Murder by the Book

"It was my machine." It was a sullen mutter, so low that it barely got through, and it came from the beautiful Eleanor, of all people.

"Ah. May I have your name?"

"Eleanor Gruber." She muttered it,

"You will please tell us about it, Miss Gruber."

"I was at the filing cabinet and he asked if-"

"Mr. O'Malley?"

"Yes. He asked if he could use my machine, and I said yes. That was all."

"Did he address an envelope on it?"

"I don't know. I was at the cabinet with my back turned. I said it was my machine, but I should have said it may have been."

"There was a supply of the firm's envelopes in your desk?"

"Certainly. In the top drawer."

"How long was he at it?"

"I don't-very briefly."

"Not more than a minute or so?"

"I said very briefly. I didn't time it."

"But long enough to address an envelope?"

"Of course, that only takes seconds."

"Did you see an envelope in his hand?"

"No. I wasn't looking. I was busy."

"Thank you, Miss Gruber. I'm sorry your memory needed jogging, and I'm glad it's refreshed." Wolfe focused on Con-roy O'Malley. "Mr. O'Malley, you ought to have a word. I won't frame a tedious detailed question, but merely ask, did you do the things these people say you did that Saturday morning?"

O'Malley was a different man. The bitter twist to his mouth was gone, and so was the sag of his cheeks. He was ten years younger, and his eyes gleamed almost like eyes in the dark with a light on them. His voice had a sharp edge.

"I'd rather listen to you. Until you're through."

"Very well. I'm not through. Is it plain that I'm accusing you of murder?"

"Yes. Go on."

Purley Stebbins got up, detoured around Cramer and Briggs, got an empty chair, put it just behind O'Malley's right elbow, and sat. O'Malley didn't glance at him. Wolfe was speaking.

"Manifestly, establishing that O'Malley got at that letter in order to make that notation on it in Corrigan's hand before it came to me will not convict him of murder. By then all of you had heard the title Of Baird Archer's novel, 'Put Not Your Trust,' and anyone could have known or learned that it came from the third verse of the Hundred and Forty-sixth Psalm. But it shows that he wanted to present me with evidence that someone in your office was connected with the manuscript and therefore with the crimes, and that that someone was Corrigan, I am going-"

"Why Corrigan?" Kustin demanded.