'Yes. The windows blew out, to the outside, so ft was a bomb. I'll take a look before I call for help. If you-' I stopped because he was moving. He crossed to Pierre, bent over, and looked. Then he straightened and looked around, at the closet door, which had been standing open and had hit the wall and was split, at the ceiling plaster on the floor, at the table wrong side up and the pieces of the lamp that had been on it, at the chair that had been tossed dear across to the foot of the bed, and so on.
He looked at me and said, 'I suppose you had to.'
That remark has since been discussed at length, but then I merely said, 'Yeah. I'm going to-' 'I know what you're going to do. First put your shoes on. I am going to my room and bolt the door. I will stay there until they have come and gone and I will see no one. Tell Fritz that when he brings my breakfast he will make sure that no one is near. When Theodore comes, tell him not to expect me. Is there anything you must say?'
'No.'
He went, still gripping the Montenegrin applewood by the small end. I didn't hear the elevator, so he took the stairs, which he rarely does. Barefoot.
He had not known what I was going to do. He hadn't known that I would go down to the basement, to Fritz's room. First I went and put on socks and shoes and a jacket, then down two flights to the office to turn the thermostat up to, and then on down to knock on Fritz's door and call my name, loud. He's a sound sleeper, but in half a minute the door opened. The tail of his white nightshirt flapped in the breeze from the open window. Our pajamas-versus-nightshirt debate will never be settled.
'Sorry to intrude,' I said, 'but there's a mess. A man came, and I put him in the South Room, and a bomb that he brought along went off and killed him. All the damage is in that room. Mr. Wolfe came up for a look and is now in his room with the door bolted. You may not get much more sleep, because a mob will be coming and there will be noise. When you take his breakfast up-' 'Five minutes,' he said. 'You'll be in the office?'
'No. Upstairs. South Room. When you take his breakfast, be sure you're alone.'
'Four minutes. Do you want me upstairs?'
'No. Down. You can let them in, that'll help. There's no rush. I have a couple of chores before I call them.'
'Who do I let in?'
'Anybody. Everybody.'
'Bon Dieu.'
'I agree.'
I turned and headed for the stairs and on the way up decided not to get rubber gloves from the office because they would make it take longer.
He was still on the floor, and the first question was what had put him there. I couldn't qualify as an expert on that, but I might get an idea, and I did. Here and there among the pieces of plaster on the floor I found several small objects that hadn't come from the ceiling, which I couldn't name. The biggest one was about half the size of my thumbnail. But I found four that I might name, or thought I might – four little pieces of aluminum. The biggest one was a quarter of an inch wide and nearly half an inch long, and EDR was printed on it, dark green. A smaller one had DO printed on it, and another one had do. One had no printing. I left them there, where I found them. The trouble with removing evidence from the scene of a crime is that someday you might want to produce it and have to tell where you got it.
The second question was what had made me consider rubber gloves: was there anything on him that would supply a name or other fact? I got on my knees beside him and did a thorough job. He still had the topcoat on, but there was nothing in the pockets. In the jacket and pants pockets were most of the usual items-cigarettes, matches, a couple of dollars in change, key ring, handkerchief, penknife, wallet with driving license and credit cards and eighty-four dollars in bills-but nothing that offered any hope of a hint. Of course there were other possibilities, his shoes or something taped to his hide, but that would take time, and I had already stretched it.
I went down to the office, and Fritz was there, fully dressed. I sat at my desk, pulled the phone around, and dialed a number I didn't have to look up.
The attitude of Sergeant Purley Stebbins toward Wolfe and me is yes-and-no, or make it no-but-yes. When he finds us within ten miles of a homicide, he wishes he was on traffic or narcotics, but he knows that something will probably happen that he doesn't want to miss. My attitude toward him is that he could be worse. I could name a few that are.
At: A.M. he sat on one of the yellow chairs in the office, swallowed a bite he had taken from a tongue sandwich made with Fritz's bread, and said, 'You know damn well I have to ask him if Ducos or anyone at the restaurant has ever said anything that could be a lead. Or someone does. Someone will come either at eleven o'clock or six.'
I had finished my sandwich. 'I doubt if he'll get in,' I said. 'Certainly not at eleven, and probably not at six. He may not be speaking even to me. A man murdered here in his house, within ten feet of him? You know him, don't you?'
'Do I. So does the inspector. I know you too. If you think you can-' I slapped my desk with a palm. 'Don't start that again. I said in my signed statement that I went over him. There might have been something that I should have included when I phoned. But I took nothing.
One thing that's not in my statement? I admit I'm withholding evidence. Knowledge of something that would certainly be used at the trial, if and when.'
'Oh. You are. You are?'
'I am. Of course you'll send everything you found to the lab, and it won't take them long to get it, maybe a couple of days. But you might like to have the pleasure of supplying it yourself. I know what the bomb was in.'
'You do. And didn't put it in your statement.'
'It would have taken about a page, and I was tired, and also I prefer to tell you. Have you ever seen a Don Pedro cigar?'
