“What’s she scared about?”
“Murder. A murder investigation is a whirlpool of menace, Miss Hawthorne. I confess it doesn’t seem to have frightened you very much.”
“I’m tough. The Hawthorne girls are all tough. But damn it, do you mean Miss Karn murdered Noel herself?” She was still gawking. “My mind was so — that never occurred to me!”
“I have no idea who murdered your brother. Let’s stick to the will. I was only explaining Miss Karn’s fright. In spite of your interesting theory, and granting that it’s sound and even correct, if Miss Karn accepts my offer I shall execute an agreement and have her sign it, and I shall advise you people to sign it also.”
“She won’t accept it.”
“I speak of a contingency.”
“Which we’ll meet if it arises.” She matched his crispness. “What I came here for, and it’s taken me long enough to get to it, was to ask you to find my brother’s will. The last one, the real one. If it gives anything to Miss Karn, she’s welcome to it.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I was afraid you were going to say that. I’m not a ferret, madam. I can’t undertake it.”
That started a wrangle. It lasted for a quarter of an hour, and got nowhere. Wolfe’s position was that it would be farcical for him to try such a job, since he didn’t have access to the various buildings, offices, dwellings, rooms and enclosures in which Noel Hawthorne might have deposited the will, that to gain such access through the authority of the executor of the estate, the Cosmopolitan Trust Company, would be difficult if not impossible, and that if there was such a will it would be found in good time by the persons who went through the dead man’s papers. May contended that detectives were supposed to find things and that he was a detective.
It came out a tie. Like the man trying to pull up an oak tree who finally quit and muttered, “You can’t pull me up, either.” Miss Hawthorne didn’t actually mutter as she got up and walked out of the office, but she wasn’t admitting she was licked, either by her words or the expression of her face. I let her into the hall, and wasn’t sorry when she accepted my offer to drive her home, since it meant a breath of cooler midnight air. She took off her hat, stuck her chin out, closed her eyes, and let her hair fly as we rolled up Fifth Avenue. The Hawthorne residence on 67th Street, which I eyed with moderate curiosity as I drew up in front, was a big old gray stone four-storied affair with iron grills on the windows, a few doors east of Fifth. May smiled sweetly when she thanked me and said good night.