Plot It Yourself

dismiss me.”

“What the hell,” Oshin said. “You’ve got my ten thousand, go ahead and use it.” He looked at his watch and stood up. “I’m late for an appointment.”

The meeting adjourned at twelve-forty-eight p.m. without a motion. Thomas Dexter stayed for a word with Wolfe, not to make a private suggestion but to repeat that he felt a personal responsibility and would personally contribute any necessary amount. This time, however, he added “within reason.” It’s fine to have a conscience, but you can’t just let it run wild.

When Dexter had gone, Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes. I put the extra chairs back in place, treated myself to a good stretch, went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, and returned. I stood and looked down at him.

“I was wondering,” I said. “Am I included in that?”

“In what?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“In the lockout. I won’t be much help if you refuse to tell me what you intend to do.”

“Pfui.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I would like to say that I have a little self-esteem too, of course not in the same class as yours, and it needs attention. Yesterday Purley Stebbins asked me, and I quote, ‘Why the hell did you set the guy up like that and then come here today and expect to find him whole?’ That was the first time a Homicide man has ever asked me a question I couldn’t answer. If I had told him because you were a jackass and so was I, he would have wanted to include it in my signed statement.”

He grunted. He hadn’t opened his eyes.

“So we’re to go ahead,” I said. “Lunch is about ready, and business is out at the table, and you like to rest your brain during digestion, so you might give me instructions now. Where do we start?”

“I have no idea.”

“It might be a good plan to get one, since you intend to anticipate the police. I suppose I could call on the committee members separately and ask for suggestions-”

“Shut up.”

So we were back to normal.

When Wolfe went up to the plant rooms at four o’clock I still had no instructions, but I wasn’t biting nails. During the hour and a half since lunch he had picked up his current book four times, read a paragraph, and put it down again; he had turned on the television three times and turned it off; he had counted the bottle caps in his desk drawer twice; and he had got up and walked over to the big globe and spent ten minutes studying geography. So, since he was hard at work, there was no point in needling him.

I passed the time-an hour of it in comparing the typewriting of “Opportunity Knocks,” by Alice Porter, with “There Is Only Love,” also by Alice Porter, and “What’s Mine Is Yours,” by Simon Jacobs. No two on the same machine. I re-read the carbon of the statement I had given Purley Stebbins, found nothing that needed correcting, and filed it. I re-read the piece in the morning Times about the murder, and when the Gazette came, around five-thirty, I read that. The Times had no mention of plagiarism or the NAAD or the BPA. The Gazette had a paragraph about the plagiarism charge Jacobs had made against Richard Echols in 1956, but there was no hint that his death had any connection with it. I was wondering why Lon Cohen hadn’t called when the phone rang and there he was. He stated his case: I had phoned him nine days ago to ask him about the NAAD and the BPA. Simon Jacobs, murdered Monday night, was a member of NAAD. Tuesday evening I had arrived at Homicide West on 20th Street with Sergeant Stebbins, who was working on the Jacobs case, and had stayed four hours. Would I therefore please tell him immediately why I had inquired about the NAAD, who was Wolfe’s client, and who had killed Jacobs and why, with all relevant details which the public had a right to know. I told him I would call him back as soon as I had anything fit to print, probably in a couple of months, and said I would be glad to send him a glossy of a photograph I had just taken, which the public had a right to see.

There was another phone call, from Cora Ballard, the executive secretary. She said she had been worrying about the decision of the committee to let Nero Wolfe go ahead with a free hand. She appreciated the fact that a private detective couldn’t very well tell a group of people what he was doing and going to do, but the committee had no authority to hire a detective to investigate a murder, and naturally she was worried. It wouldn’t be easy to get a large attendance of the NAAD council on short notice, but she could probably set one up for Monday or Tuesday of next week, and would I ask Mr Wolfe to take no important steps until then? She was afraid that if he went ahead and did something drastic he would be acting without authority, and she thought he ought to know that. I told her I thought so too and I would certainly tell him. There’s no point in being rude when you can end a conversation quicker by being polite.

I had the radio on for the six-o’clock news when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms. He had a cluster of Phalaenopsis Aphrodite in his hand, and he got a vase from the shelf, took it to the kitchen for water, brought it back, put the stem in, and placed it on his desk. That’s the only hard work he ever does around the office. When the news stopped for a commercial I turned it off and told him, “Still nothing about plagiarism or our clients or you. If the cops have made any headway they’re playing it close-”

The doorbell rang, and I stepped to the hall for a look through the one-way glass panel. A glance was enough. I turned to tell Wolfe, “Cramer.”

He made a face. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

He took a breath. “Let him in.”

Chapter 10

Inspector Cramer of Homicide West had sat in the red leather chair facing the end of Wolfe’s desk oftener and longer than any other three people combined. He just about filled it. How he sat depended on circumstances. I have seen him leaning back with his legs crossed, comfortable and relaxed, with a glass of beer