Association of Authors and Dramatists phoned. His name was Jerome Tabb. I had read one of his books. Wolfe had read four of them, and all four were still on the shelves, none of them dog-eared. They had all been A’s. He was a VIP even by Wolfe’s standards, and Wolfe would undoubtedly have liked to speak with him, but the rule was never buzz the plant rooms for a phone call except in extreme emergency. Tabb had just had a call from Cora Ballard, and he wanted to tell Wolfe how important it was for him to be present at the council meeting on Monday. He was leaving town for the weekend, and he would like me to give Wolfe this message, that the officers and council of the NAAD would deeply appreciate it if he would arrange to meet with them.
When Wolfe came down at eleven I reported the phone calls in chronological order, which put Tabb last. When I finished he sat and glared at me but said nothing. He was stuck. He knew that I knew he would like to speak with Jerome Tabb, but he couldn’t very well jump me for obeying the rules. So he took another tack. Glaring at me, he said, “You were too emphatic with Miss Ballard and Mr Tabb. I may decide to go to that meeting.” Absolutely childish. It called for a cutting reply, and one was on its way to my tongue when the doorbell rang and I had to skip it.
It was Cramer. When I opened the door he marched by me with no greeting but an excuse for a nod, and on to the office. I followed. Wolfe told him good morning and invited him to sit, but he stood.
“I’ve only got a minute,” he said. “So your theory was right.”
Wolfe grunted. “My theory and yours.”
“Yeah. It’s too bad that Ogilvy girl had to die to prove it.”
He stopped. Wolfe asked, “Will you sit? As you know. I like eyes at a level.”
“I can’t stay. The Ogilvy homicide was in the Bronx, but obviously it’s tied in with Jacobs’s, so it’s mine. You can save me a lot of time and trouble. If we have to we can find out from about fifty people how many of them you told that you were going to put the squeeze on Jane Ogilvy, and which ones, but it’s simpler to ask you. So I’m asking.”
“Mr Goodwin has already answered that question several times. To the District Attorney.”
“I know he has, and I don’t believe him. I think you bungled again. I think you picked certain people out of the bunch that had known you were going after Jacobs-I don’t know how you picked them, but you do-you picked certain ones and let them know you were going after Jane Ogilvy. Then you sent a man or men, probably Panzer and Durkin, to cover her, and they slipped up. Maybe they didn’t know about that lane in back. Maybe they didn’t even know about that building she called the cloister. Cloister my ass. I want to know who you told and why. If you won’t tell me I’ll find out the hard way, and when we get this cleared up and we know which one killed her, and we know he killed her because he knew you were going after her, and he knew because you or Goodwin had told him, this will be the time you lose a leg. I’ve got just one question: are you going to tell me?”
“I’ll answer it in a moment.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “First I remind you that you are to return that stuff to me by seven o’clock this evening-less than eight hours from now. You haven’t forgotten that?”
“No. You’ll have it.”
“Good. As for your question, I don’t resent it. I blundered so lamentably with Simon Jacobs that it’s no wonder you suspect me of an even bigger blunder with Jane Ogilvy. If I had I would confess it, abandon the case, and close my office permanently. I didn’t. No one knew of our intention to tackle Jane Ogilvy but Mr Goodwin and me.”
“So you’re not telling.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Mr Goodwin has-”
“Go to hell.” He turned and marched out. I went to the hall to see that when the door banged he was outside. As I stepped back in the phone rang. It was Mortimer Oshin, wanting to know if Philip Harvey had notified Wolfe that his arrangement with the committee was terminated. I said no, apparently that was to be discussed by the NAAD council on Monday. He said that if and when it was terminated he wanted to engage Wolfe personally, and I said it was nice to know that.
Wolfe, not bothering to comment on Cramer, told me to take my notebook and dictated a letter to a guy in Chicago, declining a request to come and give a talk at the annual banquet of the Midwest Association of Private Inquiry Agents. Then one, a long one, to a woman in Nebraska who had written to ask if it was possible to fatten a capon so that its liver would make as good a
“I’m in Carmel.” He had his mouth too close to the transmitter, as usual. He’s a good operative, but he has his faults. “The subject left the house at twelve forty-two and got in her car and drove off. She had been wearing slacks, but she had changed to a dress. I had to wait till she was out of sight to leave cover, then I went to my car and followed, but of course she was gone. Dol Bonner’s car wasn’t at her post, so she picked her up. Neither of their cars is parked here in the centre of town. Shall I ask around to find out which way they went?”
“No. Go back and hide your car again and take cover. Somebody might come and wait there for her.”
“It’s a hell of a long wait.”
“Yeah, I know. The first two weeks are the hardest. Study nature. There’s plenty of it around there.”
I joined Wolfe in the dining room, took my seat, and relayed the news. He grunted and picked up his napkin.
An hour and ten minutes later we were back in the office, finishing with the mail, when the phone interrupted; and when a soft but businesslike voice said, “This is Dol Bonner,” I motioned to Wolfe to get on.
“Yes, Miss Bonner,” I said. “Where are you?”
