Murder by the Book

At our end much had been accomplished. I had got a haircut and a shampoo. I had spent some pleasant hours with Lily Rowan. I had spent half an hour with Wellman, our client, who had called at the office after taking a plane from Chicago and was staying over to await developments. I had had two good nights' sleep and had taken a walk to the Battery and back, with a stopover at Homicide on Twentieth Street to deliver the statements Cramer had requested. I had made five copies of Corrigan's confession, from the copy Cramer had sent us as agreed. I had answered three phone calls from Saul Panzer, switched him to Wolfe, and got off the line by command. I had answered thirty or forty other phone calls, none of which would interest you. I had done some office chores, and had eaten six meals.

Wolfe had by no means been idle. He had eaten six meals too.

One thing neither of us had done, we had read no newspaper account of Corrigan's unsigned confession. There hadn't been any, though of course the death of a prominent attorney by a gunshot had been adequately covered, including pointed reference to previous regrettable occurrences connected with his firm. Evidently Cramer was saving the confession for his scrapbook, though it wasn't autographed.

Monday morning he sat in the red leather chair and announced, "The DA's office is ready to call it suicide."

Wolfe, at his desk, was pouring beer. He put the bottle down, waited for the foam to subside to the right level so that the tilt would get him beer and would also moisten his lips with foam, lifted the glass, and drank. He liked to let the foam dry on his lips, but not when there was company, so he used his handkerchief before he spoke.

"And you?"

"I don't see why not." Cramer, having accepted the invitation to help with the beer, which he rarely did, had his glass in his hand. "I could tell you how it stands."

"Please do."

"It's like this. The confession was typed on the machine in his apartment. He's had it there for years. He has always done quite a little typing-kept a supply of the firm's paper and envelopes there. His secretary, Mrs. Adams, admits that there is nothing about the typing or the text to cause a reasonable doubt that he typed it."

"Admits?"