“Nuts. Why did you beat it?”
“I’m telling you. I would have been kept there till midnight, and for nobody’s benefit, because there were a dozen people there who knew more than I did about the murder, and at least one of them a lot more.” I let my voice rise a little in indignation. “I helped out all I could, didn’t I? Didn’t I guard the front door until the radio and precinct guys –”
I stopped short.
“Uh-huh.” Cramer nodded grimly. “Just occurred to you, huh? Brain slowed up on you? I thought of that a long while ago, all by myself. What was it, Goodwin? What was it that happened between the time the precinct men arrived and the time you took your overcoat from the rack?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Yes, it did. I want to know what it was.”
“Nothing, except that when a cop relieved me at the door there was nothing I could do to help, and you know damn well what Mr. Wolfe is like if I let anything interfere with his business.”
He glared at me. Then he slid back to a more comfortable position in the big leather chair, looked at Wolfe, and slowly shook his head. “I’m tired out,” he said resentfully. “I was up most of last night on that Arlen case, and I was going to bed at eight o’clock, and now here’s this, and I find you’re in on it even before it happens, and you can guess how pure and simple that makes it seem like.”
“I can assure you,” Wolfe said sympathetically, “that Mr. Goodwin’s errand was neither to prevent nor to provoke murder. We really didn’t know there was to be one.”
“Oh, I know all about his errand. Driscoll’s diamonds. To hell with that. Let’s be reasonable. There was Goodwin, alone right at the front door for six or seven minutes after he came downstairs with Mrs. Miltan, before the radio men got there. Then they left him alone again until the precinct men arrived. He knew from the beginning what a murder investigation means for those on the premises when the squad gets on the job. If he wanted to get away and get to you to report, all he had to do was walk right out and get in his car and go. Instead of that, he waits until the precinct men come and one of them is stationed at the door, then he goes to the office and stands there and looks around, and all of a sudden he grabs his hat and coat, sneaks down to the basement, pulls a gun and scares the daylights out of a colored porter who –”
“He had no daylights left in him.”
“Shut up. Tells the porter to stay where he is, takes a ladder to the rear court and climbs the fence and talks about his wife’s cat and pretends to fall off, beats it through a kitchen and a restaurant on 49th Street, and jumps a taxi and tells the driver he likes to go fast. And he tells me nothing happened between the time the precinct men came and the time he reached for his coat! I ask you, what does that sound like?”
“It sounds like a delayed cerebral process. I am accustomed to it. Unfortunately.”
“It sounds bughouse. And Goodwin’s not bughouse.”
“No, he isn’t. Not quite. Will you have some beer?”
“No. Thank you.”
Wolfe pushed the button, leaned back, and let the tips of his fingers meet at the apex of his middle mound. “Let’s cut across, Mr. Cramer,” he suggested helpfully. “You’re busy and you need sleep. Regarding the point you have broached, as to what happened up there between this time and that time, Archie says he didn’t want to be detained until midnight by the prolonged routine of your staff. I say delayed cerebration. If something significant really did happen it’s obvious that we don’t intend to tell you, at least not now, so let’s pass on that. Next, if you ask why we kept ourselves incommunicado until half past nine, my reply is that I wished to get his complete report without interruption and that I abhor any disturbance during the dinner hour; further, that you had a large number of people up there to deal with and Archie could tell you nothing that you couldn’t learn from them.”
Fritz came with a tray, and Wolfe uncapped a bottle and poured. “Next? I suppose, why Archie was sent there? Because a girl named Carla Lovchen, whom we have never seen before, came this afternoon to engage me in the interest of a friend of hers named Neya Tormic, who had been accused of theft. That matter was cleared up by a statement from Mr. Driscoll, who appears to be a blundering ass. Next, you will doubtless ask, after that affair had been settled and Mr. Goodwin had departed, why did he return? Because he phoned me and I told him to. As you know, when I accept a commission I like to get paid. I try to stop this side of rapacity, but I like to collect, even when, as in this case, I have furnished more will than wit. I sent him back to see Miss Tormic. He was waiting for her in the office when the porter’s yells were heard.”
Cramer was slowly rubbing at his chin, looking stubborn and unconvinced. He watched Wolfe swallow the glass of beer and wipe his lips, and then turned to me:
“You’re not bughouse, you know. Someday when I’m not busy I’d like to tell you what you are, but you’re not bughouse. Now suppose you tell me a little story.”
“Sure, I’ll even tell you a big one. I was in the office talking with Mr. and Mrs. Miltan when we heard the yelling –”
“Oh, no. Back up. From the time you got there. I want the works.”
I gave it to him, in my best style. I knew from the tone Wolfe had taken that the program was eagerness to oblige in inessentials, so I skipped none of the unimportant details. I covered the route. One of the little cuts I made was the brief passage between the Balkans and me while I was standing guard at the front door. When I got through Cramer asked me some questions that offered no difficulty, ending with a few more jabs regarding what had happened between the time when this and the time when that. My only addition to my former explanation was that I had started to get hungry.
He sat a minute and chewed his cigar, frowning, and switched to Wolfe.
“I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.
“No? What is it you don’t believe, Mr. Cramer?”
“I don’t believe that Goodwin’s bughouse. I don’t believe he left like that because he was homesick and hungry. I don’t believe he went back there to collect a fee from Miss Tormic. I don’t believe that as far as you’re concerned it’s washed up and you’re not interested in the murder.”
“I haven’t said I’m not interested in the murder.”
“Ho! Haven’t you? Well, are you?”
“Yes.” Wolfe grimaced. “Apparently I am. While Archie was on guard at the door Miss Tormic approached and asked him – me – to act in the matter in her interest. He accepted. I am committed, and the amount of profit that may be expected …” He shrugged. “I am committed. That was what happened that made Archie feel he should communicate with me promptly and privately. As you are aware, Mr. Cramer, I am quite capable of candor when the occasion presents –”
The inspector clamped his teeth on his cigar and said through them savagely, “I knew it!”
Wolfe’s brows went up a millimeter. “You knew? …”
“I knew it the minute I learned Goodwin had been there and gone off to chase a cat. It had already begun to look like a first-class headache, and when I heard about Goodwin that cinched it. So you’ve got a client! And sure enough, by God, it has to be your client that was in that room fencing with him! It would be!” He rescued the cigar from his teeth with his left hand and hit the desk with his right fist, simultaneously. “Understand this, Wolfe! I came here in a mood of cooperation, in spite of Goodwin’s tricky getaway! And what am I getting? Now you try to tell me that in the space of ten seconds, just like that, your man accepted a murder case for you! Nuts!” He hit the desk again. “I know what your abilities are, no one knows that better than I do! And like a fool I came here expecting a little disinterested discussion and you tell me you’ve got a client! Why have you always got to have a goddam client? Naturally from now on I can’t believe a single solitary thing –”