Murder by the Book

"Buy it from him," O'Malley suggested. "Make him an offer. It can be deducted as a legitimate expense, can't it, Emmett?" He left his chair. "Only don't expect me to contribute. I'm broke."

Wolfe spoke up. "I would like to anticipate any future charge of willful malevolence. I take no pleasure in prolonging suspense, either my own or another's. I'm being completely candid when I say that I still need a fact or two before I can act. To move not fully prepared, to disclose myself prematurely, would be folly, and I'm not a fool."

Kustin got to his feet, stepped to the desk, put his hands on it, and leaned forward at Wolfe. "I'll tell you what I think: I think it's a ten-cent bluff. I don't think you know any more about that manuscript than we do. I think you're exactly where you were when we came here a week ago yesterday." He straightened up. "Come on, fellows. He's a goddam four-flusher." He whirled to me. "You too, Goodwin. I wish I'd gone to California instead of Jim Corrigan. You'd have been called."

He marched out. Phelps and O'Malley were at bis heels. Corrigan, who had said practically nothing, thought he would speak now, took a step toward the desk, but changed his mind and, with a glance at me, headed for the door. Briggs lifted himself out of the red leather chair, blinked at Wolfe, said, "My appraisal of your methods and tactics has certainly been reinforced here today," and turned and went.

I moseyed to the door to the hall, stood on the sill, and watched them wriggling into their coats. I was perfectly willing to go and let them out, but Phelps got the door open before I moved, and held it for them, so I was saved the trouble. He banged it hard enough to leave no doubt of its closing, and I wheeled, returned to my desk, and permitted myself an all-out yawn. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut.

"Will there be more movement?" I inquired. "Or is it time for a contrivance?"

No reply. I yawned again. "Once in a while," I observed, "you go right to the heart of things and tell a plain unvarnished truth. Like when you said that you still need a fact or two before you can act. It might be objected that you need more than one or two, but that isn't so. The one fact that Phelps, the scholar, is a lover of literature and bumped them off because it was a lousy novel and he couldn't bear it, would do the trick."

No word or sign. Suddenly I blew up. I sprang to my feet and roared, "Goddam it, go to work! Think of something! Do something!"