If Death Ever Slept

I took it and he turned and was going. I told him to wait, but he called over his shoulder, “No receipt,” and kept going. I looked at the package. It was the size of a box of kitchen matches, wrapped in brown paper, fastened with Scotch tape, and if it bore any name or address it was in invisible ink.

I shut the door and returned to the office and told Wolfe, “The man who handed me this said it was for you, but I don’t know how he knew. There’s no name on it. It doesn’t tick. Shall I open it under water?”

“As you please. It’s hardly large enough to be dangerous.”

That seemed optimistic, remembering the size of the capsule that had once exploded in that office inside a metal percolator, blowing the percolator lid at the wall, missing Wolfe’s head by an inch. However, I could stand it if he could. I got out my knife to cut the tape, removed the paper wrapping, and disclosed a cardboard box with no label. Putting it on the desk midway between us, which was only fair, I eased the lid off. Cotton. I lifted the cotton, and there was more cotton, with an object resting in its center. Bending over for a close-up, I straightened and announced, “A thirty-eight bullet. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Extremely.” He reached for the box and gave it a look. “Very interesting. You’re sure it’s a thirty-eight?”

“Yes, sir. Quite a coincidence.”

“It is indeed.” He put the box down. “Who brought it?”

“A stranger. Too bad I didn’t invite him in.”

“Yes. Of course there are various possibilities-among them, that some prankster sent it.”

“Yeah. So I toss it in the wastebasket?”

“I don’t think so. There is at least one other possibility that can’t be ignored. You’ve had a long day and I dislike asking it, but you might take it to Mr. Cramer, tell him how we got it, and suggest that it be compared with the bullets that killed Mr. Eber and Mr. Brigham.”

“Uh-huh. In time, say in a week or so, that might have occurred to me myself. My mind’s not as quick as yours.” I replaced the top layer of cotton and put the lid on. “I’d better take the wrapping paper too. If the bullet matches, and it just might, he’ll want it. Incidentally, he’ll want me too. If I take him a thirty-eight bullet, with that suggestion, and with that story of how we got it, I’ll have to shoot my way out if you want to see me again tonight.”

“The devil.” He was frowning, “You’re quite right. That won’t do.” He thought a moment. “Your notebook. A letter to Mr. Cramer.”

I got at my desk and took notebook and pen.