Over the years I have reported hundreds of long conversations to Wolfe, verbatim, some after a week or more had passed, and that typing job was no strain on my memory, but I took my time because I had to be darned sure of it, since he was going to sign it. Also he was going to read it, and in his present mood he would be delighted to tell me that he had not said “prolonged, difficult, and extremely expensive.” He had said “prolonged, laborious, and extremely expensive.” And I would have to retype a whole page.
So I took my time, and was on the last paragraph when he came down to the office from his afternoon session in the plant rooms, which is from four to six. When he had got settled at his desk I gave him the first five pages and he started reading. Back at the typewriter, I shot a glance at him now and then, and saw that his frown was merely normal. Finished, I took him the remainder, returned to my desk to arrange the carbons, and then got up to shake down my pants legs and stretch.
He is a fast reader. When he got to the end he cleared his throat. “One thing. Did I say ‘not necessarily guilty ones’? Didn’t I say ‘not always guilty ones’?”
“No, sir. As you know, you like the word ‘necessarily.’ You like the way you say it. You may remember—”
The doorbell rang. I went to the hall, flipped the switch of the stoop light, and took a look through the one-way glass panel of the front door. It wasn’t necessary to go closer to recognize Inspector Cramer, of Homicide.
II
I stepped into the office and told Wolfe, “Him.” He compressed his lips and took in air through his nose.
“I see you’ve signed the statement,” I said. “Shall I open the door a crack and slip it through to him and tell him that covers it and give him your regards?”
“No. A crack is open both ways. If he has a warrant for you, he could slip that through to you. Let him in.”
I wheeled, walked to the front door, swung it wide, and made it hearty, “Just the man we wanted to see, Inspector Cramer! Do come in.”
He was already in. By the time I had shut the door and turned around he had shed his hat and coat and dropped them on a chair, and by the time I had put the hat on the shelf where he knew darned well it belonged, and the coat on a hanger, and got to the office, he was already in the red leather chair and talking.
“... and don’t tell me you didn’t know a crime had been committed or any of that tripe, and you had firsthand knowledge of it, both you and Goodwin, and do you come forward with it? No. You sit here at your desk and to hell with the law and the city of New York and your obligations as a citizen and a licensed private detective, and you—”
Wolfe had his eyes closed. I, back at my desk, had mine open. I always enjoy seeing Inspector Cramer worked up. He is big and brawny to start with, and then he seems to be expanding all over, and his round red face gets gradually redder, bringing out its contrast with his gray hair.
When he stopped for breath, Wolfe opened his eyes. “I assure you, Mr. Cramer, this is uncalled for. Mr. Goodwin has indeed been sitting here, but not idly. He has been fulfilling our obligations, his and mine, as citizens and licensed private detectives.” He lifted sheets of paper. “This is a statement, signed by both of us. After you have read it, we’ll answer questions if they’re relevant.”
Cramer didn’t move, and Wolfe wouldn’t, so I arose and got the statement and took it to Cramer. He snatched it from me, no thanks, glared at Wolfe, glanced at the heading on the first page, glared at me as I sat, and started to read. First he skimmed through it, and then went back and really read it. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes closed. I passed the time taking in the changes of expression on Cramer’s face. When he reached the end he turned back to one of the earlier pages for another look, and then aimed his sharp gray eyes at Wolfe.
“So you had it ready,” he said, not with gratitude.
Wolfe opened his eyes and nodded. “I thought it would save time and trouble.”
“Yeah. You’re always thoughtful. I admit it agrees pretty well with Flora Gallant’s story, but why shouldn’t it? Is she your client?”
“Pfui. That statement makes it quite clear that I have no client.”
“It does if it’s all here. Did you leave anything out?”
“Yes. Much of Mr. Goodwin’s conversation with Miss Gallant last evening. Nothing pertinent.”
“Well, we’ll want to study it. Of course some details are vitally important — for instance, that it was exactly eleven-thirty-one when you heard the blow.”
Wolfe objected. “We heard no blow, identifiably. The statement does not say that we heard a blow.”
Cramer found the place on page 9 and consulted it. “O.K. You heard a groan and a crash and rustles. But there was a blow. She was hit in the back of the head with a chunk of marble, a paperweight, and then a scarf was tied around her throat to stop her breathing. You say here at eleven-thirty-one.”
I corrected him. “Not when we heard the groan. After that there were the other noises, then the connection went, and I said hello a few times, which was human but dumb. It was when I hung up that I looked at my watch and saw eleven-thirty-one. The groan had been maybe a minute earlier, say eleven-thirty. If a minute is important.”
“It isn’t. But you didn’t hear the blow?”
“Not to recognize it as a blow, no.”
He went back to the statement, frowning at it, reading parts of some pages and just glancing at others. He looked up at Wolfe. “I know how good you are at arranging words. This implies that Flora Gallant was a complete stranger to you, that you had never had anything to do with her or her brother or any of the people at that place, but it doesn’t say so in so many words. I’d like to know.”
“The implication is valid,” Wolfe told him. “Except as related in that statement, I have never had any association with Miss Gallant or her brother or, to my knowledge, with any of their colleagues. Nor has Mr. Goodwin... Archie?”
“Right,” I agreed.
“I’ll accept that for now.” Cramer folded the statement and put it in his pocket. “Then you had never heard Bianca Voss’ voice before and you couldn’t recognize it on the phone?”
“Of course not.”
“And you can’t hear it now, since she’s dead. So you can’t swear it was her talking to you.”
“Obviously.”
“And that raises a point. If it was her talking to you, she was killed at exactly half past eleven. Now there are four important people in the organization who had it in for Bianca Voss. They have admitted it. Besides Flora Gallant, there is Anita Prince, fitter and designer, been with Gallant eight years; Emmy Thorne in charge of contacts and promotion, been with him four years; and Carl Drew, business manager, been with him five years. None of them killed Bianca Voss at half past eleven. From eleven-fifteen on, until the call came from Goodwin calling himself John H. Watson, Carl Drew was down on the main floor, constantly in view of four people, two of them customers. From eleven o’clock on, Anita Prince was on the top floor, the workshop, with Alec Gallant and two models and a dozen employees. At eleven-twenty Emmy Thorne called on a man by appointment at his office on Forty-sixth Street, and was with him and two other men until a quarter to twelve. And Flora Gallant was here with you. All airtight.”