Rex Stout - Murder by the Book

Cramer nodded. "You tricked him into killing himself."

"Did I? Did he kill himself?"

"Goddam it, didn't he?"

"I don't know. You have investigated, I haven't. What have you concluded?"

Cramer scratched his ear. "There's nothing against suicide. It was his gun, fired at contact. Smudges on it, no clear prints. His prints on the phone. He had been dead less than an hour when the examiner arrived. No evidence safar of anyone else being there. He had been struck a hard blow on the side of the head but could have got it from the corner of the table when he fell, and probably did. There was-"

Wolfe waved it away. "From you, 'nothing against suicide' is enough. On that sort of thing you are not to be impugned. But it is still open?"

"It's not closed. That's why I'm here. I just said you tricked him into killing himself, and you may or may not hear more about that, but right now I want a lot more than you've given

me. If it was suicide, why? Because he thought you knew what was in that damn manuscript? Because he thought you had him? For what? Murder? I want a lot more, a hell of a lot, and I'm here to get it."

Wolfe pursed his lips. "Well." He opened a desk drawer. "This came in my morning mail." He took a fat envelope from the drawer. "See if that answers your questions." He held it out.

Cramer got up to take the envelope and sat down again. He inspected the outside of the envelope before he removed the contents. He unfolded the sheets, read a little, looked at Wolfe, made a growling noise, and read some more. As he finished the first page and transferred it to the back, he inquired, "You say this came this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

He had no more to say or to ask until he got to the end. Wolfe leaned back, shut his eyes, and relaxed. I kept my eyes open. I kept them on Cramer's face, but all I saw was a man so intent and absorbed that he had no expression at all. When he finished he went back to a place on the third or fourth page and read it over. Then he looked at Wolfe, with his h'ps tightened to a thin line.

"You got this three hours ago," he muttered.

Wolfe opened his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"You got this three hours ago. You know how to phone my office. Sergeant Stebbins talked to Goodwin at nine o'clock. Goodwin didn't mention it."

"I hadn't read it yet," I stated. "It had just come."

"You know my number."

"Bosh," Wolfe said testily. "This is ridiculous. Have I concealed it or destroyed it?"

"No, you haven't." Cramer wiggled the sheets. "What evidence is there that Corrigan wrote this?"

"None."

"What evidence is there that you didn't dictate it to Goodwin and he wrote it?"

"None." Wolfe straightened up. "Mr. Cramer. You might as well leave. If you are in a frame of mind to think me capable of so extravagant an imbecility, all communication is blocked." He wiggled a finger. "You have that thing. Take it and go."

Cramer ignored it. "You maintain that Corrigan wrote this."

"I do not. I maintain only that I received it in today's mail, and that I have no knowledge of who wrote it beyond the

thing itself. I suppose other evidence is procurable. If there is a typewriter in Corrigan's apartment, and if investigation shows it was written on that machine, that would be pertinent."

"You have no knowledge of it whatever beyond what you've told me?"

"I have not."

"Do you know of any evidence other than this that Corri-gan committed the murders?"

"No."

"Or that he betrayed his partner O'Malley?"

"No."

"Do you believe this to be an authentic confession by Cm-rigan?"

"I'm not prepared to say. I've read it only once, rather hurriedly. I was going to ask you to let Mr. Goodwin make a copy for me, but I'll get along without it."

"You won't have to. I'll see that you get a copy, with the understanding that there is to be no publication of it without my consent." Cramer folded the sheets and put them in the envelope. "It's covered with your and Goodwin's prints now, and mine. But we'll try it."

"If it's a fake," Wolfe said dryly, "I should think that a man capable of contriving it would know about fingerprints."

"Yeah, everybody knows about fingerprints."

Cramer rubbed his kneecaps with his palms, regarding Wolfe with his head cocked. The chewed cigar, which had previously taken no part in the conversation, slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, but he made no move to retrieve it.

He spoke. "I admit this is damn neat. It will stand a lot of checking, but I admit it's neat. What are you going to do now, send your client a bill?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"My client, Mr. Wellman, has his share of gumption. Before I bill him both he and I must be satisfied that I have earned my fee." Wolfe's eyes moved. "Archie. Trained as you are, can I rely on you for an accurate copy of that communication from-ostensibly-Mr. Corrigan?"

"It's pretty long," I objected, "and I read it once."

"I said I'll send you a copy," Cramer stated.

"I know you did. I would like to have it as soon as possible. It would be gratifying to have it validated, both by your investigation and my scrutiny, since that would mean that I have exposed a murderer and forced him to a reckoning without a scrap of evidence against him. We still have none, not a title, except that unsigned communication."

"I know we haven't."

"Then by all means check it, every detail, every word. Dq you want a comment?"

"Yes."

"A focus of interest is the anonymous letter informing on O'Malley. Suppose it was sent not by Corrigan, but by one of the others. In that case that confession may be factually correct in every important detail but one, the identity of the culprit; and the real culprit, finding me too close for comfort, may have decided to shift the burden onto Corrigan, not concerned that the shift required one more murder. So of first importance is the question, was it Corrigan who betrayed O'Malley? You will of course need the informing letter to the court or a photostat of it, and something authentically typed on the machine at the Travelers Club. You will need to know whether any of the others frequented that club or otherwise had access to that machine. With your authority, that kind of inquiry is Vastly easier for you than for me."

Cramer nodded. "What else?"

"At present, nothing."

"What are you going to do?"

"Sit here."

"Some day you'll get chair sores." Cramer got up. He saw the cigar on the floor, stooped to pick it up, crossed to my wastebasket, and dropped it in. His manners were improving. He started for the door, halted, and turned. "Don't forget those statements, what Corrigan said-by the way, what about that? Was it him on the phone or wasn't it?"

"I don't know. As I said, the voice was husky and agitated. It could have been, but if not no great talent for mimicry would have been needed."

"That's a help. Don't forget the statements, what Corrigan or somebody said on the phone, what Goodwin did in California, and now getting this thing in the mail. Today."