Gwendolyn Yates was sitting straight and stiff. She was getting a hold on herself, and doing a fairly good job of it. There were no more inarticulate noises from her throat, and she wasn’t shouting about lies and wasn’t going to. She was a tough baby and she was tightening up.
“But you’re not out of your mind now,” Wolfe said, with a note of admiration in his tone. “You’re adding it up, aren’t you? You are realizing that I can prove little or nothing of what I’ve said. I can’t prove what Tingley said to you yesterday, or what time you left there, or that you got the box from the safe and took it with you, or that it was you who mailed it to Mr. Cramer. I can’t even prove that there wasn’t someone there at eight o’clock who imitated Tingley’s voice over the telephone. I can’t prove anything.”
“Except this.” He shoved his chair back, opened a drawer of his desk, and got something, arose, walked around the end of the desk, and displayed the object in front of Carrie Murphy’s eyes.
“Please look at this carefully, Miss Murphy. As you see, it is a small jar two-thirds full of something. Pasted on it is a plain white label bearing the notation in pencil, ‘Eleven dash fourteen dash Y.’ Does that mean anything to you? Does that ‘Y’ stand for Yates? Look at it—”
But Carrie had no chance to give it a thorough inspection, let alone pronounce a verdict. The figure of Miss Yates, from eight feet away, came hurtling through the air. She uttered no sound, but flung herself with such unexpected speed and force that the fingers of her outstretched hand, missing what they were after, nearly poked Wolfe’s eye out. He grabbed for her wrist but missed it, and then the dick was out of his chair and had her. He got her from behind by her upper arms and had her locked.
She stood, not trying to struggle, looked at Wolfe, who had backed away, and squeaked at him, “Where was it?”
He told her...
We were sitting down to a dinner that was worthy of the name when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it.
The pair that entered certainly needed a tonic. Leonard Cliff looked like something peeking out at you from a dark cave. Amy Duncan was pale and puffy, with bloodshot eyes.
“We’ve got to see Mr. Wolfe,” Cliff stated. “We’ve just been talking with a lawyer, and he says—”
“Not interested,” I said brusquely. “Wolfe’s out of the case. Through. Done.”
Amy gasped. Cliff grabbed my arm. “He can’t be! He can’t! Where is he?”
“Eating dinner. And, by the way. I’ve been trying to get you folks on the phone. Some news for you. Miss Yates is under arrest: they just took her away from here. Mr. Wolfe would like to have her prosecuted for feeding him quinine, but the cops prefer to try her for murder. She’s guilty of both.”
“What!”
“What!”
“Yep.” I waved airily. “I got the evidence. It’s all over. You won’t get your pictures in the paper anymore.”
“You mean — she — they — it — we—”
“That’s one way of putting it. I mean, the operation has been brought to a successful conclusion. You’re just ordinary citizens again.”
They stared at me, and then at each other, and then went into a clinch. The condition they were both in, it certainly couldn’t have been merely physical attraction. I stood and regarded them patiently. Pretty soon I cleared my throat. They didn’t pay any attention.
“When you get tired standing up,” I said, “there’s a chair in the office that will hold two. We’ll join you after dinner.”
I returned to help Wolfe with the snipe fired with brandy.