“That receipt you signed,” Cramer growled.
“What? Oh. That gave her no difficulty. Arthur Howell gave the receipt to her, naturally, and she put it in her husband’s pocket. That was important. It was probably the first thing she did after the cigar exploded.”
“Meanwhile you’ve got the five thousand dollars.”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“But Poor didn’t pay it to you. You never saw Poor. You weren’t hired by him. If you want to say Mrs. Poor paid it, do you take money from murderers?”
It was one of Cramer’s feeblest attempts to be nasty, certainly not up to his standard.
Wolfe merely poured beer and said, “Pfui. Whether Mr. Poor paid me or not, he got his money’s worth.”
Try analyzing the logic of that. I can’t.