Before Midnight

"Of course not. One of the contestants. That would put them in a hole they couldn't get out of unless they could prove which one took it, so they're going to say it was a joke, there was no such paper, and when we send in the answers they'll award the prizes, and they think that will settle it unless the police catch the murderer, and maybe they never will. But it won't work. The murderer will have the right answers, all five of them, and he'll have to explain how he got them, and he won't be able to. These five are going to be very difficult, and nobody can get them by spending a few hours in a library."

"I see. But you could explain how you got them. Your colleagues at home are working on them now. You're going?"

She had headed for the door, but turned. "I'm going back to the hotel for an appointment with a policeman. I use my brains with them too, and I know my rights. I told them I didn't have to go to see them, they could come to see me unless they arrested me, and they don't dare. I wouldn't let them search my room or my belongings. I've told them what I've seen and heard, and that's all I'm going to tell them. They want to know what I thought! They want to know if I thought the paper he showed us really had the answers on it! I fail to see why I should tell them what I thought--but I'll certainly tell you and you can tell your clients…"

She came back to the chair and was sitting down, so I held on to my notebook, but as her fanny touched the leather she said abruptly, "No, I have an appointment," got erect, and strode from the room. By the time I got to the rack in the hall she had her coat on, and I had to move to get to the doorknob before her.

When I returned to the office Wolfe was sitting slumped, taking air in through his nose and letting it out through his mouth, audibly. I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked down at him.

"So she told the cops about Dahlmann showing the paper," I said. "That'll help. Twenty minutes to lunch. Beer? I'll make an exception."

He made a face.

"I could probably," I suggested, "get Los Angeles phone information to dig up a Mrs. Charles Draper, and you could ask her how they're making out with the verses."

"Pointless," he growled. "If she killed him and got the answers, she would certainly have made the call and given her friends the verses. She admits she has brains. If I had had the answers I might… but no, that would have been premature. You have an appointment at two-thirty."