He extended his arms, stretched out, the wrists together for handcuffs. Beautiful. I would have loved to do it too, but that would have been piling it on.
If Cramer had had cuffs in his pocket he might actually have used them, judging from the look on his big red face. Knowing Wolfe as well as he did, what could he do? His mouth opened and closed again. He looked at me and back at Wolfe. 'Out of control,' he growled. 'Balls. You out of control. I know one thing. I know-' 'Oh! We didn't know you were here. Inspector.'
Two men were there at the door, a tall rangy one and a broad bulky one with only one arm. Of course I should have heard them; my ears must have been more eager to hear what Cramer would say than I realized. When he turned to face them they saluted, but he didn't return it.
'It took you long enough,' he said.
'Yes, sir. It was a job. We didn't know you were here. We -' 'I came to see why it took so damn long. Did you -No. You can tell me in the car.'
He was moving. They sidestepped to let him by and followed him out. I stayed put. Experts wouldn't need help opening a door. When the sound came of the front door opening and closing, I went for a look down the hall, came back, and said, 'What a break for him. He couldn't have left without us. He ought to move them up a peg. Of course it was a break for us too, with you out of control.'
'Grrrh,' he said. 'Sit down.'
At ten o'clock that evening I was standing by a reading lamp, flipping through the pages of a book entitled Les Sauces du Monde. Going through a room trying to find something doesn't take long if you're after a diamond necklace or an elephant tusk or a gun. But if it's a twenty-dollar bill, anything at all that could be between the pages of a book without bulging it, that takes time if there are books in the room. For the Library of Congress, I would say years.
Most of the forty-some books on shelves in Pierre Ducos's room were about cooking. What I was after didn't have to be a piece of paper, but that was the most likely, since I wanted something, anything, that could lead to either the man who had left the slip of paper on the tray or the one who had paid a C for it. One item that had seemed possible was a notebook I found in a drawer that had lists of names on several pages, but Lucile Ducos had told me they were the names of men who gave big tips. She said Pierre hadn't been good at remembering names and he had written them down for twenty years.
I hadn't been in her room. When, arriving, I had told her grandfather, with her as interpreter, that I wanted to take a look in Pierre's room, and why, I had got the impression that she didn't like it, but he had got emphatic and it took. I had also got the impression that she was staying with me to see if I took anything and if so what. Getting impressions from her wasn't difficult, beginning with the impression that it didn't matter whether I had two legs or four legs, or whether I wore my face in front or behind. But she mattered-I mean to her. Her face, which wasn't bad at all, was well cared for, also her nice brown hair, and the cut and hang of her light-brown dress were just right. It was hard to believe she went to all that trouble just for the mirror.
She was seated in an easy chair the other side of the reading lamp. When I did the last book and put it back on the shelf, I turned to her and said, 'I suppose you're right, if he put something somewhere it would be in this room. Have you remembered anything he said?'
'No.'
'Have you tried to?'
'I told you I knew I couldn't because he hadn't said anything.'
Her voice had a little too much nose. I looked down at her. Up to a few inches above her knees, she had good legs. A pity. I decided to try another approach. 'You know. Miss Ducos,' I said, 'I have tried to be polite and sympathetic, I really have. But I wonder why you don't give a damn who killed your father. That doesn't seem very-well, natural.'
She nodded. 'You would. You think I should be weeping and wailing or maybe doing a Medea. Bullshit, I was a good daughter, good enough. Of course I give a damn who killed him, but I don't think you're going to find out the way you're going at it, all this about a man who gave him some money for a piece of paper. Or if you do, it won't be by nagging me to remember something that didn't happen.'
'What would you suggest? How would you do it?'
'I don't know. I'm not a great detective like Nero Wolfe. But you say what killed him was a bomb put in his pocket by someone. Who put it there? I'd find out where he was yesterday and who he saw. That would be the first thing I would do.'
I nodded. 'Sure. And have your toes tramped on by a few dozen homicide experts who are doing just that. If he can be tagged that way, they'll get him without any help from Nero Wolfe. Of course one person your father saw yesterday was you. I haven't asked you about your relations with him, and I'm not going to, because the cops certainly have. And they're asking around about you. You were at the District Attorney's office five hours, you said, so you know how that is. They know all about people killing their fathers. Also, of course they asked you if there was anyone who might have wanted him dead. What did you say?'
'I said no.'
'But someone did want him dead.'
She sneered. I admit I didn't like her, but I'm not being unfair. She sneered. 'I knew you'd say that,' she said. 'They did too, and it's not only obvious, it's dumb. Somebody might have thought his coat belonged to someone else.'
'Then you think it was just a mistake?'
'I didn't say I think it. I said it might have been.'
'Didn't your grandfather tell you what Nero Wolfe told him your father told me?'
'No. He never tells me anything. He thinks women haven't any brains. You probably do too.'
I wanted to say that I merely thought some women were a little shy on brains, present company not excepted, but I skipped it. I said, 'Your father told me that a man was going to kill him, so it wasn't a mistake. Also it wasn't you, since you're not a man. So let's go back. Evidently your father didn't agree with your grandfather
