“Very well. Call Mr. Cohen and get details.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Whatever he has, but I want to know if the weapon
has been found, or a bullet.”
“He would appreciate a major scoop, such as that the
widow of the deceased visited the office of Nero Wolfe
this morning. Why not, since she’s going to report it?”
“Very well.”
I got at the phone and dialed the number of the
Gazette, and soon had Lon Cohen. When I tossed him
the bone about Mrs. Hazen coming to see Wolfe, natu-
rally he wanted the whole skeleton, not to mention
meat, but I told him that would be all for now and how
about some reciprocity? He obliged, and gave me the
crop, and I thanked him and hung up and turned to
Wolfe.
“The body was found by a truck driver at ten-
eighteen a.m. It was stiff, so he must have been dead at
least five hours and probably more. He was fully
dressed, including an overcoat, and his hat was there on
the ground. The usual items in his pockets, including a
couple of dollars in change, except that there were no
keys, and no wallet and no watch. Of course they could
have been taken by someone who found him earlier and
forgot to mention it. His name was on letters in his
pocket, so the wallet wasn’t taken to delay identifica-
tion. Shot once, in the back, and a rib stopped the bullet
and they have it. A thirty-two. Weapon not found. If the
police have any leads or notions they’re saving them,
but of course it was found less than three hours ago.” I
glanced at my wrist. “Two hours and forty-nine min-
utes. Lon says he would have paid me five grand if I had
kept Mrs. Hazen here until he could send a man to take
her picture and ask her who shot her husband, and I
told him I’ll bear that in mind next time.”
“They have the bullet?”
“Right.”
“When will a policeman come?”
86 Rex Stout
“It will probably be Cramer in person. You know how
he’ll react when he leams she was here. Say two hours,
possibly sooner.”
“Will she report what she told me?”
“No.”
A comer of his mouth twitched. “That’s why I put up
with you; you could have answered with fifty words and
you did it with one.”
“I’ve often wondered. Now tell me why I put up with
you.”
“That’s beyond conjecture. I want a bullet that has
been fired from that gun, and we shouldn’t wait until
after lunch. You have twenty minutes. If your guess
about Mrs. Hazen is correct, that gun is not evidence,
unless the murderer stole into that house afterwards,
went to Mr. Hazen’s room and returned the gun to the
drawer, and slipped out again. If it is evidence you’ll be
tampering with it. Shall I do it?”
“No. You might shoot a toe off.” I got the gun from
the drawer, removed one of the cartridges, unlocked
and opened the drawer where we keep the Marleys for
which we have permits, and got a .32 cartridge from the
box. I put that cartridge in the Drexel where I had
made room for it, turned the cylinder so it would be in
firing position, went to the hall and downstairs to the
storage room in the basement, switched the light on,
and crossed to where a discarded mattress was doubled
up on a table. I had used it for this operation before. I
cocked the revolver, held it three inches from the mat-
tress, and pulled the trigger.
You would suppose that all .32 cartridges would send
a bullet the same distance into a mattress, the same
mattress, but they don’t. It took me a quarter of an hour
to find it, and by the time I got back upstairs Wolfe was
at table in the dining room, which is across the hall from
the office. Before I joined him I removed the shell,
returned the Drexel’s own cartridge to its place, and
put the gun in the safe and the bullet in an envelope in
my desk drawer.
The Homicide Trinity 87
* * *
We were back in the office, Wolfe dictating and me
taking, when company came. I had been right on both
counts: it was Inspector Cramer in person, and it was
2:55 when the doorbell rang and I went to the hall for a
look through the one-way glass panel in the front door,
and there he was on the stoop, no sign of a sag in the
heavy broad shoulders, the round red face framed by
his turned-up overcoat collar and the brim of his gray
felt which should have been retired long ago. Since he
had no appointment it would have been proper to open
the door the two inches allowed by the chain bolt and
greet him through the crack, but that always annoyed
him, and if it turned out that I had tampered with
evidence it wouldn’t hurt to show him now that I had
my good points. So I pulled the door wide open. Without
even a nod, let alone a civil greeting, he crossed the sill,
tramped down the hall into the office and on to Wolfe’s
desk, and demanded, “What time did Mrs. Barry Hazen
get here this morning?”
Wolfe tilted his head back to look up at him and
inquired, “Is that snow on your hat?”
Having entered and detoured around him, I too
looked at the hat. There was nothing whatever on it
except signs of age, and outdoors the sun was shining.
It would fluster any man to have it put to him that one
removes one’s hat when one enters a house, but Cramer
is ready for anything when he faces Wolfe. It didn’t faze
him. He merely barked, “I asked you a question!”
“Half past eleven,” Wolfe said.
“When did she leave?”
“Shortly before one o’clock.”
Cramer took his overcoat off, ignored my offer to
take it, put it on the arm of the red leather chair, and
sat. “An hour and a half,” he said, not barking but a little
hoarse. He is always a little hoarse when he is dealing
with Wolfe. “What did she have to say?” He hadn’t
touched the hat.
Wolfe swiveled and leaned back. “Mr. Cramer. I
know that Mrs. Hazen’s husband has been shot and
88 Rex Stout
killed. She was with me when the news came on my
radio. I know that when I have been consulted by a
person who is in any way connected with a death by
violence you automatically assume that I have knowl-
edge of evidence that would be useful in your investi-
gation. Sometimes your assumption is valid; sometimes
it isn’t. This time it isn’t; that is my considered opinion.
Mrs. Hazen consulted me in confidence. If at any time I
have reason to think that by refusing to disclose what
she told me I am obstructing justice, I’ll communicate
with you at once.”
Cramer got a cigar from a pocket, rolled it between
his palms, stuck it in his mouth, and clamped his teeth
on it. He does that instead of counting ten, when he
knows that the words that are on his tongue would
make things worse instead of better. He took the cigar
from his mouth. “Some day,” he said, “you’re going to
fall off and get hurt, and this could be it. If and when you
find it gets too hot to hang onto it any longer, and you
turn loose, arid you have obstructed justice by not
telling me now, I’ll get your hide. Nothing and no one
will stop me. I’m asking you to tell me what Mrs. Barry
Hazen said when she came to see you nine hours after
her husband was murdered.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I decline to tell you because I
believe, as matters stand now, that it is not pertinent to
your inquiry. Should I have occasion to change my
mind—and by the way, I can offer you an opportunity
to change it for me. Archie, where’s that bullet?”
I got the envelope from my drawer, took the bullet
out, and handed it to him. Cramer’s sharp gray eyes
were on me and followed the bullet back to Wolfe.
Wolfe took it in his fingers, barely glanced at it, handed
it back to me, and said, “Give it to Mr. Cramer.” As I did
so he turned to Cramer. “This will be pointless if you
have found the weapon that was used to shoot Mr.
Hazen. Have you?”
“No.”
“It will also be pointless if you have not found the
bullet that killed him. Have you?”
The Homicide Trinity 89
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest that you have your laboratory com-
pare that bullet with it. If you find that they were shot
by the same gun let me know at once and I’ll have some