If Death Ever Slept

That settled it. Ever since I had opened the door a crack and got Cramer’s message for Wolfe, I had been thinking that Wolfe would probably decide that the cat was too scratchy to hang on to, and would let Cramer take it, but not now. Jarrell’s gun would not be mentioned. The temptation to teach Cramer to be wary of assumptions had been irresistible.

Cramer was staring. “By God,” he said. “Who’s your client? No. I’d never pry that out of you. But you can tell me this: was Eber your client?”

“No, sir.”

“Then is it Jarrell or isn’t it? Is Jarrell your client?”

Wolfe was having a picnic. “Mr. Cramer. I am aware that if I have information relevant to the crime you’re investigating I am bound to give it to you; but its relevance may be established, not by your whim or conjecture, but by an acceptable process of reason. Since you don’t know what information I have, and I do, you can’t apply that process and it must be left to me. My conclusion is that I have nothing to tell you. I have answered your one question that was clearly relevant, whether Mr. Eber was my client. You will of course ask Mr. Jarrell if he is my client, telling him his secretary is my confidential assistant, Archie Goodwin; I can’t prevent that. I’m sorry you gave yourself the trouble of coming, but your time hasn’t been entirely wasted; you have learned that I wasn’t working for Mr. Eber.”

Cramer looked at me, probably because, for one thing, if he had gone on looking at Wolfe he would have had to get his hands on him; and for another, there was the question whether I might possibly disagree with the conclusion Wolfe had reached through an acceptable process of reason. I met his look with a friendly grin which I hoped wouldn’t strike him as sarcastic.

He put the cigar in his mouth and closed his teeth on it, got up, risked another look at Wolfe, not prolonged, turned, and tramped out. I stayed put long enough for him to make it down the hall, then went to see if he had been sore enough to try the old Finnegan on us. He hadn’t; he was out, pulling the door shut as he went.

As I stepped back into the office Wolfe snapped at me, “Get Mr. Jarrell.”

“The assistant DA is probably still with him.”

“No matter, get him.”