Plot It Yourself

I had the radio on for the six-o’clock news when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms. He had a cluster of Phalaenopsis Aphrodite in his hand, and he got a vase from the shelf, took it to the kitchen for water, brought it back, put the stem in, and placed it on his desk. That’s the only hard work he ever does around the office. When the news stopped for a commercial I turned it off and told him, “Still nothing about plagiarism or our clients or you. If the cops have made any headway they’re playing it close-”

The doorbell rang, and I stepped to the hall for a look through the one-way glass panel. A glance was enough. I turned to tell Wolfe, “Cramer.”

He made a face. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

He took a breath. “Let him in.”

Chapter 10

Inspector Cramer of Homicide West had sat in the red leather chair facing the end of Wolfe’s desk oftener and longer than any other three people combined. He just about filled it. How he sat depended on circumstances. I have seen him leaning back with his legs crossed, comfortable and relaxed, with a glass of beer in his hand. I have also seen him with his broad rump just catching the edge, his jaw set and his lips tight, his big red face three shades redder, his gray eyes bulging.

That day he was in between, at least at the start. He declined Wolfe’s offer of beer, but he made himself comfortable. He said he’d just stopped in on his way somewhere, which meant he wanted something he knew damn well a phone call wouldn’t get. Wolfe said it was pleasant to see him, which meant “What do you want?” Cramer took a cigar from his pocket, which meant that he expected it to take more than a couple of minutes to get what he was after.

“This Jacobs thing is a hash if I ever saw one,” Cramer said.

Wolfe nodded. “It is indeed.”

“One thing about it, I’ve heard something I never heard before. I’ve heard Sergeant Stebbins pay you and Goodwin a compliment. He says as smart as you are, you couldn’t possibly have arranged that scheme to buy Jacobs, with all that gang knowing about it, without having a pretty good idea of what might happen. He even says you expected it to happen, but of course that’s stretching it. I can’t see you conniving at murder.”

“Give Mr Stebbins my regards,” Wolfe said, “and my thanks for the compliment.”

“I will. Is that all you have to say?”

Wolfe slapped a palm on the desk. “What the devil do you expect me to say? Did you come here for the pleasure of screwing from me an admission that I bungled? I’ll oblige you. I bungled. Anything else?”