The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

"It's conceivable. I wouldn't risk leaking it that Inspector Cramer told me to give you his regards. Also that he bought me a carton of milk, shook my hand, and wished me a happy New Year."

"This is flummery."

"No, sir. It was Cramer."

"In that hotel room?"

"Yes."

He stepped onto the platform and sat. "Report," he growled.

I obeyed. I didn't rush it because I wanted to be sure to get every word in. If we had been in the office he would have leaned back and closed his eyes, but that chair wasn't built for it and he had to stay straight. For the last ten minutes his lips were pressed tight, either because of what he was hearing or of where he was sitting, probably both. I finished with my sightseeing trip and said that a man across the street, maybe walking a dog, or one in a front room of either of two houses, could have seen them leave Number 63 and go around the corner to the car, and even the license number. There was a light at the corner.

He took in a bushel of air through his nose and let it out through his mouth. "I wouldn't have thought," he said, "that Mr Cramer could be such an ass."

I nodded. "I know it sounds like it. But he didn't know, until I told him, why the FBI was on us. He only knew we had stung them somehow, and he had a murder he couldn't tag them for, and he decided to hand it to you. You've got to admit that you should feel flattered that he thought there was the remotest chance you could pull it, and look at all the trouble he took. And after I told him about Mrs Bruner he didn't stop to figure it. Probably he has by now. He must realize that it doesn't fit. Suppose you passed a miracle and tied that murder to them so they couldn't shake it off. That wouldn't fill your client's order. The only way that could help her and earn you a fee would be if you said to them, look, I'll lay off on the murder if you'll lay off of Mrs Bruner. Cramer wouldn't like that, that's not his idea at all. Neither would you, really. Making a deal with a murderer isn't your style. Have I got it straight?"

He grunted. "I don't like your pronouns."

"All right, make it 'we' and 'us.' It's not my style either."

He shook his head. "It's a pickle." A corner of his mouth curled up.

I stared and demanded, "What the hell are you smiling at?"

"The pickle. The alternative. You have made it clear that it would be futile to establish that the FBI killed that man. Very well, then we'll establish that they didn't."

"Good for us. And then?"