Apparently that was the booby trap: the envelope, the grenade, and the suitcase. Whom it was supposed to catch, or how or when or why, I hadn’t the faintest idea. In view of the further instructions I had received, it struck me as about the feeblest and foolishest effort to bait a murderer that the mind of man had ever conceived. I relieved my emotions by making a few audible remarks that I could have picked up in barracks if I had ever been in barracks, left the scene and went up three flights to the roof, found Wolfe in the potting-room arranging sphagnum, and told him, “All set.”
He inquired without interrupting his labors, “The articles in the office?”
“Yep.”
“You asked them to be punctual?”
“I did. Lawson at 11:15, Tinkham at 11:30, Fife at 11:45. You invited Shattuck and Bruce yourself.”
“Fritz? The panel?”
“I said,” I told him icily, “all set. For what, God knows.”
“Now Archie,” he murmured, pulling moss apart. “It’s barely possible that I’m nervous. This thing is ticklish. If it doesn’t work we may never get him. By the way-get Mr. Cramer on the phone.”
When I did so, using the phone there on the bench, Wolfe put on a show. After telling me he was nervous because it was so ticklish, he bulled it like this with Cramer:
“Good morning, sir. About that affair downtown. I promised to phone you my opinion today. It was premeditated murder. That’s all I can tell you now, but developments may be expected shortly. No, sir, you will do nothing of the sort. You’ll only be making a fool of yourself. How can you, until I’ve explained it to you? If you come here now, you will not be admitted. I expect to phone you later in the day to tell you who the murderer is and where to go for him. Certainly not! No, sir.”
He replaced the receiver. “Pfui,” he muttered, and went back to the sphagnum.
“Cramer will be a little petulant if it doesn’t work,” I observed.
His shoulders lifted, just perceptibly, and dropped again. “Now it will have to work. What time is it?”
“Eight after eleven.”
“Get down to the alcove. Lieutenant Lawson might be early.”
I departed.
I can’t remember that I ever felt sillier than I did during the hour that followed. The operation was simple. I was to station myself in the alcove at the end of the hall, by the panel which permitted a view of the office. As each visitor arrived, Fritz was to tell him that Wolfe would be down in ten minutes, and escort him to the office and close the office door. I was to observe his actions while he waited in the office. I was to do nothing about it unless he monkeyed with one or more of the props. If he merely looked at them, picked them up and put them down again, okay; if he did something more drastic, I was to report to Wolfe on the phone in the kitchen. Otherwise I stayed put.
Five minutes before the time scheduled for the next visitor to arrive, Fritz was to go for the incumbent in the office, tell him Wolfe wanted him to come up to the plant rooms, and escort him there, thus vacating the office for the next one. If one of the victims arrived ahead of time, Fritz was to put him in the front room until the office was ready for him.
There was nothing wrong with that, and it worked as smooth as silk. Lawson came at 11:13. Tinkham came at 11:32. Fife came at 11:50. Shattuck came at 12:08. Sergeant Bruce came at 12:23. Fritz’s shuttle service worked perfectly, up to a certain point, which I’m coming to.
As I say, I never felt sillier than I did glued to that panel, watching them come and go. Granted that one of them was a murderer, what the hell did Wolfe expect him to do? Grab the envelope and run? Kill himself with the grenade? Give an encore of his performance the day before with the grenade and the suitcase? For my money, the murderer wouldn’t do any of these things, or anything resembling them, if he had the brains God gave geese.
He didn’t do any of them, if he was among those present.
Lawson, first to arrive, left alone in the office by Fritz, stood and looked the place over, approached the desk, cocked his head at the envelope and grenade, sat down, and didn’t move again until Fritz came for him.
Tinkham showed more interest. He spotted the props immediately. When Fritz left and shut the door, Tinkham turned to look at the door, started to cross to it, changed his mind and returned to the desk, picked up first the grenade, then the envelope, and inspected them. He kept glancing at the door. If he was trying to make up his mind what to do, he never got that far, for he had the envelope in his hand giving it a third inspection, when the door opened and Fritz entered. Tinkham dropped the envelope on the desk, without, as far as I could see, skipping a heartbeat. When Fritz had left with him I went in and arranged things as before and returned to my post.
Fife was a washout. It didn’t seem possible, but I swear that as far as I could tell he never saw them at all.
Shattuck was the only one that seemed to notice the suitcase, but he noticed everything. He didn’t touch; he just looked. He went to the desk and looked there; stared at the envelope and grenade. Then he went to my desk and looked there. After that he sort of took in all the surroundings, then did the two desks again. But he didn’t touch a thing.
I was looking forward to the last and as far as I was concerned least, Sergeant Bruce. I doubt if anything she might have done would have surprised me, from pulling the pin of the grenade and tossing it out the window to opening the suitcase and copping one of my shirts. But actually, I admit she did surprise me. She wasn’t in the office more than twenty seconds all together, after Fritz left and closed the door. She went and got the grenade and the envelope, and, without bothering to give them a look, put them in a drawer of Wolfe’s desk and shut the drawer, and beat it. Out she popped. If I had wanted to stop her I would have had to jump. I heard her going down the hall and the front door closing. I stepped around the corner, and no sergeant. She had skedaddled.
