dependable.” She stood up, abruptly, and I must admit not clumsily. “The reason I want to see a list is to make sure you’re including everything. Let’s sit on the couch and talk about it.” We were alone, with the whole floor to ourselves. Fritz had gone to his bed in the basement. I had been up and around all of eighteen hours, Cecily probably not more than twelve. It was not a situation that could be handled with half-measures.
“This,” I said, “is dangerous. Mr. Wolfe already suspects me. You’ll have to go, for my sake. If I stay here alone with you he’ll think I’m double-crossing him on this case and he’ll have my license revoked, and then I couldn’t go into business for myself even if you wanted me to. When this case is finished we’ll talk…and talk…and talk…but you’ll have to go now, Mrs. Pine.” I thought I might as well clinch it, and added, “Cecily.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Eight
The next day, Friday, I got home from Naylor-Kerr around five-thirty and went up to my room to bathe and change. Gwynne Ferris had maneuvered me into an agreement to try the food and music at the Silver Room at the Churchill that evening, and that called for black and white. I had to step on it because Wolfe expected me in the office at six o’clock, when he would descend from the plant rooms, to report on the day. The report, God knows, would be totally without nourishment, but by that time Wolfe would have welcomed an underfed straw to grab at, and he would want all details.
He didn’t get them, not then, for when I got down to the office at five past six Inspector Cramer was there with him and was already off to a good start.
It was obvious from the first growls I heard that Cramer had come to try something that he had often tried before, and never with any profit. He had come to take the lid off of Wolfe and look inside. That meant he was all out of everything. It had come to snafu and he was helpless.
“So you were having Naylor tailed,” he was barking. “So, by God, you knew something was going to happen to him! I’ll tell you what I think! That Saul Panzer is the best tailer in New York. I don’t for a minute believe he lost Naylor! He don’t lose ’em! Even if he did, when Naylor came here, wouldn’t you have had him tailed when he left, since you were interested in him? Of course you would! I think Panzer was right up with Naylor all that evening, right up to the time he was killed and then some, right up to the car running over him on Thirty-ninth Street!” “Pfui,” Wolfe muttered.
“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
