“Look at this.” Cramer put up a finger. “One. You were hired to smoke Naylor out in connection with the death of Moore.” Another finger. “Two. Goodwin pressured him into a deadly threat against someone.” A third finger. “Three. You had your best man on his tail.” A finger. “Four. You kept Panzer away from me for two days.” Thumb. “Five. You tried to sick us on that Hoff and it’s a phony.” The fingers made a fist. “And six, you keep Goodwin down there to sit on it, not doing a damn thing but play with the girls! Look at him, dressed for a party!” “I didn’t know you had noticed me,” I murmured politely. “Thanks.” But Cramer was beyond minding me.
“Look at it!” he bellowed.
“I am,” Wolfe said dryly. “Is that all there is?” Cramer settled back, then suddenly jerked forward again and laid the fist on Wolfe’s desk. “I’m going to come out with it,” he said slowly and emphatically.
“I’ve had occasion many times, Wolfe, to ride you—or to try to. But actually, and you know it, I have never accused you of covering for a murderer, and I have never considered you capable of that.” He lifted the fist and brought it down again. “I do now. I think you’re capable of it, and I think you’re doing it. I think you know who killed Moore and Naylor, and I think you intend to keep me from getting him. Is that plain enough?” “You know what you’re saying, Mr. Cramer.” “You’re damn right I do.” “Archie.” Wolfe’s eyes came to me. “Get him out of my house. By force if necessary.” That did not appeal to me. He was a police inspector, he was probably armed, and I had on my best clothes.
I stayed in my chair. “Gentlemen,” I said sneeringly, “I had supposed you could take it, both of you, but I see I was wrong. You’re both licked, that’s all there is to it, and you’re trying to take it out on each other by acting childish. Inspector Cramer, you know damn well how tricky Mr. Wolfe is, and you know he’s at least ten times too tricky ever to go around—or rather sit around—with a murderer in his pocket with the idea of guarding his health.
You’re just mad and kicking the furniture. Mr. Wolfe, you are fully aware that he is merely shooting off his mouth, and if you were yourself you would be only bland and offensive to him instead of ordering me to make an ass of myself.
You’re just sore and savage because you’ve finally run into one too slick for you.” I arose, crossed to the hall door, and turned. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got a date with a suspect. I’m a detective and I’m working on a murder case.” I have never learned how that conversation ended. Wolfe never mentioned it, and when, somewhat later, I tried a question or two about it all I got was a grunt.
Saturday and Sunday it was really pitiful. Saturday morning Wolfe buzzed me to come to his room while he was eating breakfast, and when I went, he, having remembered his taboo on talk of business during meals, let me sit and watch him gloomily dispose of four pieces of toast and a dish of eggs au beurre noir. When he had finished he had instructions for me, and they were a knockout. He was sure going to wade into it. I was to spend my week-end getting Ben Frenkel, Harold Anthony, Rosa Bendini, and Gwynne Ferris, one at a time, and bringing them to him! And he was to spend his week-end getting things out of them!
So it was. That’s how we spent Saturday and Sunday, with one or two other items worked in, such as my going with Lieutenant Rowcliff to look over Naylor’s papers and effects. Nor was Wolfe merely making motions and trying to pass the time. Saturday he spent three hours on Harold Anthony and four hours on Gwynne Ferris. Sunday he spent five hours on Rosa Bendini and six on Ben Frenkel. He was really digging and sweating. Late Sunday evening, after Frenkel had gone, he stayed motionless in his chair a long while and then remarked in a low rumble that indicated he had caught it from Frenkel.
“I suppose I’ll have to see those other people. The directors and executives.
Can you have them here tomorrow morning at eleven?” I was busy at the typewriter, catching up on the germination records. Without bothering to turn my head I declared firmly, “I cannot. They’re busy supplying engineers. They think we’re a false alarm as it is. Even Armstrong—you know, the wiry little guy —even he is beginning to suspect they’re wasting corporation funds.” He didn’t even grunt, let alone argue. I resumed on the typewriter. I finished with the Miltonias and started on the Phalaenopsis. The minutes collected enough for an hour and started on another one. It was midnight, bedtime, but I stayed on because Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes closed and with his lips working—pushing out, then back in, then out and in again—and I was curious to learn if anything would come of it.
He stirred in his chair, sighed clear to his solar plexus, and opened his eyes to a slit.
“Archie.” “Yes, sir.” “You were correct.” “Yes, sir.” “I have, as you put it, run up against one too slick for me. Either too slick or too lucky. Mr. Moore has been dead nearly four months, and Mr. Naylor nine days, and what have we got?” “An expense account.” “Yes. It is wholly unprecedented. We have one fact only that might be helpful—Miss Livsey’s promenade with Mr. Naylor—but we don’t know whether it is significant or not, and no way of finding out. We can’t sort out the real clues and the false ones because we have no clues at all. Literally none. Neither has Mr. Cramer. Has that ever happened to us before?” “No, sir.” “No. It hasn’t. I find it interesting and stimulating. What do we do when we have no clues? Do you know?” “No, sir.” “We make one. We may have to make more, but we’ll start with one.
Experimentally. Cover that confounded machine and turn your chair around and listen to me.
“Yes, sir.” It took him nearly an hour to complete the diagram, with me making notes. At the end he asked sharply, “Well?” I nodded uncertainly. “If it’s the best you can do we’ll have to try it—or rather I will. The least we can get is another murder.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Nine
The best evidence of where we stood and how we were doing on that case was the changed attitude toward me, when I appeared in the Naylor-Kerr stock department that Monday morning, on the part of the personnel. The time had been when my progress down an aisle had been followed by hundreds of pairs of eyes. No more.
I got about the same attention as one of the messenger boys toting mail around.
The first item of the build-up was a visit, not too brief, with Hester Livsey, and, wanting to be sure of getting it in before she got called by Rosenbaum for the morning dictation, I crossed the arena to her office as soon as I had deposited my hat and coat in my own room, which I was still being allowed to occupy. Her door was standing open, but I closed it behind me when I entered.
She had finished dusting and was sorting papers on her desk. She sent me a sidewise glance, then jerked her head around and demanded, “What do you want?” I sat down and grinned at her. “That’s a bad habit you’re forming, that what do you want. It’s nerves.” “What do you want?” She looked older and somewhat more used, but I didn’t try to kid myself that to me she had become merely a collection of assorted cells and was around ninety per cent water. I could still look at her and not be repulsed by the notion that she needed me, and the hell of it was that I was committed to an operation that was likely to make her need me a lot more.
“Sit down and relax,” I told her.
“No.” She stood with papers in her hand. “I could tell Mr. Rosenbaum that you’re annoying me.” “Indeed you could,” I agreed. “And I wouldn’t deny it. I’m annoying lots of people, and so are you. That’s the way it goes under circumstances like this. I doubt if Rosenbaum would try to bounce me, it would make such a commotion with me yelling and hanging onto the doorjamb, and maybe breaking loose and dodging around the desks out there. How- ever, you can try it—or you can just ignore me and go on with your work. I won’t pounce on you from behind.” She was sorting papers, with her face looking distorted because of the way her jaw was set, with tight muscles.