The Homicide Trinity 197
naps, but the woman that stayed with me wouldn’t turn
the lights out, and every two hours they came back and
started in again. Cops are too mean to live, and they’re
too dumb. They might have known I wouldn’t speak to
a cop.”
“Didn’t you speak at all?”
“No. Didn’t I say I wouldn’t?”
“Not a word?”
“No. The worst part was I was hungry. They brought
some stuff twice last night and again this morning, but
of course I wouldn’t touch it. I don’t know what kind of
drug they had in it, something to make me talk.”
“You haven’t eaten at all?”
“Of course not.”
Wolfe grunted. “That’s ridiculous. We have a spare
room that is comfortable. Mr. Goodwin will take you to
it, and my chef will take you a tray. After your fast you
should eat with caution. Have you a preference?”
She cocked her head. “You bet I have, Falstaff. Let
the lady enjoy herself. I know about your chef. How
about some lamb kidneys bourguignonne?”
Wolfe doesn’t flabbergast easy, but that did it. He
stared. “That would take time, mad—Miss Annis. At
least two hours.”
“I don’t mind, I’ll take a nap. Is there a bathroom?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I can wash the smell of the cops off. But the
other thing I want to know, what about the reward? We
want that reward.”
“That’s problematical. I’ll keep it in mind. We have a
more urgent matter to deal with. After you are
refreshed—”
“What matter?”
“The job you hired me for. Investigation of the mur-
der committed in your house.”
“I hired you to make the cops eat dirt, and you
already have. The one named Cramer, is he a big one
with a big red face and little blue eyes like a pig?”
“Pigs’ eyes are not blue. Otherwise the description
fits.”
198 Rex Stout
“Then you’ve already made him eat dirt. I wish I had
been here. He was the first one in my room when they
busted the door. That’s part of your job, to make them
pay for that door. The murder, that’s their job. I’m
surprised it was Tammy Baxter because I thought a
counterfeiter would have more clothes, but of course
when somebody came for the package and it wasn’t
there he thought she had taken it and he killed her, but
she should have known I had it because I told her
yesterday morning—”
The phone rang and I swiveled and got it. A female
said that Mr. Mandel wanted to speak to me, and after a
wait he came on.
“Goodwin? Mandel of the District Attorney’s office. I
want to see you. How soon can you be here?”
“Twenty minutes. If necessary.”
“It’s necessary. It’s ten minutes past twelve. I’ll ex-
pect you at twelve-thirty. Right?”
I told him yes, traffic permitting, hung up, and arose.
“The DA’s office,” I announced. “I’m surprised it didn’t
come sooner. You don’t need me anyway, you under-
stand each other so well.”
I left them.
Chapter 8
They kept me at 155 Leonard Street five and a half
hours. All I got out of it was two corned beef
sandwiches, a piece of blueberry pie, and two
glasses of milk, on the house, eaten at the desk of
assistant DA Mandel. What they got out of it was
doubtful. In addition to Mandel, I had conversations
with another assistant DA named Lindstrom, two de-
tectives attached to the DA’s office, and District Attor-
ney Macklin himself.
Over the years I have been suspected of a lot of
The Homicide Trinity 199
things by various authorities, from corrupting a cop by
buying him a drink to complicity in a murder, and that
day they added a new one to the list. None of them came
right out with it, but what was really biting them was
their suspicion that I was in collusion with the United
States government. Of course they covered other as-
pects of the case, all of them and thoroughly, but what
they concentrated on was the package of phony lettuce.
That was all the DA himself asked me about, and he put
it to me point-blank: did I know the money was coun-
terfeit? I told him point-blank no, and felt better; it’s
always a relief to get a lie off your chest. He said of
course I was lying, that I would have been a nitwit not
to suspect it. I said it didn’t matter now anyway, since
the Secret Service had it, and he blew his top. I admit
it’s hard to believe that he actually thought I had dis-
posed of evidence in a murder case by arranging for
Leach to beat Cramer to it, but I suppose a DA has as
much right to be a damfool as the people who voted for
him.
It was a quarter past six when I left the building and
flagged a taxi. By the time it turned into 35th Street I
had decided that I wouldn’t wait until after dinner to go
for Wolfe. He was too darned lazy to live. Since, thanks
to me, Hattie had told him that he had already made
Cramer eat dirt, he would consider that no matter what
happened or didn’t happen he could send her a bill for a
modest hunk of the forty-two thousand, say five grand,
and why should he strain his brain? She was out on bail
as a material witness and in no real danger. We had got
rid of the contraband. There was no great hurry. Nuts,
I decided. He had to be poked. As I mounted the stoop
and put my key in the door I was choosing my opening
remark from three I had hatched.
But I didn’t get to use it. The rack in the hall was so
crowded with coats that I had to squeeze mine between
two that I recognized—Inspector Cramer’s and Saul
Panzer’s. Cramer’s voice was raised in the office, and it
was hoarse, as it always was when he was in a huff. As
I reached the office door he was saying, “. . . not just
Rex Stout
to hear you spout! If you’ve got something let’s have
it!”
Wolfe, seated behind his desk with his fingers laced
at the summit of his middle mound, had sent his eyes to
me. “Ah,” he said. “Satisfactory. I was concerned.”
Sure he was. The bigger the audience the better
when he is staging a scene. Before I headed for my desk
I glanced around: Cramer in the red leather chair,
Sergeant Stebbins at his right, Paul Hannah and Noel
Ferns on chairs facing Wolfe’s desk, Raymond Dell and
Albert Leach, the T-man, behind them, and Martha
Kirk and Hattie Annis on the couch to the left of my
desk. Saul Panzer was over by the big globe. As I
circled around Leach and Dell, Wolfe was speaking.
“You know quite well I have something, Mr. Cramer,
or you wouldn’t have come. As I told you on the phone,
I had a stroke of luck, but I had invited it; and I knew
where to send the invitation. True, I sent it to three
addresses—an East Side tenement, a shop on First
Avenue, and a building on Bowie Street which housed
the theater—but my expectation was centered on the
last. When my expectation was realized I was faced
with the question whether to notify you or to notify Mr.
Leach; and preferring not to choose, I asked you both to
come and to bring Miss Kirk, Mr. Dell, Mr. Ferris, and
Mr. Hannah. Miss Annis, my client, was here. I thought
the first three had a right to be present; as for Mr.
Hannah, since he is both a counterfeiter and a mur-
derer, you and Mr. Leach will have to decide—”
“That’s a lie,” Hannah said, and was rising, but
Leach, behind him, grabbed his arm. Hannah jerked,
but Leach held on. “Who the hell are you?” Hannah
demanded, and with his free hand Leach got his leather
fold from his pocket and flipped it open, and by then
Stebbins was there.
“Are you arresting him?” Stebbins said.
“No, are you?” Leach asked.
“Nobody’s arresting me,” Hannah said. “Turn loose
of me.”
“Sit down, Hannah,” Cramer growled. He looked at
The Homicide Trinity 201
Wolfe. He had seen Wolfe perform before, and Leach
hadn’t. Not only had he heard Wolfe say that Hannah
was a counterfeiter and a murderer, but also he saw the
expression on Wolfe’s face, and he certainly knew that
face. He left his chair, put his hand on Hannah’s shoul-
der, and said, “You’re under arrest as a material wit-
ness in the murder of Tamiris Baxter. All right,
Sergeant,” and returned to his chair. Stebbins stood at
Hannah’s left and Leach stood at his right.
“That’s prudent, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said, “since I
have no conclusive evidence. Up to three hours ago I