That was a break for Susan Maturo, since Wolfe might have kept her going another hour or so, though I suppose all it got her was an escort to some lieutenant or sergeant in another room, who started at her all over again. As she arose to go she favored me with a glance. It looked as if she intended it for a smile to show there were no hard feelings, but if so it was the poorest excuse for a smile I had ever seen. If it hadn’t been unprofessional I would have gone and given her a pat on the shoulder.
The newcomer who was ushered in was not Mrs. Tillotson but an officer of the law, not in uniform. He was one of the newer acquisitions on Homicide, and I had never seen him before, but I admired his manly stride as he approached and his snappy stance when he halted and faced Cramer, waiting to be spoken to.
“Who did you leave over there?” Cramer asked him.
“Murphy, sir. Timothy Murphy.”
“Okay. You tell it. Hold it.” Cramer turned to Wolfe. “This man’s name is Roca. He was on post at Heller’s place. It was him you asked about the pencils and the eraser. Go on, Roca.”
“Yes, sir. The doorman in the lobby phoned up that there was a woman down there that wanted to come up, and I told him to let her come. I thought that was compatible.”
“You did.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go ahead.”
“She came up in the elevator. She wouldn’t tell me her name. She asked me questions about how much longer would I be there and did I expect anybody else to come, and so on. We bantered back and forth, my objective being to find out who she was, and then she came right out with it. She took a roll of bills from her bag. She offered me three hundred dollars, and then four hundred, and finally five hundred, if I would unlock the cabinets in Heller’s office and let her be in there alone for an hour. That put me in a quandary.”