by Rex Stout
"I think I do. It's somewhat involved." Wolfe's eyes moved. "The kitchen extension, Archie."
I pressed a button and got up and went. As I passed Saul he winked. I'm going to talk him out of that some day. In the kitchen I sat at my breakfast table, pulled the phone over, and dialed. Cramer doesn't like to be called at his home number, but if I had rung Homicide South I would probably have got Rowcliff, and I didn't want to take the time and trouble to get him stuttering. After four buzzes a female voice I knew said hello, and I said, "This is Archie Goodwin, Mrs. Cramer. May I speak to the inspector, please?"
She said she'd see, and in a minute there was a growl in my ear, "What do you want, Goodwin?"
"I'm in the kitchen. Mr. Wolfe needs help. The woman who killed Susan Brooke and Peter Vaughn is in the office with him, talking a blue streak, and won't stop. She has explained why she killed Susan, and now she's explaining—"
"Damn you, are you clowning?"
"I am not. I'm sick and tired of being accused of clowning by cops. This morning in Evansville, Indiana, a police lieutenant did, and I brought him—"
"Who's the woman with Wolfe?"
"I'd rather not mention names on the phone. Another thing, the gun she shot Vaughn with is in my desk drawer and I haven't got a permit for it. I don't like—"
"Is this straight, Goodwin?"
"You know damn well it is. As Dolly Brooke would say, are I crazy? Would I—"
The connection went. I went to a shelf for a glass and to the refrigerator for milk. It would probably be six or seven minutes before company came, and I had had enough of that face, even in profile.
Chapter 16
YESTERDAY AFTERNOON Paul Whipple came, no appointment, a little after six o'clock. He was quite natty in a brown macron or zacron or something, tropical weight, about the same shade as his skin, but I thought he was rushing it a little. It was toward the end of May, but it was cool and breezy, and on my morning walk I had buttoned my jacket and wanted more. I took him to the office and to the red leather chair, and Wolfe, who had just picked up his current book, put it down almost politely. They conversed a little on matters of interest, such as the trial of Marjorie Ault, which had just ended with a conviction and a life sentence, and then Whipple mentioned what he had come to mention.
"I was wondering," he said, "about a check I sent you six weeks ago. It hasn't come through my bank, and I was wondering if you got it."
Wolfe nodded. "I tore it up."
"But you shouldn't. I'm going to insist. It wasn't much, for what you did, but I said we would pay what we could, and we want to. My wife and my son—we insist."
"I resent that, Mr. Whipple."
"You resent it?"
"Certainly. I undertook to cancel an obligation, and I have done so, and you would restore it. Pfui. I wouldn't have made the original fantastic engagement, to find a blemish on that woman, for any fee any man could offer. Its development wasn't your doing and didn't affect the nature of my commitment. What you insist on is keeping me in your debt."
"That's sophistry."
"Good. Probably no man will ever corral truth, but Protagoras came closer to it than Plato. If you send me another check I'll burn it. Your son sent me a well-worded letter of appreciation, and it was welcome. How is he?"
"He's all right. This was a hard experience for him, but he's all right. He's developing another—uh—personal interest. You probably remember her, with your memory. Beth Tiger. A very attractive girl."
Wolfe shot a glance at me, and I let my jaw fall, but not in time. Whipple was going on. "My wife likes her and she's very happy about it. I'm going to tell you something my wife said the other day. We were discussing the trial, Mrs. Ault, and we got to talking about you, and she said, 'I wish he was a Negro.'" He smiled. "Now there's a compliment."
Wolfe grunted. "If I were, Mr. Goodwin would have to be one too."
I haven't bothered to take that apart. As I said, I gave up long ago trying to figure how his mind works.
