“I don’t depend on my clients. They depend on me.”
“Well, they’re out of luck this time. I gave you plenty of chance this morning. A chance to spill what Mrs. Hawthorne told you about young Dunn finding that cornflower. A chance to come clean about April Hawthorne’s being there with Naomi Karn disguised with a veil. Just to show you there’s no out on that, we know that Goodwin saw her there and three seconds later saw Mrs. Hawthorne in the library with you. It’s things like those we’re going to discuss downtown, those and a few others. Come on, get your hat. I’ve got a car outside that don’t jolt much.”
Wolfe looked mildly incredulous, and spoke mildly. “Nonsense. Tell me what you want.”
“I told you this morning, and what good did it do me?” Cramer arose. “Come on, they’re waiting for us down at Skinner’s office.”
“Today is Sunday, Mr. Cramer.”
“Correct. I doubt if you can get bail before tomorrow. We’ll find a cot big enough for you.”
“You haven’t got one. This is grotesque.”
“Sure it is. Come on. I may get tired of being polite.”
“You mean this. Do you?”
“I do, you know.”
“Then I request a courtesy. I want three or four minutes to dictate a letter. In your presence.”
Cramer scowled at him suspiciously. “Who to?”
“You’ll hear it.”
Cramer hesitated a moment, sat down, and growled, “Go ahead.”
Wolfe said, “Your notebook, Archie.” I opened the drawer and got it out. He leaned back and closed his eyes and started off in his usual smooth monotone:
“To W. B. Oliver, Editor of the Gazette. Dear Mr. Oliver. Inspector Fergus Cramer has arrested me as a material witness in the Hawthorne-Karn murder case, and I may be unable to get out on bail before morning. I therefore wish to expose him and his superiors to ridicule and derision, and luckily am in a position to do so. You know whether my word may be relied upon. I suggest that you publish these facts in your Monday city edition: That my arrest was motivated by professional pique. That by my own brilliant and ingenious interpretation of evidence, I have discovered the identity of the murderer. That I am not prepared as yet to disclose the murderer’s identity to the police, for fear their bungling — hint at worse if you care to — will prematurely spring a trap I have set for the criminal. That when the time comes — you may say soon — the arrest will be made by representatives of the Gazette, and the murderer will be delivered by them to the police, together with conclusive evidence of guilt. I shall certainly be out on bail by Monday noon at the latest, and if you will kindly come to my house at 1:30 for lunch, we can discuss details, including the sum your paper will be willing to pay for this coup. With the best wishes and regards, cordially yours. Sign my name and make sure it reaches Mr. Oliver before ten o’clock tonight.”
Wolfe got to his feet, grunting as usual. “Well, sir. I’m ready.”
Cramer, not stirring, growled, “Oliver won’t get that. I take Goodwin too.”
Wolfe shrugged. “That would delay it twenty-four hours. He would publish Tuesday instead of Monday.”
“He wouldn’t dare. Neither would you. You know the law. Oliver wouldn’t dare touch it. This case—”
“Bah. No matter what the law is, if we deliver the murderer and the evidence we’ll be heroes. I’m ready to go.”
“You’ll lose your license.”
“I’ll collect enough from the Gazette to retire on.”
“How much of that is bluff?”
“None of it. I’m giving Mr. Oliver my word.”
Cramer glared at me. I grinned at him sympathetically. He cocked his head at Wolfe, and suddenly acquired an excess of blood above the neck and made an exhibition of himself. He jerked up, slammed the desk with his fist, and yelled at Wolfe. “Sit down! You goddamn rhinoceros! Sit down!”
The phone rang.
I swiveled and got it, spoke to it, and heard Fred Durkin’s voice, low, husky and urgent:
“Archie? Come up here as quick as you can! I’m in that place again, and I’ve got a corpse or he soon will be!”
“I’m sorry,” I said politely, “but I haven’t had a chance to speak to Mr. Wolfe about it. I’m sure he can’t come now — he’s engaged here with a visitor from the police — hold the wire, please.” I addressed Wolfe, with the receiver close enough so Fred would get it too: “This is that fellow Dawson. He phoned this afternoon. He’s got a crate of Cattleya Mossiae from Venezuela, and he wants a hundred bucks for a dozen. He’s had an offer—”
“I can’t go now.”
“I know you can’t—”
“But you can. Tell him you’ll be there right away.”
I spoke to the phone: “Mr. Wolfe says he wants them if they’re in good condition, Mr. Dawson. I’ll come and take a look at them. You can expect me in fifteen minutes.”
I hung up and marched out. One of the things I didn’t like about it was that if Cramer decided to get suspicious it would be a cinch for him to step to the phone and have the call traced, but by the look on his face I judged that his mind was occupied with other affairs.
At the curb in front, Cramer’s car was nosing the roadster’s tail. I nodded a cheerful greeting to the two dicks on the driver’s seat, hopped in the roadster, and rolled. It wasn’t likely that they had any instructions that would cause them to follow me, but I made sure by circling into 34th Street and halting for a couple of minutes, and then headed downtown. At that time of a July Sunday afternoon the streets were nearly deserted, and I had only a little more than a mile to go. I parked where I had the day before, a little distance east of the address, trotted to the vestibule and pushed the button under Dawson, opened the door when I heard the click, and mounted the two flights.
At the door at the end of the hall, which was halfway open, I was confronted by two evidences of violence. A panel of the door and part of its frame was in splinters. That was one. The other was Fred Durkin’s face. The left side of his jaw was swollen, and there was a bruise on his right temple with the skin raw.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re the corpse, huh?”
“Huh yourself,” he retorted with Irish wit. “Look at this.” I followed him inside, and saw more evidences of violence. A table and a chair had been overturned and a couple of rugs were messed up, and lying there on the floor was Glenn Prescott. His eyes were open, staring up at us. His face was in much worse shape than Fred’s, and there was blood here and there, mostly on his collar and tie and the front of his shirt.
“He came to,” Fred said, “but he won’t talk. I wiped some blood off his face, but it dribbles out of his nose.”
Prescott let out a moan. “I’ll — talk,” he mumbled thickly. “I’ll talk if — I can. I’m afraid I’m hurt — internally.” His hand groped around his belly. “He hit me there.”
I knelt beside him and felt his pulse. Then I started feeling and poking all around. He winced and said ouch and moaned, but I couldn’t find any indication of agony. Fred brought me a wet towel and I cleaned his face off some.
I stood up. “I don’t think you’re hurt much, but of course I’m not sure. He didn’t hit you with anything but his fists, did he?”
“I don’t know. He knocked me down — and I got up — and he knocked me down again—”
“Who was it, Davis?”
“I’m not going—” He moaned.
“Sure it was Davis,” Fred put in. “He must have come while I was around the corner phoning you. I came back and watched the entrance, and pretty soon this guy walked up and pushed the button and went in. After a while I heard noises. The janitor came out from below and said he heard them too. He let me in, but he said he wasn’t looking for trouble and didn’t come up with me. Just as I got to the top of the second flight I got it. I caught a glimpse of him, but not quick enough. My head musta hit on the corner. When I come to I was wedged in there at the turn of the stairs, and he was gone. I came up and busted in the door and here was this guy on the floor.”