Margery Allingham - Ellery Queen’s Anthology. 1960

The doorbell rang. During lunch Fritz had been told to leave it to me, so I arose, crossed to the hall, and went front. But not all the way. Four paces short of the door I saw, through the one-way glass panel, the red, rugged face and the heavy, broad shoulders. I wheeled and returned to the office, not dawdling, and told Wolfe, “The man to fix the chair.”

“Indeed.” His head jerked up. “The front room.”

Carl and Tina, warned by our tone and tempo, were on their feet. The bell rang again. I moved, fast, to the door to the front room and pulled it open, telling them, “In here, quick! Step on it!” They obeyed, without a word, as if they had known me and trusted me for years, but what choice did they have? When they had passed through I said, “Relax and keep quiet,” shut the door, glanced at Wolfe and got a nod, went to the front door, opened it, and said morosely, “Hello. What now?”

“It took you long enough,” Inspector Cramer growled, crossing the threshold.

Wolfe can move when he wants to. I have seen him prove it more than once, as he did then. By the time I was back in the office, following Cramer, he had scattered in front of him on his desk a dozen folders of plant germination records for which he had had to go to the filing cabinet. One of the folders was spread open and he was scowling at us above it. He grunted a greeting but not a welcome. Cramer grunted back, moved to the red leather chair, and sat down.

I got myself at my desk. I was wishing I wasn’t involved so I could just enjoy it. If Wolfe succeeded in keeping Cramer’s claws off of the Vardas family, and at the same time kept himself out of jail, I would show my appreciation by not hitting him for a raise for a month.

Fritz entered with a tray, so Wolfe had found time to push a button, too. It was the fixed allotment, three bottles of beer. Wolfe told Fritz to bring another glass, but Cramer said no, thanks.

Suddenly Cramer looked at me and demanded, “Where did you go when you left the barbershop?”

My brows went up. “If you really cared you could have put a tail on me. If you didn’t care enough to put a tail on me you’re just being nosy, and I resent it. Next question.”

“Why not answer that one?”

“Because some of the errands I get sent on are confidential, and I don’t want to start a bad habit.”

Cramer turned abruptly to Wolfe: “You know a police officer was killed this morning there in that shop?”

“Yes.” Wolfe halted a foaming glass on its way to his mouth. “Archie told me a bout it.”

“Maybe he did.”

“Not maybe. He did.”

“Okay.” Cramer cocked his head and watched Wolfe empty the glass and use his handkerchief on his lips. Then he said, “Look. This is what brought me here. I have learned over a stretch of years that when I find you within a mile of a murder, and Goodwin is a part of you, something fancy can be expected. I don’t need to itemize that — your memory is as good as mine... Wait a second; let me finish.

“I don’t say there’s no such thing as a coincidence. I know you’ve been going to that shop for two years, and Goodwin for six years. It wouldn’t be so remarkable if he happened in there this particular day, two hours after a murder, if it wasn’t for certain features. He told Graboff, his barber, that he needed an emergency shave to go to an appointment. Incidentally, it couldn’t have been much of an emergency, since he waited nearly half an hour while Graboff finished with a customer, but I might concede that. The point is that Graboff and Fickler both say that in the six years Goodwin has been going there he had never gone just for a shave. Not once. He goes only for the works: haircut, scalp massage, shampoo, and shave. That makes it too remarkable. Just one day in six years an emergency sends him there for a shave. I don’t believe it.”

Wolfe shrugged. “Then you don’t. I’m not responsible for your credulity quotient, Mr. Cramer. Neither is Mr. Goodwin. I don’t see how we can help you.”

“Nobody would believe it,” Cramer said stubbornly, refusing to get riled. “That’s why I’m here. I do believe that Goodwin went to that shop be cause he knew a man had been murdered there.”

“Then you believe wrong,” I told him. “Until I got there I hadn’t tire slightest idea or suspicion that a man had been murdered, there or anywhere else.”

“You have been known to lie, Goodwin.”

“Only within limits, and I know what they are. I will state that in an affidavit. Write it out, and there’s a notary at the corner drugstore. That would be perjury, which I’m allergic to.”

“Your going there had nothing whatever to do with the murder?”

“Put it that way if you prefer it. It did not.”

Wolfe was pouring beer. “How,” he inquired, not belligerently, “was Mr. Goodwin supposed to have learned of the murder? Had you fitted that in?”

“I don’t know.” Cramer gestured impatiently. “I didn’t come here with a diagram. I only know what it means when I’m on a homicide, and suddenly there you are, or Goodwin. And there Goodwin was, two hours after it happened. Frankly, I have no idea where you come in. You work only for big money. That hit-and-run driver could be a man with money, but if so it couldn’t be someone who works in that shop. No one there has the kind of dough that hires Nero Wolfe. So I don’t see how it could be money that pulled you in, and I frankly admit I have no idea what else could. I guess I’ll have a little beer, after all, if you don’t mind. I’m tired.”

Wolfe leaned forward to push the button.

“What was on my mind,” Cramer said, “was two things: First, I did not believe that Goodwin just happened to drop in at the scene of a murder. I admit he’s not quite brazen enough to commit perjury.” He looked at me. “I want that affidavit. Today.”

“You’ll get it,” I assured him.

Fritz entered with another tray, put it down on the little table at Cramer’s elbow, and uncapped the bottle. “Shall I pour, sir?”

“Thanks, I will.” Cramer took the glass in his left hand, tilted it, and poured with his right. Unlike Wolfe, he didn’t care for a lot of foam. “Second,” he said, “I thought that what took Goodwin there might be something you would be ready to tell me about, but he wouldn’t because you’re the boss and he’s a clam unless you say the word. I don’t pretend to have anything to pry it out of you with. You know the law about withholding evidence as well as I do; you ought to, the stunts you’ve pulled—”

“You thought,” Wolfe asked, “that I had sent Archie to the shop on business.”

“Yes. For the reason given.”

“You’re wrong. I didn’t. Since you’re to get an affidavit from Archie, you might as well have one from me too and get it settled. In it I will say that I did not send him to the barbershop, that I did not know he was going there, and that I heard and knew nothing of the murder until he returned and told me.”

“You’ll swear to that?”

“As a favor to you, yes. You’ve wasted your time coming here, and you might as well get a little something out of it.” Wolfe reached for his second bottle. “By the way, I still don’t know why you came. According to Archie, the murderer is known and all you have to do is find him — that man at the clothes rack — uh, Carl. And his wife, you said, Archie?”

“Yes, sir. Tina, one of the manicurists. Purley told me straight they had done it and scooted.”

Wolfe frowned at Cramer. “Then what could you expect to get from me? How could I help?”

“What I said, that’s all,” Cramer insisted doggedly, pouring the rest of his beer. “When I see Goodwin poking around I want to know why.”