“Damn it, get a crowbar.”
He laughed. I worked my head and shoulders up, got a grip on the rim of the seat back, somehow made it, and put my hat on. We were at Twenty-third Street and Ninth Avenue. “How sure are you?” I asked him.
“Posilutely. Not a chance.”
“Wonderful. But the next time use an ambulance. You’ll find a piece of my ear in the corner. Keep it to remember me by.”
I got out. He asked if there was anything more, and I said no and I would thank him later, and he rolled.
The Westside Hotel, in the middle of the block, was not exactly a dump, though many people would call it that. Evidently it was still in the black, since it had put on a new front and redone the lobby a couple of years back. Entering and ignoring everybody and everything, including a bald bellhop, I went to the do-it-yourself elevator, pushed the button, and was lifted. As I emerged and went to the nearest door to look at the number I noticed that my hand had slipped inside my coat to touch the Marley, and grinned at myself. If it was J. Edgar Hoover waiting for me, apparently he had better behave or he might get plugged. At Room 214, halfway down the hall on the left, the door was closed. My watch said 11:33. I knocked and heard footsteps, and the door opened; and I stood and gawked. I was looking at the round red face and burly figure of Inspector Cramer of Homicide South.
“Right on time,” he growled. “Come in.” He sidestepped, and I crossed the sill.
My eyes have been trained so long to notice things that they took in the room automatically — the double bed, dresser with a mirror, two chairs, table with a desk pad that needed changing, open door to a bathroom — while my mind adjusted to the shock. Then, as I put my coat and hat on the bed, I got another shock: one of the chairs, the one without arms, was near the table, and on the table was a carton of milk and a glass. By God, he had bought it and brought it for his guest. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I didn’t, but there it was.
He went to the other chair, the one with arms, sat, and asked, “Are you loose?”
“Sure. I always obey instructions.”
“Sit down.”
I went to the other chair. He leveled his gray eyes at me. “Is Wolfe’s phone tapped?”
My eyes were meeting his. “Look,” I said, “you know damn well how it is. If I had listed a hundred names of people who might be here, yours wouldn’t have been on it. Is this carton of milk for me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re off your hinges. You are not the Inspector Cramer I know so well, and I don’t know what I’m up against. Why do you want to know if our phone is tapped?”
“Because I don’t like to make things more complicated than they are already. I like things simple. I’d like to know if I could just have called you and asked you to come here.”
“Oh. Sure you could, but if you had I would have suggested that it might be better if we went for a ride.”
He nodded. “All right. I want to know, Goodwin. I know Wolfe has tangled with the FBI, and I want the picture. All of it. If it takes all day.”
I shook my head. “That’s out of bounds and you know it.”
He exploded. “Goddammit, this is out of bounds! My being here! My getting you here! I thought you had some sense! Don’t you realize what I’m doing?”
“No. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re doing.”
“Then I’ll tell you. I know you pretty well, Goodwin. I know you and Wolfe cut corners, I ought to, but I also know what your limits are. So here, just you and me, I’ll tell you. About two hours ago the Commissioner called me. He had had a call from Jim Perazzo — do you know who Jim Perazzo is?”
“Yeah, I happen to. Licensing Services, State Department, State of New York. Two-seventy Broadway.”
“You would. I won’t string it out. The FBI wants Perazzo to take Wolfe’s license, and yours. Perazzo wants the Commissioner to give him whatever we’ve got on you. The Commissioner knows that for years I have had — uh — contacts with you, and he wants a full report, in writing. You know what reports are, it depends on who’s writing them. Before I write this one I want to know what Wolfe has done or is doing to get the FBI on his neck. I want the whole picture.”
When you are shown something that needs a good look it helps to have your hands doing something, like lighting a cigarette, but I don’t smoke, or blowing your nose. I picked up the carton of milk, pried the flap open, and poured, carefully. One thing was obvious. He could have either phoned me to come to his office, or have come to Wolfe’s house, but he hadn’t because he suspected that our line was tapped and the house was watched. Therefore he didn’t want the FBI to know that he was making contact, and he had gone to a lot of trouble to make it. He was telling me about the FBI and Perazzo and the Commissioner, which was ridiculous for a police inspector talking to a private detective. Therefore he didn’t want us to lose our licenses, and therefore something was biting him, and it was desirable to find out what it was. In such a situation, before spilling it, especially to a cop, I should ring Wolfe and put it up to him, but that was out. My standing instructions were that in any emergency I was to use my intelligence guided by experience.
I did so. I sipped some milk, put the glass down, and said, “If you can break a rule so can I. It’s like this.”
I gave him the whole crop — the talk with Mrs. Bruner, the hundred-grand retainer, the evening with Lon Cohen, my talk with Mrs. Bruner and Sarah Dacos, my day on Evers Electronics and Ernst Muller and Julia Fenster, my sleeping on the couch in the office. I didn’t report it all verbatim, but I covered all the points and answered questions along the way. By the time I finished the milk glass was empty and he had a cigar between his teeth. He doesn’t smoke cigars, he merely mangles them.
He removed the cigar and said, “So the hundred grand is his, no matter what happens.”
I nodded. “And a check for me, personally. Didn’t I mention that?”
“You did. I’m not surprised at Wolfe. With his ego, there’s no one and nothing he wouldn’t take on if you paid him. But I’m surprised at you. You know damn well the FBI can’t be bucked. Not even by the White House. And you’re hopping around pecking at people’s scabs. You’re asking for it and you’ll get it. You’re off your hinges.”
I poured milk. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “From any angle, you’re dead right. An hour ago I would have said amen. But you know, I feel different about it now. Did I mention something Mr. Wolfe said last night? He said some sting may have stirred someone to action. All right, they were stung into needling Perazzo, and he was stung into calling the Commissioner, and he was stung into calling you, and you were stung into getting me here without company and treating me to a quart of milk, which is completely incredible. If one incredible thing can happen, so can another one. Will you answer a question?”
“Ask it.”
“You don’t exactly love Nero Wolfe, and you certainly don’t love me. Why do you want to make a report to the Commissioner that will make it tough to take our licenses?”
“I haven’t said I do.”
“Nuts.” I tapped the milk carton. “This says it. Getting me here the way you did says it. Why?”
He left the chair and moved. He tiptoed to the door, smooth and silent considering his age and bulk, jerked the door open, and stuck his head out. Evidently he wasn’t as sure he was loose as I was that I was. He shut the door and went to the bathroom, and I heard water spurting from a faucet, and in a minute he came with a glass of water. He drank it, in no hurry, put the glass on the table, sat, and narrowed his eyes at me.