The League of Frightened Men

Chapter 21

They piled in early. By nine o’clock ten of them had already arrived, checked off on my list, and I was doing the honors. Four of them I hadn’t seen before: Collard and Gaines from Boston, Irving from Philadelphia and Professor Mollison of Yale. Mike Ayers, stony sober on arrival, helped me get drinks around. At nine sharp Leopold Elkus joined the throng. I had no idea what Wolfe had told him to get him there; anyway there he was, and what he wanted to drink was a glass of port, and I restrained an impulse to tell him there was no nitroglycerin in it. He recognized me and acted gracious. Some more came, among them Augustus Farrell, who had phoned on Saturday that he was back from Philadelphia and had landed the commission for Mr. Allenby’s library. Wolfe, surmising that what he was really phoning about was the twenty bucks due him for Wednesday’s work, had had me mail him a check.

They didn’t seem as subdued as they had a week before. They took to the drinks with more gusto, and gathered in groups and talked, and two or three of them even came up to me and got impatient. Collard, the Boston textile man who owned the cliff that Judge Harrison had fallen off of, told me he hoped to see the last act of the opera, and I said I was sorry but I myself had had to give up that hope long ago. I overheard Elkus telling Ferdinand Bowen that it appeared likely that Nero Wolfe was in an advanced stage of megalomania, and tried to get Bowen’s reply but missed it.

There were fifteen of them present at a quarter past nine, which was the time Wolfe had told me he would make his entrance.

It was a good entrance all right. He did it in perfect style. I was watching for him, not to miss it. He came in, three paces in, and stood there, until they had all turned to look at him and the talking had stopped. He inclined his head and used his resonance: “Good evening, gentleman.” Then he faced the door and nodded at Fritz, who was standing on the threshold. Fritz moved aside, and Andrew Hibbard walked in.

That started the first uproar. Pratt and Mike Ayers were the quickest to react. They both yelled “Andy!” and jumped for him. Others followed. They encircled him, shouted at him, grabbed his hands and pounded him on the back. They had him hemmed in so that I couldn’t see any of him, to observe what kind of psychology he was taking it with. It was easy to imagine, hearing them and looking at them, that they really liked Andy Hibbard. Maybe even Drummond and Bowen liked him; you’ve got to take the bitter along with the sweet.

Wolfe had eluded the stampede. He had got to his desk and lowered himself into his chair, and Fritz had brought him beer. I looked at him, and was glad I did, for it wasn’t often he felt like winking at me and I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it. He returned my look and gave me the wink, and I grinned at him. Then he drank some beer.

The commotion went on a while longer. Mike Ayers came over to Wolfe’s desk and said something which I couldn’t hear on account of the noise, and Wolfe nodded and replied something. Mike Ayers went back and began shooing them into chairs, and Cabot and Farrell helped him. They subsided. Pratt took Hibbard by the arm and steered him to one of the big armchairs, and then sat down next to him and took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

Wolfe started the ball rolling. He sat pretty straight, his forearms on the arms of his chair, his chin down, his eyes open on them.

“Gentlemen. Thank you for coming here this evening. Even if we should later come to disagreement, I am sure we are in accord as to the felicitous nature of our preamble. We are all glad that Mr. Hibbard is with us. Mr. Goodwin and I are gratified that we were able to play the Stanley to his Livingstone. As to the particular dark continent that Mr. Hibbard chose to explore, and the method of our finding him, those details must wait for another occasion, since we have more pressing business. I believe it is enough at present to say that Mr. Hibbard’s disappearance was a venture on his own account, a sally in search of education. That is correct, Mr. Hibbard?”

They all looked at Hibbard. He nodded. “That’s correct.”

Wolfe took some papers from his drawer, spread them out, and picked one up. “I have here, gentlemen, a copy of the memorandum of our agreement. One of my undertakings herein was to remove from you all apprehension and expectation of injury from the person or persons responsible for the disappearance of Andrew Hibbard. I take it that that has been accomplished? You have no fear of Mr. Hibbard himself?—Good. Then that much is done.” He paused to look them over, face by face, and went on. “For the rest, it will be necessary to read you a document.” He put the memorandum down and picked up another paper, sheets clipped to a brown paper jacket. “This, gentlemen, is dated November twelfth, which is today. It is signed with the name of Paul Chapin. At the top it is headed, CONFESSION OF PAUL CHAPIN REGARDING THE DEATHS OF WILLIAM R. HARRISON AND EUGENE DREYER AND THE WRITING AND DISPATCHING OF CERTAIN INFORMATIVE AND THREATENING VERSES. It reads as follows—”

Cabot the lawyer butted in. He would. He interrupted: “Mr. Wolfe. Of course this is interesting, but in view of what has happened’ do you think it’s necessary?”

“Quite.” Wolfe didn’t look up. “If you will permit me:

There was an explosive snort from Mike Ayers, and mutterings from some of the others. Julius Adler’s mild sarcastic voice took the air: “This is drivel. Chapin has maintained throughout—”

Wolfe stopped him, and all of them. “Gentlemen! Please. I ask your indulgence. If you will withhold comments until the end.”

Drummond squeaked, “Let him finish,” and I made a mental note to give him an extra drink. Wolfe continued:

Wolfe finished, dropped the confession on the table, and leaned back. “Now, gentlemen. If you wish to comment.”

There were mumblings. Ferdinand Bowen, the stockbroker, spoke up: “It seems to me Adler has commented for all of us. Drivel.”

Wolfe nodded. “I can understand that viewpoint. In fact, I suppose that under the circumstances it is inevitable. But let me expound my own viewpoint. My position is that I have met my obligations under the memorandum and that the payments are due.”

“My dear sir!” It was Nicholas Cabot. “Preposterous.”

“I think not. What I undertook to do was to remove your fear of Paul Chapin. That’s what it amounts to, with the facts we now have. Well: as for Andrew Hibbard, here he is. As for the deaths of Harrison and Dreyer, it should have been obvious to all of you, from the beginning, that Chapin had nothing to do with them. You had known him all his mature life. I had merely read his books; but I was aware last Monday evening, when you gentlemen were here, that Chapin could not possibly commit a premeditated murder, and not even an impromptu one unless suddenly demented. And you, Mr. Hibbard, a psychologist! Have you read Chapin’s books? Why are they so concerned with murder and the delight of it? Why does every page have its hymn to violence and the brute beauty of vehement action? Or, to change heroes, why did Nietzsche say, Thou goest to woman, forget not thy whip? Because he had not the temerity to touch a woman with the tip of a goose-feather. The truth is that Paul Chapin did murder Harrison and Dreyer, and all of you. He has murdered you, and will doubtless do so again, in his books. Let him, gentlemen, and go on breathing.

“No. Harrison and Dreyer and Hibbard are out of it. Consult the memorandum. There remains only the matter of the warnings. Chapin admits he sent them, and tells you how and why and where. The trilogy is done. There will be no sequels, and even if there were I should not suppose they would alarm you. If he should desire to use the same typewriter again he would have to come to this office for it, for it rests there on Mr. Goodwin’s desk.”

They all looked, and I moved out of the way so they could see it. Wolfe drank beer, and wiped his lips. He resumed:

“I know, of course, where the trouble lies. Paul Chapin is in the Tombs charged with the murder of Dr. Burton. If that had not happened, if Dr. Burton were here with us this evening alive and well, I have no doubt that all of you would acquiesce in my position. I have done the work I was engaged for. But as it is, you are confused; and what confuses you is this, that whereas you formerly had no security at all against Paul Chapin’s injurious designs, you now have more than you need. I offer you the security I undertook to get for you, but you are no longer interested in it because you already have something just as good: namely, that Chapin is going to be electrocuted and can no longer murder you even in books.—Mr. Cabot, I ask you as a lawyer, is that exposition of the situation correct? What do you think of it?”

“I think...” Cabot pursed his lips, and after a moment went on, “I think it is remarkably ingenious rubbish.”

Wolfe nodded. “I would expect you to. I take it, gentlemen, that Mr. Cabot’s opinion is approximately unanimous. Yes?—So it becomes necessary for me to introduce a new consideration. This: that Chapin did not kill Dr. Burton, that I can establish his innocence, and that if tried he will be acquitted.”

That started the second uproar. It began as a muttering of incredulity and astonishment; it was Leopold Elkus that put the noise in it. He jumped out of his chair and ran around Wolfe’s desk to get at him and grabbed his hand and began pumping it. He seemed to be excited; he was yelling at Wolfe something about justice and gratitude and how great and grand Wolfe was; I didn’t hear anything about megalomania. The others, busy with their own remarks, didn’t pay any attention to him. Mike Ayers, roaring with laughter, got up and went to the table for a drink. I got up too, thinking I might have to go and haul Elkus off of Wolfe, but he finally trotted back to the others, gesticulating and still talking. Wolfe lifted his hand at them:

“Gentlemen! If you please. I seem to have startled you. Similarly, I suppose, the police and the District Attorney will be startled, though they should not be. You of course expect me to support my statement with evidence, but if I do that I must ask you for more impartiality than I observe at the moment on most of your faces. You cannot be at the same time juridical and partisan, at least not with any pretense at competence.

“I offer these items. First, at a few minutes before seven on Saturday evening Paul Chapin answered the telephone in his apartment. It was Dr. Burton, who asked Chapin to come to see him immediately. A little later Chapin left to go to Ninetieth Street, arriving there at seven-thirty. But there was something wrong with that telephone call, namely, that Dr. Burton never made it. For that we have the word of his wife, who says that her husband telephoned no one around that time Saturday. It seems likely, therefore, that there was somewhere a third person who was taking upon himself the functions of fate.—I know, Mr. Adler. And I think I perceive, Mr. Bowen, that your face carries a similar expression. You would ask if I am gullible enough to believe Mr. Chapin. I am not gullible, but I believe him. He told his wife of the telephone call, and she told me; and there is the switchboard operator at the Chapin apartment house.

“Item two. Consider the details of what is supposed to have happened in the Burton foyer. Dr. Burton took the pistol from his desk and went to the foyer. Chapin, there waiting for him, took the pistol from him, shot him four times, turned out the light, threw the pistol on the floor and then got down on his hands and knees to look for it in the dark. What a picture! According to the story of Mrs. Burton and of the maid, Dr. Burton had been in the foyer not more than six seconds, possibly less, when the shots were fired. Burton was a good-sized man, and powerful. Chapin is small and is handicapped by a major deformity; he cannot even walk without support. Well... I am going to count six seconds for you. One... two... three... four... five... six. That was six seconds. In that space of time, or less, the crippled Chapin is supposed to have got the gun from Burton’s pocket, God knows how, shot him, dropped the gun, hobbled to the switch to turn off the light, and hobbled back to the table to fall to the floor. In your juridical capacity, gentlemen, what do you think of that?”

Leopold Elkus stood up. His black eyes were not floating back into his head now; he was using them for glaring. He let the bunch have the glare, right and left, saying loudly and clearly, “Anyone who ever believed that is no better than a cretin.” He looked at Wolfe. “I shall have apologies for you, sir, when this kindergarten is over.” He sat down.

“Thank you, Dr. Elkus.—Item three, for what conceivable reason did Chapin turn out the light? I shall not take your time by listing conjectures only to have you reject them as I have done. Make your own when you have leisure for it, if it amuses you. I only say, the actions even of a murderer should be in some degree explicable, and to believe that Chapin shot Burton and then hobbled to the wall to turn out the light is to believe nonsense. I doubt if any of you believe that. Do you?”

They looked at one another as if, having no opinions of their own, they would like to borrow one. Two or three shook their heads. George Pratt spoke up, “I’ll tell you what I believe, Wolfe. I believe we hired you to get Paul Chapin into trouble, not out of it.” Drummond giggled and Mike Ayers laughed. Nicholas Cabot demanded:

“What does Chapin have to say? Did he shoot or didn’t he? Did he turn out the light or didn’t he? What does he say happened during those six seconds?”

Wolfe shook his head and his cheeks unfolded a little. “Oh no, Mr. Cabot. It is possible that Mr. Chapin will have to tell his story on the witness-stand in his own defense. You can hardly expect me to disclose it in advance to those who may consider themselves his enemies.”

“What the hell, no one would believe him anyway.” It was Ferdinand Bowen relieving himself. “He’d cook up a tale, of course.”

Wolfe turned his eyes on Bowen, and I had mine there too. I was curious to see if he would take it. I didn’t think he would, but he did; he kept his gaze steady back at Wolfe.

Wolfe sighed. “Well, gentlemen, I have presented my case. I could offer further points for your consideration: for instance, the likelihood that if Chapin intended to kill Dr. Burton as soon as he set eyes on him he would have gone provided with a weapon. Also, Chapin’s constitutional incapacity for any form of violent action, which I discovered through his novels, and which all of you must be acquainted with as a fact. And in addition, there are items of evidence which I cannot divulge to you now, out of fairness to him, but which will certainly be used should he come to trial. Surely, surely I have offered enough to show you that if your minds have been cleared of any fear of injury from Paul Chapin, it is not because a policeman found him sitting in Dr. Burton’s foyer, stunned by an event he could not have foreseen; it is because I have laid bare the purely literary nature of his attempt at vengeance. The question is this, have I satisfactorily performed my undertaking? I think I have. But it is you who are to decide it, by vote. I ask you to vote yes.—Archie. If you will please call the names.”

They began to talk. Bowen muttered to his neighbor, Gaines of Boston, “Pretty slick, he’s a damn fool if he thinks we’ll fall for it.” Elkus glared at him. I caught a few other observations. Cabot said to Wolfe, “I shall vote no. In case Chapin does get an acquittal, and evidence is presented—”

Wolfe nodded at him. “I am aware, Mr. Cabot, that this vote is not the last dingdong of doom. As you shall see, if I lose.” He nodded at me, and I started the roll call. On the list I was using they were alphabetical.

“Julius Adler.”

“No. I would like to say—”

Wolfe cut him off. “The no is sufficient. Proceed, Archie.”

“Michael Ayers.”

“Yes!” He made it emphatic. I thought, good for him, with two weeks’ wages up.

“Ferdinand Bowen.”

“No.”

“Edwin Robert Byron.”

“Yes.” That evened it up.

“Nicholas Cabot.”

“No.”

“Fillmore Collard.”

“Yes.” Wowie. Nine thousand berries. I paused because I had to look at him.

“Alexander Drummond.”

“No.” Sure, the damn canary.

“Leopold Elkus.”

“Yes!” And it was even again, four and four.

“Augustus Farrell.”

“Yes.”

“Theodore Gaines.”

“No.”

“L. M. Irving.”

“No.”

“Arthur Kommers.”

“No.” Three out-of-town babies, three noes in a row, and I hoped Wolfe was proud of his long-distance phoning.

“Sidney Lang.”

“Yes.”

“Archibald Mollison.”

“Yes.”

It was even again, seven and seven, and just one more to go, but I knew what it would be before I called it. It was George Pratt, the Tammany bird who had tried to get Inspector Cramer worried about his four grand. I said it:

“George R. Pratt.”

“No.”

I counted them over to make sure, and turned to Wolfe: “Seven yeses and eight noes.”

He didn’t look at me. They all began talking. Wolfe had rung for another bottle of beer, and now he opened it, poured a glass, watched the foam go down in front of him, but he didn’t look at it. He drank some more beer, and wiped his lips with his usual care. Then he leaned back and shut his eyes. They were all talking, and two or three of them directed questions or remarks at him, but he kept his eyes closed and paid no attention. Leopold Elkus walked to the desk and stood and looked at him a minute, and then went back again. They were getting louder, and the arguments were warming up.

Finally Wolfe came to. He opened his eyes, and saw that a fresh bottle of beer had arrived, which I had attended to, and opened it and drank some. Then he picked up a paperweight and rapped on the desk. They looked around, but went on talking. He rapped again, and they began to quiet down.

He spoke. “Gentlemen. I must again ask your indulgence—”

But Cabot was feeling his oats. He broke in, snappy: “We have voted. According to the memorandum, that settles it.”

Wolfe got snappy too. “It settles that vote, sir. It does not settle the destiny of the human race. If you wish to leave us, of course you may, but we would still have a quorum without you.—Good. I have two appeals to make. First, to those eight who voted no. Please heed me. I appeal to each and all of you — you understand, to each one of you — to change your vote to yes. I have a specific reason to hope that one of you will decide to change. Well, gentlemen? I shall give you one minute.”

They shook their heads. One or two spoke, but mostly they were silent, gazing at Wolfe. There had been a new tone in his voice. He had taken out his watch and kept his eyes on it. At the end of the minute he returned it to his pocket and looked up.

He sighed. “Then I must proceed to my second appeal. This time, Mr. Bowen, it is to you alone. I ask you to vote yes. You of course know why. Will you vote yes?”

They all looked at the stockbroker. Including me. He was still taking it, but not so good. He damn near stuttered, shooting it back at Wolfe. I would say he did just fair with it: “Certainly not. Why should I?” His mouth stayed open; he thought he would talk some more, and then he thought he wouldn’t.

Wolfe sighed again. “Mr. Bowen, you are a simpleton.—Gentlemen, I would like to explain briefly why I have not done sooner what I am going to do now. There were two reasons: because I am not fond of interfering in affairs that are not my concern, and because it would be expensive for me. To be exact, it will cost me twelve hundred dollars, the amount of Mr. Bowen’s payment under the memorandum. Besides that, as I have said, it was none of my business. If any person is suspected of having committed a crime, and if I am offered a sufficient sum of money to catch him up, I will do it. That is my business. I understand that there are individuals who will undertake to apprehend wrongdoers, especially murderers, without being paid for it. They do it, I presume, for amusement, which is not astonishing when you consider what odd diversions have been sought by various members of our race. I myself have other means of escaping boredom, but this is the only one I have developed of avoiding penury. I will hunt anyone down if you pay me enough. But no one has offered to pay me for discovering the murderer of Dr. Burton. By exposing him and delivering him to justice I shall lose twelve hundred dollars, but I shall ensure the collection of a larger sum.—Now. Mr. Farrell, would you mind moving to another chair? If you please. And you, Archie, take the seat Mr. Farrell is vacating, next to Mr. Bowen.”

I moved. My eye hadn’t left Bowen since Wolfe had asked him to vote yes, and now all eyes were on him. Nobody was saying a word. The stockbroker was up against it. By skating all around him with inference and insinuation but not directly accusing him, and prolonging it, Wolfe had him plenty perplexed. The others staring at him didn’t help him any. I suppose he was trying to decide whether it was time for him to jump up and begin resenting things. He didn’t glance at me as I sat down by him; he was looking at Wolfe.

Wolfe was on the phone. He kept his usual tempo, taking his time, though he had to try three numbers before he reached the man he wanted. He finally got him. Nobody on the chairs moved by a hair while he was talking.

“Inspector Cramer? This is Nero Wolfe. That’s right. Good evening, sir.—Inspector, I would like you to do me a favor. I have guests in my office, and no leisure at present for long explanations. I believe you know how much reliance may be placed in any positive statement I may make. Well. Will you send a man to my office — perhaps two would be better — for the murderer of Dr. Loring A. Burton? I have him here.—No. No, indeed. I beg you, explanations can come later.—Of course, proof; what good is certainty without proof.—By all means, if you wish to come yourself. Certainly.”

He pushed the phone back, and Bowen jumped up. His knees were trembling, and so were his little lady-hands, which I was watching to see that he didn’t make a pass. I took advantage of his being up to feel his rear for a gun; and my hands on him startled him. He forgot what he was going to say to Wolfe and turned on me, and by God he hauled off and kicked me on the shin. I got up and grabbed him and pushed him back into his chair and observed to him:

“You try another friendly gesture like that and I’ll paste you one.”

Drummond, who had been sitting next to Bowen, on the other side, moved away. Several others got up. Wolfe said:

“Sit down, gentlemen.—I beg you, there is no occasion for turmoil.—Archie, if you will kindly bring Mr. Bowen closer; I would like to see him better while talking to him. If it is necessary to prod him, you may do so.”

I stood up and told the stockbroker to find his feet. He didn’t move and he didn’t look up; his hands were in his lap twisting in a knot and there were various colors distributed over his face and neck and I was surprised not to see any yellow. I said, “Get a move on or I’ll move you.” From behind me I heard George Pratt’s voice:

“You don’t have to prove you’re tough. Look at the poor devil.”

“Yeah?” I didn’t turn because I didn’t care to take my eyes off of Bowen. “Was it your shin he kicked? Speak when you’re spoken to.”

I grabbed Bowen’s collar and jerked him up, and he came. I admit he was pitiful. He stood for a second trying to look around at them, and he tried to keep the quaver out of his voice: “Fellows. You understand why... if I don’t say anything now to... to this ridiculous...”

He couldn’t finish it anyhow, so I hauled him away. I put a chair up and sat him in it, then I perched on the edge of Wolfe’s desk so as to face him. Two or three of the bunch got to their feet and approached us. Wolfe turned to face the stockbroker:

“Mr. Bowen. It gives me no pleasure to prolong your discomfiture in the presence of your friends, but in any event we must wait until the police arrive to take you away. Just now you used the word ridiculous; may I borrow it from you? You are the most ridiculous murderer I have ever met. I do not know you well enough to be able to say whether it was through vast stupidity or extraordinary insouciance; however that may be, you planned the most hazardous of all crimes as if you were devising a harmless parlor game.

“I am not merely taunting you; I am depriving you of your last tatters of hope and courage in order to break you down. You stole a large sum from Dr. Burton through his account with your firm. I know nothing of the mechanism of your theft; that will be uncovered when the District Attorney examines your books. You found that Dr. Burton had discovered the theft, or suspected it, and on Saturday you went to his apartment to appeal to him, but already you had arranged an alternative in case the appeal failed. You were with Burton in his study. He went to his wife’s room to ask her if she cared enough for Estelle Bowen to make a big sacrifice for her, and his wife said no. Burton returned to the study and you got your answer; but during his absence you had got his automatic pistol from the drawer of his desk and put it in your pocket. Since you were his close friend, you had probably known for a long time that he kept a gun there; if not, you heard him in this room a week ago tonight telling all of us that on the occasion of Paul Chapin’s last visit to him he had got the gun from the drawer before he went to see Chapin in the foyer. Would you like a drink?”

Bowen made no reply or movement. Mike Ayers went to the table and got a shot of rye and came over with it and offered it to him, but Bowen paid no attention. Mike Ayers shrugged his shoulders and drank it himself. Wolfe was going on:

“Soon you left, at twenty minutes past six. No one went to the foyer with you; or if Burton did go, you pushed the button on the edge of the door as you went out, so it would not lock, and in a moment re-entered. At all events, you were alone in the foyer and the Burtons thought you had gone. You listened. Hearing no one, you went to the telephone. You had your gloves in your hand, and not to be encumbered with them while phoning, you laid them on the table. But before your call had gone through you were interrupted by the sound of someone approaching in the drawing-room. Alarmed, you ran for the concealment which you had already decided on: the curtained closet next to the light switch and the double doors. You got behind the curtain in time, before Miss Burton, the daughter of the house, came through, leaving the apartment.

“You realized that you had left your gloves lying on the table, and that concerned you, for you would need them to keep fingerprints from the gun — and, by the way, did it occur to you that the phone would show prints? Or did you wipe them off? No matter. But you did not at once dash out for the gloves, for you needed a little time to collect yourself after the alarm that the daughter had given you. You waited, and probably congratulated yourself that you did, for almost at once you heard the double door opening again, and footsteps, and the opening of the entrance door. It was Dora Chapin, arriving to do Mrs. Burton’s hair.

“Mr. Paul Chapin was out Saturday afternoon and did not return until rather late. This morning on the telephone, the switchboard operator at 203 Perry Street told me that there was a phone call for Mr. Chapin some fifteen or twenty minutes before he arrived home. So it seems likely that about six-forty you emerged from your hiding place, got the gloves, and tried the phone again, but there was no answer from the Chapin apartment. You returned to the closet, and fifteen minutes later tried again. Of course you did not know that the last phone call of yours, at about five minutes to seven, happened to coincide with Mr. Chapin’s entrance into the hall of 203 Perry Street; the switchboard operator called to him, and he answered that call at the switchboard itself, so the operator heard it. Apparently you imitated Dr. Burton’s voice with some success, for Mr. Chapin was deceived. He went upstairs to his apartment for a few minutes, and then came down to take a cab to Ninetieth Street.

“After phoning Chapin you returned again to the closet and waited there, with an accelerated pulse, I presume, and an emergency demand on your supply of adrenaline. Indeed, you seem practically to have exhausted the latter. I imagine that it seemed quite a while before Chapin arrived, and you were surprised to find that it had been only thirty-five minutes since your phone call. At all events, he came, was admitted by the maid, and sat down. In your closet, you kept your ears keen to learn if he took a chair that would turn his back to you; you had your gloves on, and the gun in your right hand ready for action. Still you strained your ears, to hear the approach of Dr. Burton. You heard his steps crossing the drawing-room, and the instant the sound came of his hand on the doorknob, you moved. Here, I confess, you showed efficiency and accuracy. Your left arm shot out past the edge of the curtain, your fingers found the light switch and pushed it, and the foyer was in darkness except for the dim light that wandered through the door from the drawing-room after Dr. Burton had opened it. With the light off, you jumped from the closet, found Chapin in his chair, and shoved him off onto the floor — not difficult with a cripple, was it, Mr. Bowen? By that time Dr. Burton had approached the commotion and was quite close when you shot him, and there was enough light from the drawing-room door for you to tell where his middle was. You pulled the trigger and held it for four shots, then threw the gun to the floor — and made your exit, after closing the double door. In the hall you ran to the stairs, and ran down them. There were only four flights, and one more to the basement, and a short stretch of hall to the service entrance. You calculated that even if you encountered someone, there would be no great danger in it, for the guilt of Paul Chapin would be so obvious that no questions would be asked of anyone outside of the apartment.

“Now, Mr. Bowen, you made many mistakes, but none so idiotic as your sole reliance on Chapin’s obvious guilt, for that one was the father of all the others. Why in the name of heaven didn’t you turn on the light again as you went out? And why didn’t you wait until Chapin and Burton had talked a minute or two before you acted? You could have done just as well. Another inexcusable thing was your carelessness in leaving the gloves on the table. I know; you were so sure that they would be sure of Chapin that you thought nothing else mattered. You were worse than a tyro, you were a donkey. I tell you this, sir, your exposure is a credit to no one, least of all to me. Pfui!”

Wolfe stopped, abruptly, and turned to ring for Fritz, for beer. Bowen’s fingers had been twisting in and out, but now they had stopped that and were locked together. He was shaking all over, just sitting in his chair shaking, with no nerve left, no savvy, no nothing; he was nothing but a gob of scared meat.

Leopold Elkus came up and stood three feet from Bowen and stood staring at him; I had a feeling that he had a notion to cut him open and see what was inside. Mike Ayers appeared with another drink, but this time it wasn’t for Bowen, he held it out to me and I took it and drank it. Andrew Hibbard went to my desk and got the telephone and gave the operator the number of his home. Drummond was squeaking something to George Pratt. Nicholas Cabot passed around Bowen’s chair, went up to Wolfe and said to him in a tone not low enough for me not to hear:

“I’m going, Mr. Wolfe. I have an appointment. I want to say, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get that twelve hundred dollars from Bowen. It’s a legal obligation. If you’d like me to handle the collection I’d be glad to do it and expect no fee. Let me know.”

That lawyer was tough.