We were back in the office, Wolfe dictating and me taking, when company came. I had been right on both counts: it was Inspector Cramer in person, and it was 2:55 when the doorbell rang and I went to the hall for a look through the one-way glass panel in the front door, and there he was on the stoop, no sign of a sag in the heavy broad shoulders, the round red face framed by his turned-up overcoat collar and the brim of his gray felt which should have been retired long ago. Since he had no appointment it would have been proper to open the door the two inches allowed by the chain bolt and greet him through the crack, but that always annoyed him, and if it turned out that I had tampered with evidence it wouldn't hurt to show him now that I had my good points. So I pulled the door wide open. Without even a nod, let alone a civil greeting, he crossed the sill, tramped down the hall into the office and on to Wolfe's desk, and demanded, "What time did Mrs. Barry Hazen get here this morning?"
Wolfe tilted his head back to look up at him and inquired, "Is that snow on your hat?"
Having entered and detoured around him, I too looked at the hat. There was nothing whatever on it except signs of age, and outdoors the sun was shining. It would fluster any man to have it put to him that one removes one's hat when one enters a house, but Cramer is ready for anything when he faces Wolfe. It didn't faze him. He merely barked, "I asked you a question!"
"Half past eleven," Wolfe said.
"When did she leave?"
"Shortly before one o'clock."
Cramer took his overcoat off, ignored my offer to take it, put it on the arm of the red leather chair, and sat. "An hour and a half," he said, not barking but a little hoarse. He is always a little hoarse when he is dealing with Wolfe. "What did she have to say?" He hadn't touched the hat.
Wolfe swiveled and leaned back. "Mr. Cramer. I know that Mrs. Hazen's husband has been shot and killed. She was with me when the news came on my radio. I know that when I have been consulted by a person who is in any way connected with a death by violence you automatically assume that I have knowl- edge of evidence that would be useful in your investi- gation. Sometimes your assumption is valid; sometimes it isn't. This time it isn't; that is my considered opinion. Mrs. Hazen consulted me in confidence. If at any time I have reason to think that by refusing to disclose what she told me I am obstructing justice, I'll communicate with you at once."
Cramer got a cigar from a pocket, rolled it between his palms, stuck it in his mouth, and clamped his teeth on it. He does that instead of counting ten, when he knows that the words that are on his tongue would make things worse instead of better. He took the cigar from his mouth. "Some day," he said, "you're going to fall off and get hurt, and this could be it. If and when you find it gets too hot to hang onto it any longer, and you turn loose, arid you have obstructed justice by not telling me now, I'll get your hide. Nothing and no one will stop me. I'm asking you to tell me what Mrs. Barry Hazen said when she came to see you nine hours after her husband was murdered."
Wolfe shook his head. "I decline to tell you because I believe, as matters stand now, that it is not pertinent to your inquiry. Should I have occasion to change my mind-and by the way, I can offer you an opportunity to change it for me. Archie, where's that bullet?"
I got the envelope from my drawer, took the bullet out, and handed it to him. Cramer's sharp gray eyes were on me and followed the bullet back to Wolfe. Wolfe took it in his fingers, barely glanced at it, handed it back to me, and said, "Give it to Mr. Cramer." As I did so he turned to Cramer. "This will be pointless if you have found the weapon that was used to shoot Mr. Hazen. Have you?"
"No."
"It will also be pointless if you have not found the bullet that killed him. Have you?" "Yes."
"Then I suggest that you have your laboratory com- pare that bullet with it. If you find that they were shot by the same gun let me know at once and I'll have some information for you. I would want to see the laboratory report, certified."
"You would." Cramer's eyes were slits and his lips tightened. "Where did you get this bullet?"
"I'll tell you, or I won't, when I get your report."
"By God." Cramer was hoarser. "This is pertinent. This is evidence. I'll take you down, both of you-"
"Nonsense. Evidence of what? I don't know and nei- ther do you. If it wasn't fired by the gun that killed Mr. Hazen it is evidence of nothing, and I am not obliged to account for it until I know. I'm not indulging in a prank, Mr. Cramer. There is a possibility that the bullets will match, and if so it will indeed be evidence. Let me know."
Cramer opened his mouth to say something, vetoed it, got to his feet, put the bullet in his pocket, threw the cigar at my wastebasket and missed, picked up his coat and put it on, ignoring my offer to help, and marched out. I went to the hall to see that when the door shut he was on the outside. When I returned to the office Wolfe growled. "Confound these interruptions. We have forty minutes. Where were we on that letter to Mr. Hewitt?" I sat, got my notebook, and told him.
At four o'clock, when he left to go up to the plant rooms for his two-hour afternoon session with the or- chids, I got busy at the typewriter. On various occa- sions I have had a little trouble turning out perfect letters to orchid collectors and providers of food spe- cialties when my mind had other interests and con- cerns, and that day was one of the worst. Cramer had left at 3:20. He would lose no time getting the bullet to the laboratory; they probably had it by 3:50, or four o'clock at the latest. Examining two bullets with a comparison microscope is a simple chore; ten minutes is ample to decide if they were fired by the same gun. 4:10. Allow a quarter of an hour for writing the report, which wouldn't have to be in shape for a judge and jury. 4:25. Cramer would have a man there waiting for it. He should phone by 4:30, or ring the doorbell by 4:45. He didn't.
By 5:151 had to keep my jaw set to hit the right keys. If you think I was keyed up more than the circum- stances warranted, look it over. If the bullets matched I was a sap. It was a million to one that the murderer hadn't sneaked into the house to put the gun back in the drawer in Hazen's room; why would he? Murderers often do crazy things, but not that crazy. Therefore Mrs. Hazen had lied, and she had either killed him or knew who did, and I was a beetlehead. I had to do three of the letters twice.
By six o'clock, when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, I had begun to relax. He went to his desk and started on the letters I had put there, which he always reads with care. After he had finished a couple and signed them I remarked, "Of course Cramer wouldn't bother to phone if the bullets didn't match."
He grunted.
"And the laboratory got it more than two hours ago, so we might as well-"
The doorbell rang, and the bottom of my spine curled. Cramer had waited until six o'clock, when he knew Wolfe would be available. I went to the hall and switched the stoop light on, and my spine went back to normal. It was a stranger, a man about my age, maybe a little younger, with no hat and a mop of brown hair shuffled by the wind. I had never been so delighted to see a stranger, but had it under control by the time I got to the door and opened it and said, "Yes, sir?"
"I want to see Nero Wolfe. My name's Weed, Theodore Weed."
I should have had him wait there while I went and told Wolfe, that was the routine, but I was so glad to see him that I invited him in and helped him off with his coat. Then I went to the office and announced, "The- odore Weed to see you. One of the dinner guests. The one who-" "What does he want?"