The client would rather not. The only way out, if we’re not going to tell Cramer, is to find out if one of them killed Eber-not to satisfy a judge and jury, just to satisfy us. If they didn’t, to hell with Cramer. If they did, we go on from there. The only way to find out is for you to go to work, and the only way for you to get to work is for me to phone Jarrell and tell him to have them here, all of them, at six o’clock today. What’s wrong with that?”
“You would,” he growled.
“Yes, sir. Of course there’s a complication: me. To them I’m Alan Green, so I can’t be here as Archie Goodwin, but that’s easy. Orrie can be Archie Goodwin, at my desk, and I’ll be Alan Green. Since I was in on the discovery that the gun was gone, I should be present.” I looked up at the wall clock. “Lunch in eight minutes. I should phone Jarrell now.”
I made it slow motion, taking ten seconds to swivel, pull the phone over, lift the receiver, and start dialing, to give him plenty of time to stop me. He didn’t. How could he, after my invincible logic? Nor did he move to take his phone.
Then a voice was in my ear. “Mr. Otis Jarrell’s office.”
It wasn’t Nora, but a male, and I thought I knew what male. I said I was Alan Green and wanted to speak to Mr. Jarrell, and in a moment had him.
“Yes, Green?”
I kept my voice down. “Is anyone else on?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Was that Wyman answering?”
“Yes.”
“He’s there in the office with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better let me do the talking and stick to yes and no. I’m here with Mr. Wolfe. Do you know that the bullet that killed Eber is a thirty-eight?”
“No.”
“Well, it is. Have you had any callers?”
“Yes.”
“Anything drastic?”
“No.”
“Ring me later and tell me about it if you want to. I’m calling for Mr. Wolfe. Now that we know it was a thirty-eight, he thinks I should tell the police about your gun. It could be a question of withholding evidence. He feels strongly about it, but he is willing to postpone it, on one condition. The condition is that you have everybody in this office at six o’clock today so he can question them. By everybody he means you, your wife, Wyman, Susan, Lois, Nora Kent, Roger Foote, and Corey Brigham. I’ll be here as Alan Green, your secretary. Another man will be at my desk as Archie Goodwin.”
“I don’t see how-”
“Hold it. I know you’re biting nails, but hold it. You can tell them that Mr. Wolfe will explain why this conference is necessary, and he will. Have you told any of them about your gun being taken?”
“No.”
“Don’t. He will. He’ll explain that when you learned that Eber had been shot with a thirty-eight-that should be on the air by now, and it will be in the early afternoon papers-you were concerned, naturally, and you hired him to investigate, and he insisted on seeing all of you. I know you’ve got objections. You’ll have to swallow them, but if you want help on it get rid of Wyman and Nora and call me back. If you don’t call back we’ll be expecting you, all of you, here at six o’clock.”
“No. I’ll call back.”
“Sure, glad to have you.”
I hung up, turned, and told Wolfe, “You heard all of it except his noes and yeses. Satisfactory?”
“No,” he said, but that was just reflex.
I’ll say one thing for Wolfe, he hates to have anyone else’s meal interrupted almost as much as his own. One of the standing rules in that house is that when we are at table, and nothing really hot is on, Fritz answers the phone in the kitchen, and if it seems urgent I go and get it. There may be something or somebody Wolfe would leave the table for, but I don’t know what or who.
That day Fritz was passing a platter of what Wolfe calls hedgehog omelet, which tastes a lot better than it sounds, when the phone rang, and I told Fritz not to bother and went to the office. It was Jarrell calling back, and he had a lot of words besides yes and no. I permitted him to let off steam until it occurred to me that the omelet would be either cold or shriveled, and then told him firmly that it was either bring them or else. Back at the table, I found that the omelet had had no chance to either cool or shrivel, not with Orrie there to help Wolfe with it. I did get a bite.
We had just started on the avocado, whipped with sugar and lime juice and green chartreuse, when the doorbell rang. During meals Fritz was supposed to get that too, but I thought Jarrell might have rushed down to use more words face-to-face, so I got up and went to the hall for a look through the one-way glass panel in the front door. Having looked, I returned to the dining room and told Wolfe, “One’s here already. The stenographer. Nora Kent.”
