table he cooks for, and he suspects every woman who ever crosses the threshold of wanting to take over his kitchen, not to mention the rest of the house.
Inspector Cramer, standing, faced the audience and spoke. “Nero Wolfe is going to say something and you can listen along with me. You’re here on police orders, so I want to make one thing clear. Any questions Wolfe asks you are his questions and not mine. Answer them or not as you please. Wolfe is not acting for the police or speaking for the police.”
“I have nothing to ask, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said. “Not a single question. I have only to report and expound.”
“All right, go ahead.” Cramer sat down.
“What I wish to report,” Wolfe told the audience, “is how I found the weapon that killed two men, and how its finding revealed the identity of the killer. After you people left here on Monday, eight days ago, and after I had given Mr. Cramer the information I had told you I would give him, I was without a client and had no assigned function in this affair. But my curiosity was alive, my self-esteem was involved, and I wanted to be paid for the time I had spent and the ignominy I had endured. I resolved to pursue the matter.”
He cleared his throat, “You people were no longer available to me for inquiry. You were through with me. I had neither the personnel nor the facilities for the various lines of routine investigation, and besides, the police were seeing to that. But there was one established fact that offered possibilities: the bullets that killed Eber and Brigham had been fired by the same gun. Assuming that they had also been fired by the same person, obviously the gun had been in his possession from Thursday afternoon, when Eber was killed, to Sunday afternoon, when Brigham was killed-or at least it had been kept where he could get it again. Where had it been kept?”
His eyes went to Cramer and back to them. “Mr. Cramer obliged me by permitting Mr. Goodwin access to the reports of your movements during that period. I was and am deeply appreciative of his cooperation; it would be churlish to suppose that he let me learn the contents of the reports only because he wanted to know what I was going to do with them. Here they are.”
With a forefinger he tapped papers on his desk. “Here they are, as typed by Mr. Goodwin. I inspected and analyzed them. It was possible, of course, that the gun had been kept somewhere on the premises where you all live, but I thought it extremely unlikely. At any moment the police, learning of the disappearance of Mr. Jarrell’s gun, might search the place-as they did eventually, one week ago today. It was highly probably that the gun had been kept somewhere else, and I proceeded on that theory.”
“So did I,” Cramer rasped.
Wolfe nodded. “No doubt. But for you it was only one of many lines of inquiry, whereas it was all I had. And not only was it a near-certainty that the gun had been kept in some available spot from Thursday afternoon to Sunday afternoon, but also there was a chance that it had been returned to that spot after Brigham was killed and was still there. On Sunday, when he left the car on Thirty-ninth Street, the murderer had the gun and had to dispose of it somehow. If he put it somewhere, anywhere, where it might be found, there was a risk that it
He took a breath. “So I analyzed the timetables. They offered various suggestion, some promising, some far-fetched. To explore them I needed help, and I called on Mr. Saul Panzer, who is seated there beside Mr. Foote; on Mr. Fred Durkin, on the couch; on Mr. Orville Cather, on the couch beside Mr. Durkin; on Miss Theodolinda Bonner, here at my right; and on Miss Sally Colt, Miss Bonner’s assistant, on the couch beside Mr. Durkin.”
“Get on with it,” Cramer growled.
Wolfe ignored him. “I won’t detail all their explorations, but some deserve brief mention. They were all severely handicapped by the holiday and the long week end. Mr. Goodwin spent four days at the Jamaica and Belmont race tracks. My Panzer traced Mr. Jarrell’s movements on the Thursday when Eber was killed with extraordinary industry and acumen. Mr. Durkin performed with perseverance and ingenuity at the Metropolitan Athletic Club. Mr. Cather found three different people who had seen Mrs. Otis Jarrell in Central Park on the Sunday when Brigham was killed. But it was Miss Bonner and Miss Colt who had both ability and luck. Miss Bonner, produce the gun, please?”
Dol Bonner opened her bag, took out a revolver, said, “It’s loaded,” and put it on Wolfe’s desk. Cramer came breezing around the front of the desk, nearly tripping on Wyman’s foot, spouting as he came, and Purley Stebbins was up too. Dol Bonner told Cramer, “I tried it for prints, Inspector. There were no good ones. Look out, it’s loaded.”
“You loaded it?”
“No. It held two cases and four cartridges when I found it. I fired one cartridge, and that left-”
“You fired it?”
“Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said sharply. “How could we learn if it was the guilty gun without firing it? Let me finish and you can have all day.”
I opened a drawer of my desk, got a heavy manila envelope, and handed it to Cramer. He picked the gun up by the trigger guard, put it in the envelope, circled Wolfe’s desk to hand the envelop to Purley, said, “Go ahead and finish,” and sat.
Wolfe asked, “What did you do after you found the gun, Miss Bonner?”
“Miss Colt was with me. We phoned you and got instructions and followed them. We went to my office and filed a nick in the barrel of the gun so we could identify it. We then went to my apartment, turned on the radio as loud as it would go, fired a bullet into some cushions, got the bullet, put it in a box with cotton, wrapped the box in paper, and sent it to you by messenger.”
“When did you find the gun?”
“At ten minutes after six yesterday afternoon.”
“Has it been continuously in your possession since then?”
