and want to keep your license. And if by any chance Arthur had fed his aunt one with a worm in it, if he had actually had no more connection with the FBI than me with the DAR - no, that was one to steer clear of. So not only could Wolfe not come to the point, he couldnt even let out a hint of what the point was. How could he talk at all'
    He talked. I dont know, he said, whether the police have made it clear to you how you stand. They