I was thunderstruck, and helpless, when she—er—abused it. I used the poisonous oil instead of a substitute because I thought she might uncork the bottle, and the odor…That too was for the psychological effect—” “Like hell it was. It was for exactly what she used it for. What are you trying to do, kid me?” “No, not really. But you began speaking of a signed statement, and I don’t like that. I like to be frank. You know perfectly well I wouldn’t sign a statement.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “The fact is, you’re an ingrate. You wanted the case solved and the criminal punished, didn’t you? It is solved. The law is an envious monster, and you represent it. You can’t tolerate a decent and swift conclusion to a skirmish between an individual and what you call society, as long as you have it in your power to turn it into a ghastly and prolonged struggle; the victim must squirm like a worm in your fingers, not for ten minutes, but for ten months. Pfui! I don’t like the law. It was not I, but a great philosopher, who said that the law is an ass.” “Well, don’t take it out on me. I’m not the law, I’m just a cop. Where did you buy the oil of bitter almonds?” “Indeed.” Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to ask me that?” Cramer looked uncomfortable. But he stuck to it: “I ask it.” “You do. Very well, sir. I know, of course, that the sale of that stuff is illegal. The law again! A chemist who is a friend of mine accommodated me. If you are petty enough to attempt to find out who he is, and to take steps to punish him for his infraction of the law, I shall leave this country and go to live in Egypt, where I own a house. If I do that, one out of ten of your murder cases will go unsolved, and I hope to heaven you suffer for it.” Cramer removed his cigar, looked at Wolfe, and slowly shook his head from side to side. Finally he said, “I’m all right, I’m sitting pretty. I won’t snoop on your friend. I’ll be ready to retire in another ten years. What worries me is this, what’s the police force going to do, say, a hundred years from now, when you’re dead? They’ll have a hell of a time.” He went on hastily, “Now don’t get sore. I know a jack from a deuce. There’s another thing I wanted to ask you. You know I’ve got a room down at headquarters where we keep some curiosities—hatchets and guns and so on that have been used at one time or another. How’s chances to take that red box and add it to the collection? I’d really like to have it You won’t need it any more.” “I couldn’t say.” Wolfe leaned forward to pour more beer, “You’ll have to ask Mr. Goodwin. I presented it to him.” Cramer turned to me. “How about it, Goodwin? Okay?” “Nope.” I shook my head and grinned at him. “Sorry, Inspector. I’m going to hang onto it It’s just what I needed to keep postage stamps in.” I’m still using it. But Cramer got one for his collection too, for about a week later McNair’s own box was found on the family property in Scotland, behind a stone in a chimney. It had enough dope in it for three juries, but by that time Calida Frost was already buried.
CHAPTER Twenty
Wolfe frowned, looking from Llewellyn Frost to his father and back again. “Where is she?” he demanded.
It was Monday noon. The frosts had telephoned that morning to ask for an interview. Lew was in the dunce’s chair; his father was on one at his left, with a taboret at his elbow and on it a couple of glasses and the bottle of Old Corcoran. Wolfe had just finished a second bottle of beer and was leaning back comfortably. I had my notebook out Llewellyn flushed a little. “She’s out at Glennanne. She says she phoned you Saturday evening to ask if she could go out there. She…she doesn’t want to see any Frosts. She wouldn’t talk to me. I know she’s had an awful time of it, but my God, she can’t go on forever without any human intercourse… we want you to go out there and talk to her. You can make it in less than two hours.” “Mr. Frost.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “You will please stop that. That I should ride for two hours—for you to entertain the notion at all is unpardonable, and to suggest it seriously to me is brazen impudence. Your success with that idiotic letter you brought me a week ago today has gone to your head. I don’t wonder at Miss McNair’s wanting a temporary vacation from the Frost family. Give her another day or two to accustom herself to the notion that you do not all deserve extermination. After all, when you do get to talk with her again you will possess two newly acquired advantages: you will not be an ortho-cousin, and you will be worth more than a million dollars. At least, I suppose you will. Your father can tell you about that.” Dudley Frost put down the whiskey glass, took a delicate sip of water with a carefulness which indicated that an overdose of ten drops of that fluid might be dangerous, and cleared his throat. “I’ve already told him,” he declared bluntly.
“That woman, my sister-in-law, God rest her soul, has been aggravating me about that for nearly twenty years—well, she won’t any more. In a way she was no better than a fool. She should have known that if I handled my brother’s estate there would sooner or later be nothing left of it. I knew it; that’s why I didn’t handle it. I turned it over in 1918 to a lawyer named Cabot—gave him a power of attorney—I can’t stand him, never could, he’s bald-headed and skinny and he plays gold all day Sunday. Do you know him? He’s got a wart on the side of his neck. He gave me a quarterly report last week from a certified public accountant, showing that the estate has increased to date 22% above its original value, so I guess my son will get his million. And I will, too. We’ll see how long I can hang onto it—I’ve got my own ideas about that. But one thing I wanted to speak to you about—in fact, that’s why I came here with Lew this morning—it seems to me that’s the natural place for your fee to come from, the million I’m getting. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have it. Of course I can’t give you a check now, because it will take time—” “Mr. Frost! Please! Miss McNair is my client—” But Dudley Frost was under way. “Nonsense! That’s tommyrot. I’ve thought all along my son ought to pay you; I didn’t know I’d be able to. Helen…that is…damn it, I say Helen! She won’t have anything, unless she’ll take part of ours—” “Mr. Frost, I insist! Mr. McNair left private instructions with his sister regarding his estate. Doubtless—” “McNair, that booby? Why should she take money from him? Because you say he was her father? Maybe. I have my doubts on these would-be discoveries about parentage. Maybe. Anyhow, that won’t be anything like a million. She may have a million, in case she marries my son, and I hope she will because I’m damned fond of her. But they might as well keep all of theirs, because they’ll need it, whereas I won’t need mine, since there isn’t much chance that I’ll be able to hang onto it very long whether I pay you or not. Not that ten thousand dollars is a very big slice out of a million—unless it’s more than ten thousand on account of the new developments since I had my last talk with you about it.
Anyway, I don’t want to hear any more talk about Helen being your client—it’s nonsense and I won’t listen to it. You can send me your bill and if it isn’t preposterous I’ll see that it’s paid. —No, I tell you there’s no use talking!
The fact is, you ought to regard it as I do, a damned lucky thing that I got the notion of turning the management of the estate over to Cabot—” I shut the notebook and tossed it on my desk, and leaned my head on my hand and shut my eyes and tried to relax. As I said before, that case was just one damned client after another.
The End