'A focus of interest is the anonymous letter informing on O'Malley. Suppose it was sent not by Corrigan, but by one of the others. In that case that confession may be factually correct in every important detail but one, the identity of the culprit; and the real culprit, finding me too close for comfort, may have decided to shift the burden onto Corrigan, not concerned that the shift required one more murder. So of first importance is the question, was it Corrigan who betrayed O'Malley? You will of course need the informing letter to the court or a photostat of it, and something authentically typed on the machine at the Travelers Club. You will need to know whether any of the others frequented that club or otherwise had access to that machine. With your authority, that kind of inquiry is Vastly easier for you than for me.'
Cramer nodded. 'What else?'
'At present, nothing.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Sit here.'
'Some day you'll get chair sores.' Cramer got up. He saw the cigar on the floor, stooped to pick it up, crossed to my wastebasket, and dropped it in. His manners were improving. He started for the door, halted, and turned. 'Don't forget those statements, what Corrigan said-by the way, what about that? Was it him on the phone or wasn't it?'
'I don't know. As I said, the voice was husky and agitated. It could have been, but if not no great talent for mimicry would have been needed.'
'That's a help. Don't forget the statements, what Corrigan or somebody said on the phone, what Goodwin did in California, and now getting this thing in the mail. Today.'
Wolfe told him certainly, and he turned and went.
I looked at my watch. I addressed my employer. 'Kustin phoned nearly three hours ago, as I reported. He wanted you to phone him quick so he can warn you that they're going to hold you accountable. Shall I get him?'
'No.'
'Shall I call Sue or Eleanor or Blanche and make a date for tonight?'
'No.'
'Shall I think of things to suggest?'
'No.'
'Then it's all over? Then Corrigan wrote that thing and shot himself?'
'No. Confound it. He didn't. Take your notebook. We might as well get those statements done.'
21
FORTY-EIGHT hours later, Monday morning at eleven, Inspector Cramer was back again.
At our end much had been accomplished. I had got a haircut and a shampoo. I had spent some pleasant hours with Lily Rowan. I had spent half an hour with Wellman, our client, who had called at the office after taking a plane from Chicago and was staying over to await developments. I had had two good nights' sleep and had taken a walk to the Battery and back, with a stopover at Homicide on Twentieth Street to deliver the statements Cramer had requested. I had made five copies of Corrigan's confession, from the copy Cramer had sent us as agreed. I had answered three phone calls from Saul Panzer, switched him to Wolfe, and got off the line by command. I had answered thirty or forty other phone calls, none of which would interest you. I had done some office chores, and had eaten six meals.
Wolfe had by no means been idle. He had eaten six meals too.
One thing neither of us had done, we had read no newspaper account of Corrigan's unsigned confession. There hadn't been any, though of course the death of a prominent attorney by a gunshot had been adequately covered, including pointed reference to previous regrettable occurrences connected with his firm. Evidently Cramer was saving the confession for his scrapbook, though it wasn't autographed.
Monday morning he sat in the red leather chair and announced, 'The DA's office is ready to call it suicide.'
Wolfe, at his desk, was pouring beer. He put the bottle down, waited for the foam to subside to the right level so that the tilt would get him beer and would also moisten his lips with foam, lifted the glass, and drank. He liked to let the foam dry on his lips, but not when there was company, so he used his handkerchief before he spoke.
'And you?'
'I don't see why not.' Cramer, having accepted the invitation to help with the beer, which he rarely did, had his glass in his hand. 'I could tell you how it stands.'
'Please do.'
'It's like this. The confession was typed on the machine in his apartment. He's had it there for years. He has always done quite a little typing-kept a supply of the firm's paper and envelopes there. His secretary, Mrs. Adams, admits that there is nothing about the typing or the text to cause a reasonable doubt that he typed it.'
'Admits?'
'Yes. She defends him. She won't believe he betrayed O'Malley or committed murder.' Cramer emptied bis glass and put it down. 'I can give you more on the confession, plenty more, but the DA isn't prepared to impeach it, and neither am I. We can't challenge any of its facts. As for the dates of the murders, December thirtieth, February second, and February twenty-sixth, of course Corrigan had already been checked on that along
