Bullet for One

VII

“Forty trump,” Orrie Cather said at 10:55 Wednesday morning.

I had told them the Keyes case had knocked on our door and we had five suspects for clients, and that was all. Wolfe had not seen fit to tell me what their errands would be, so I was entertaining at cards instead of summarizing the notebooks for them. At eleven sharp we ended the game, and Orrie and I shelled out to Saul, as usual, and a few minutes later the door from the hall opened and Wolfe entered. He greeted the two hired hands, got himself installed behind his desk, rang for beer, and asked me, “You’ve explained things to Saul and Orrie, of course?”

“Certainly not. For all I knew it’s classified.”

He grunted and told me to get Inspector Cramer. I dialed the number and had more trouble getting through than usual, finally had Cramer and signaled to Wolfe, and, since I got no sign to keep off, I stayed on. It wasn’t much of a conversation.

“Mr. Cramer? Nero Wolfe.”

“Yeah. What do you want?”

“I’m sorry I was busy last evening. It’s always a pleasure to see you. I’ve been engaged in the matter of Mr. Keyes’ death, and it will be to our mutual interest for you to let me have a little routine information.”

“Like what?”

“To begin with, the name and number of the mounted policeman who saw Mr. Keyes in the park at ten minutes past seven that morning. I want to send Archie—”

“Go to hell.” The connection went.

Wolfe hung up, reached for the beer tray which Fritz had brought in, and told me, “Get Mr. Skinner of the District Attorney’s office.”

I did so, and Wolfe got on again. In the past Skinner had had his share of moments of irritation with Wolfe, but at least he hadn’t had the door slammed in his face the preceding evening and therefore was not boorish. When he learned that Wolfe was on the Keyes case he wanted to know plenty, but Wolfe stiff-armed him without being too rude and soon had what he was after. Upon Wolfe’s assurance that he would keep Skinner posted on developments at his end, which they both knew was a barefaced lie, the Assistant D.A. even offered to ask headquarters to arrange for me to see the cop. And did so. In less than ten minutes after Wolfe and he were finished, a call came from Centre Street to tell me that Officer Hefferan would meet me at 11:45 at the corner of Sixty-sixth Street and Central Park West.

During the less than ten minutes, Wolfe had drunk beer, asked Saul about his family, and told me what I was expected to find out from the cop. That made me sore, but even more it made me curious. When we’re on a case it sometimes happens that Wolfe gets the notion that I have got involved on some angle or with some member of the cast, and that therefore it is necessary to switch me temporarily onto a siding. I had about given up wasting nervous energy resenting it. But what was it this time? I had bought nobody’s version and was absolutely fancy free, so why should he send me out to chew the rag with a cop and keep Saul and Orrie for more important errands? It was beyond me, and I was glaring at him and about to open up, when the phone rang again.

It was Ferdinand Pohl, asking for Wolfe. I was going to keep out of it, since the main attack was to be entrusted to others, but Wolfe motioned me to stay on.

“I’m at the Keyes office,” Pohl said, “Forty-seventh and Madison. Can you come up here right away?”

“Certainly not,” Wolfe said in a grieved tone. It always riled him that anybody in the world didn’t know that he never left his house on business, and rarely for anything whatever. “I work only at home. What’s the matter?”

“There’s someone here I want you to talk to. Two members of the staff. With their testimony I can prove that Talbott took those designs and sold them to Broadyke. This clinches it that it was Talbott who killed Keyes. Of us five, the only ones that could possibly be suspected were Miss Rooney and that stable hand, with that mutual alibi they had, and this clears her — and him too, of course.”

“Nonsense. It does nothing of the sort. It proves that she was unjustly accused of theft, and an unjust accusation rankles more than a just one. Now you can have Mr. Talbott charged with larceny, at least. I’m extremely busy. Thank you very much for calling. I shall need the cooperation of all of you.”

Pohl wanted to prolong it, but Wolfe got rid of him, drank more beer, and turned to me. “You’re expected there in twenty minutes, Archie, and considering your tendency to get arrested for speeding—”

I had had one ticket for speeding in eight years. I walked to the door but turned to remark bitterly, “If you think you’re just sending me out to play, try again. Who was the last to see Keyes alive? The cop. He did it. And who will I deliver him to — you? No. Inspector Cramer!”