The Rubber Band

Wolfe told me later that his idea was to work Perry into a state where he would then and there sign checks for Clara Fox and Victor Lindquist, and Walsh's and Scovils heirs if any, for their share of the million dollars. I don't know. Anyhow, the checks didn't get signed, because dead men can't write even their names.

It happened like lightning, a bunch of reflexes. Perry jerked out a gun and turned it on Wolfe and pulled the trigger. Hombert yelled and Cramer jumped. I could never have got across in time to topple him, and anyway, as I say, it was reflex. I grabbed my gun and let him have it, but then Cramer was there and I quit. There was a lot of noise. Perry was down, sunk in his chair, and they were pawing him. I dived around the desk for Wolfe, who was sitting there looking surprised for once in his life, feeling with his right hand at his upper left arm.

Him protesting, I pulled his coat open and the sleeve oS, and the spot of blood on the outside of the arm of the canary-yellow shirt looked better to me than any orchid. I stuck my finger in the hole the bullet had made and ripped the sleeve and took a look, and then grinned into the fat devil's face. "Just the meat, and not much of that. You don't use that arm much anyhow."

I heard Cramer behind me, "Dead as a doornail," and turned to see the major casualty. They had let it come on out of the chair and stretched it on the floor. The inspector was kneeling by it, and the others standing, and Clivers and Skinner were busy putting out a fire. Clivers was pulling and rubbing at the bottom front of one side of his coat, where the bullet and flame had gone through when he pulled the trigger with his hand still in his pocket, and Skinner was helping him. He must have plugged Perry one-tenth of a second before I did.

Cramer stood up. He said heavily, "One in the right shoulder, and one clear through him, through the heart. Well, he asked for it."

I said, "The shoulder was mine. I was high."

"Surely not, Archie." It was behind me, Wolfe murmuring. We looked at him; he was sopping blood off of his arm with his handkerchief. "Surely not. Do you want Lord Clivers' picture in the Gazette again? We must protect him. You can stand the responsibility of a justifiable homicide. You can- what do you call it, Mr. Cramer? – take the rap."

XVII