and if you figure he took twelve a day that would mean that bottle has been in use three days, and in that time dozens of people have been in and out of his office where the bottle was kept. Of course all the Frosts have, and this
Gebert. By the way-” Cramer thumbed to find a paper and stopped at one-”what's a carnal…camallot doo something in French?”
Wolfe nodded. “Camelot du roi. A member of a Parisian royalist political gang.”
“Oh. Gebert used to be one. I cabled Paris last night and had one back this morning. Gebert was one of those. He has been around New York now over three years, and we're after him. The preliminary reports I've had are vague. N.V.M.S.
Paris says so too.”
Wolfe lifted a brow. “N.V.M.S.”
I told him, “Police gibberish. No visible means of subsistence. Bonton for bum.”
Wolfe sighed. Cramer went on, “We're doing all the routine. Fingerprints on the bottle, on the drawers of McNair's desk and so on. Purchases of potassium cyanide-”
Wolfe stopped him: “I know. Pfui. Not for this murderer, Mr. Cramer. You'll have to do better than routine.”
“Sure I will. Or you will.” Cramer discarded his cigar and got into his pocket for a new one. “But I'm just telling you. We've discovered one or two things.
For instance, yesterday afternoon McNair asked his lawyer if there was any way of finding out whether Dudley Frost, as trustee of the property of his niece, had squandered any of it, and he told the lawyer to do that in a hurry. He said that when Edwin Frost died twenty years ago he cut off his wife without a cent and left everything to his daughter Helen, and made his brother Dudley the trustee under such condition that no one, not even Helen, could demand an accounting of Dudley, and Dudley has never made any accounting. According to
McNair. We're on that too. Do you get anywhere with it? If Dudley Frost is short a million or so as trustee, what good does it do him to bump off McNair?”
“I couldn't say. Will you have some beer?”
“No thanks.” Cramer got his cigar lit and his teeth sunk in it. He puffed it just short of a conflagration. “Well, we may get somewhere on that.” He thumbed at the papers again. “Next is an item that you ought to find interesting. It happens that McNair's lawyer is a guy that can be approached, within reason, and after your tip last night I was after him early this morning. He gave me that dope on Dudley Frost, and he admitted McNair made a will yesterday. In fact, after I explained to him how serious murder is, he let me see it and copy it.
McNair gave it to you straight. He named you all right.”
“Without my consent.” Wolfe was pouring beer. “Mr. McNair was not my client.”
Cramer grunted. “He is now. You wouldn't turn down a dead man, would you? He left a few little bequests, and the residuary estate to a sister, Isabel McNair, living in Scotland in a place called Camfirth. There's a mention of private instructions which he had given his sister regarding the estate.” Gramer turned a sheet over. “Then you begin to come in. Paragraph six names you as executor, without remuneration. The next paragraph reads:
7. To Nero Wolfe, of 918 West 35th Street, New York City, I bequeath my red leather box and its contents. I have informed him where it is to be found, and the contents are to be considered as his sole property, to be used by him at his will and his discretion. I direct that any bill he may render, for a reasonable amount, for services performed by him in this connection, shall be considered a just and proper debt of my estate, which shall be promptly paid.
“Well.” Cramer coughed up smoke. “He's your client now. Or he will be as soon as this is probated.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I did not consent. I offer two comments: first, note the appalling caution of the Scotch. When Mr. McNair wrote that he was in a frenzy of desperation, he was engaging me for a job so vital to him that it had to be done right or his spirit could not rest, and yet he inserted, for a reasonable amount.” Wolfe sighed. “Obviously, that too was necessary for the repose of his spirit. Second, he has left me a pig in a poke. Where is the red leather box?”
Cramer looked straight at him and said quietly, “I wonder.”
Wolfe opened his eyes for suspicion. “What do you mean, sir, by that tone? You wonder what?”
“I wonder where the red box is.” Cramer upturned a palm. “Why shouldn't I? It's a hundred to one that what's in it will solve this case.” He looked around, and back at Wolfe. “I don't suppose there's any chance it could be right here in this office this minute, for instance in the safe or in one of the drawers of
Goodwin's desk.” He turned to me. “Mind looking, son?”
I grinned at him. “I don't have to. I've got it in my shoe.”
Wolfe said, “Mr. Cramer. I told you last evening how far Mr. McNair got with his tale. Do you mean to say that you have the effrontery to suspect-”
“Now listen.” Cramer got louder and firmer. “Don't dump that on me. If I had any effrontery I wouldn't bother to bring it here with me, I'd just borrow some.
I've seen your indignant innocence too often. I remind you of the recent occasion when I ventured to suggest that that Fox woman might be hiding in your house. I also remind you that McNair said yesterday in his will-here, I'll read it-I have informed him where it is to be found. Get it? Past tense. Sure, I know, you've told me everything McNair said yesterday afternoon, but where did he get that past tense idea before he saw you yesterday? You saw him Tuesday, too-”
“Nonsense. Tuesday was a brief first interview-”
“All right, I've known you to get further than that at a first interview. All right, I know I'm yelling and
