So when Cramer arrived I didn't bubble over. Neither did he, for that matter. He marched into the office, nodded a greeting, dropped into the red leather chair, and growled: “I wish to God you'd forget you're eccentric and start moving around more. Busy as I am, here I am. What is it?” “My remark on the phone,” Wolfe said placidly, “may have been blunt, but it was justified.” “What remark?” “That your business could be more productive. Have you made any progress?” “No.” “You're no further along than you were a week ago?” “Further along to the day I retire, yes. Otherwise, no.” “Then I'd like to ask some questions about that woman, Beula Poole, who was found dead in her office Friday morning. The Papers say that you say it was murder. Was it?” I gawked at him. This was clear away from me. When he jumped completely off the track like that I never knew whether he was stalling, being subtle, or trying to show me how much of a clod I was. Then I saw a gleam in Cramer's eye which indicated that even he had left me far behind, and all I could do was gawk some more.
Cramer nodded. “Yeah, it was murder. Why, looking for another client so I can earn another fee for you?” “Do you know who did it?” “No.” “No glimmer? No good start?” “No start at all, good or bad.” “Tell me about it.” Cramer grunted. “Most of it has been in the papers, all but a detail or two we've saved up.” He moved further back in the chair, as if he might stay longer than he had thought. “First you might tell me what got you interested, don't you think?” “Certainly. Mr Cyril Orchard, who got killed, was the publisher of a horse-race tip sheet for which subscribers paid ten dollars a week, an unheard-of price.
Miss Beula Poole, who also got killed, was the publisher of a sheet which purported to give inside advance information on political and economic affairs, for which subscribers paid the same unheard-of price of ten dollars a week.” “Is that all?” “I think it's enough to warrant a question or two. It is true that Mr Orchard was poisoned and Miss Poole was shot, a big variation in method. Also, that it is now assumed that Mr Orchard was killed by misadventure, the poison having been intended for another, whereas the bullet that killed Miss Poole must have been intended for her. But even so, it's a remarkable coincidence-sufficiently so to justify some curiosity, at least. For example, it might be worth the trouble to compare the lists of subscribers of the two publications.” “Yeah. I thought so too.” “You did?” Wolfe was a little annoyed, as he always was at any implication that someone else could be as smart as him. “Then you've compared them. And?” Cramer shook his head. “I didn't say I'd compared them, I said I'd thought of it. What made me think of it was the fact that it couldn't be done, because there weren't any lists to compare.” “Nonsense. There must have been. Did you look for them?” “Sure we did, but too late. In Orchard's case there was a little bad management.
His office, a little one-room hole in a building on Forty-second Street, was locked, and there was some fiddling around looking for an employee or a relative to let us in. When we finally entered by having the superintendent admit us, the next day, the place had been cleaned out-not a piece of paper or an address plate or anything else. It was different with the woman, Poole, because it was in her office that she was shot-another one-room hole, on the third floor of an old building on Nineteenth Street, only four blocks from my place. But her body wasn't found until nearly noon the next day, and by the time we got there that had been cleaned out too. The same way. Nothing.” Wolfe was no longer annoyed. Cramer had had two coincidences and he had had only one. “Well.” He was purring. “That settles it. In spite of variations, it is now more than curiosity. Of course you have inquired?” “Plenty. The sheets were printed at different shops, and neither of them had a list of subscribers or anything else that helps. Neither Orchard nor the woman employed any help. Orchard left a widow and two children, but they don't seem to know a damn' thing about his business, let alone who his subscribers were. Beula Poole's nearest relatives live out West, in Colorado, and they don't know anything, apparently not even how she was earning a living. And so on. As for the routine, all covered and all useless. No one seen entering or leaving-it's only two flights up-no weapon, no fingerprints that help any, nobody heard the shot-” Wolfe nodded impatiently. “You said you hadn't made any start, and naturally routine has been followed. Any discoverable association of Miss Poole with Mr Orchard?” “If there was we can't discover it.” “Where were Miss Fraser and the others at the time Miss Poole was shot?” Cramer squinted at him. “You think it might even develop that way?” “I would like to put the question. Wouldn't you?” “Yeah. I have. You see, the two offices being cleaned out is a detail we've saved up.” Cramer looked at me. “And you'll kindly not peddle it to your pal Cohen of the Gazette.” He went on to Wolfe: “It's not so easy because there's a leeway of four or five hours on when she was shot. We've asked all that bunch about it, and no one can be checked off.” “Mr Savarese? Miss Shepherd? Mr Shepherd?” “What?” Cramer's eyes widened. “Where the hell does Shepherd come in?” “I don't know. Archie doesn't like him, and I have learned that it is always quite possible that anyone he doesn't like may be a murderer.” “Oh, comic relief. The Shepherd girl was in Atlantic City with her mother, and still is. On Savarese I'd have to look at the reports, but I know he's not checked off because nobody is. By the way, we've dug up two subscribers to Orchard's tip sheet, besides Savarese and the Fraser woman. With no result. They bet on the races and they subscribed, that's all, according to them.” “I'd like to talk with them,” Wolfe declared.
“You can. At my office any time.” “Pfui. As you know, I never leave this house on business. If you'll give Archie their names and addresses he'll attend to it.” Cramer said he'd have Stebbins phone and give them to me. I never saw him more co-operative, which meant that he had never been more frustrated.
They kept at it a while longer, but Cramer had nothing more of any importance to give Wolfe, and Wolfe hadn't had anything to give Cramer to begin with. I listened with part of my brain, and with the other part tried to do a little offhand sorting and arranging. I had to admit that it would take quite a formula to have room for the two coincidences as such, and therefore they would probably have to be joined together somehow, but it was no part-brain job for me.
Whenever dough passes without visible value received the first thing you think of is blackmail, so I thought of it, but that didn't get me anywhere because there were too many other things in the way. It was obvious that the various aspects were not yet in a condition that called for the application of my particular kind of talent.
After Cramer had gone Wolfe sat and gazed at a distant corner of the ceiling with his eyes open about a thirty-second of an inch. I sat and waited, not wanting to disturb him, for when I saw his lips pushing out, and in again, and out and in, I knew he was exerting himself to the limit, and I was perfectly satisfied. There had been a good chance that he would figure that he had helped all he could for a while, and go back to his reading until Cramer made a progress report or somebody else got killed. But the editorial had stung him good. Finally he transferred the gaze to me and pronounced my name.
