'Well yourself. How do I know? I suppose he shot himself.'
'Where was he?'
I sneered. 'Do you think I staged it?'
'There was a radio going.'
'I heard it. 'The Life of Riley.' WNBC.'
He replaced the phone, slow motion, and regarded me. 'This is preposterous. I don't believe it. Get Mr. Cramer.'
I swiveled and dialed and got a voice. I asked for Cramer, and he wasn't there. Neither was Stebbins. I got a sergeant named Auerbach, informed Wolfe, and he took it.
'Mr. Auerbach? This is Nero Wolfe. Are you familiar with the Dykes-Wellman-Abrams case?'
'Yes.'
'And with the name James A. Corrigan?'
'Yes, I know the name.'
'I just had a phone call. The voice said it was James A. Corrigan, but it was husky and agitated and I can't vouch for it. It said-I think you should put this down. Have you pencil and paper?'
'In a second-okay, shoot.'
'He said it was Corrigan, and then, quote, 'You're responsible for this, so I think you ought to hear it. I hope you'll hear it in your dreams the rest of your life. This is it. Are you listening? Here it goes.' Unquote. There came immediately the sound of an explosion, resembling a gunshot, and other confused noises, followed by silence except for the sound of a radio, which had been audible throughout. That's all.'
'Did he say where he was phoning from?'
'I've told you all I know. As I said, that's all.'
'Where are you now?'
'At my home.'
'You'll be there if we want you?'
'Yes.'
'Okay.' He hung up. So did Wolfe. So did I.
'So your memory's failing,' I observed. 'You forgot that he said he had mailed you a letter.'
'I like to see my mail first, without interference. Where does Mr. Corrigan live?'
I got the Manhattan phone book, turned the pages, and found it. Then, to check, I went and unlocked the filing cabinet, got out the Wellman folder, and fingered through the papers. I announced, 'Corrigan lives at one-forty-five East Thirty-sixth Street. Phelps lives at three-seventeen Central
Park West. Kustin lives at nine-sixty-six Park Avenue. Briggs lives at Larchmont. O'Malley lives at two-oh-two East Eighty-eighth.'
I put the folder back and locked the cabinet. 'Am I going to bed now?'
'No.'
'I thought not. What, sit here and wait? Even if they find a corpse they might not get around to us until morning. It would take a taxi five minutes to go crosstown to Thirty-sixth and Lexington. The fare would be fifty cents including tip. If it's a blank I can walk home. Do I go?'
'Yes.'
I went to the hall for my hat and coat, let myself out, and walked a block north. At Tenth Avenue I flagged a passing taxi, got in, and gave the driver the address.
A radio car was double-parked in front of 145 East Thirty-sixth, with no one in it. I entered the building. On the list of names on the wall of the vestibule, Corrigan was at the top, fifth. I went on in. It was an old private dwelling done over into apartments, with a self-service elevator. The elevator was there at that floor. From somewhere below came a faint sound of voices, but there was no one in sight. I opened the elevator door, entered, pushed the 5 button, and was lifted. When it stopped I emerged. There was only one door, at the right of the small hall, and standing at it was a cop.
'Who are you?' he asked, not sociably.
'Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe.'
'What do you want?'
'I want to go to bed. Before I can do so I have to find out if we got imposed on. We reported this. The guy that lives here, so he said, phoned us and told us to listen, and then a gun went off or a good imitation of one. He didn't hang up but he was gone, and we phoned Homicide. We don't know if the phone call was from here, and I came to see.'
'Why Homicide?'
'This might be connected with a case they're on. We have friends there-sometimes friends, sometimes enemies, you know how it is. Is your colleague inside?'
'No. The door's locked. He went down for the superintendent. What did the guy say on the phone?'
