The Last Coincidence

Twenty-Three

“That was a pretty sleazy stunt with the tire iron,” Cramer said, leaning back in the red leather chair and taking a healthy swallow of beer. “I should have known you were up to something when you asked to have Goodwin get a look at the piece of metal that was used on Linville.”

The creases in Wolfe’s cheeks deepened, which for him is a smile. He was feeling good now, some fifteen hours after putting the finger on Todd Halliburton. When the tension had abated last night and most of our guests had left, Wolfe returned to his office and was handed a check by Doyle James on behalf of his daughter, which I deposited this morning at our neighborhood branch of the Metropolitan Trust Company. And now, at twelve-forty, after his morning frolic upstairs with his orchids, he was anticipating the baked scallops that he’d be consuming in less than an hour.

“Come, Inspector,” he said, “surely you have on occasion employed even sleazier stunts, to use your terminology.”

“Whatever works — within the law, of course,” Cramer said defensively.

“Precisely. And as you no doubt are aware, I would not have used the artifice I did had the guilty individual been, say, Mrs. James, or Mr. Pamsett, or even Doyle James. They would not have reacted satisfactorily for my — or perhaps I should say our — purposes. But it was clear to me, having had Mr. Halliburton described in such detail to me by Mr. Goodwin, that his emotional constitution made him particularly vulnerable to this approach.”

“Well, it sure as hell worked,” Cramer conceded without even a trace of resentment in his voice. “You’ve got to feel pretty good about this one. And for that matter, so do I, for reasons we both know. And to top everything off, after we took Halliburton downtown, he babbled damn near all night about how he’d wasted Linville — who supposedly had been his friend, for God’s sake. In fact, the more he talked, the prouder he sounded; I think he’s convinced that he did society a service. He refused counsel, and the poor guy brought in from the public defender’s office to represent him couldn’t shut him up. The kid wants his trial tomorrow so he can plead guilty to any charge and get it over with. Doesn’t seem to care what happens to him.”

“The murderer as self-styled hero,” Wolfe observed. “Not an altogether unusual reaction. Mr. Cramer, I invite you to join us for lunch. We’re having baked scallops.”

Cramer squinted at his beer glass before drinking. “You know, that’s the best offer I’ve had in weeks,” he said, turning to me and winking.

“Archie, please tell Fritz to put on another plate,” Wolfe said. Which goes to show just how good a mood he really was in.