The Second Confesion

“Pretty nice,” Saul remarked, sending his eyes around. One difference between Saul and me is that I sometimes have to look twice at a thing to be sure I'll never lose it, but once will always do for him.

“Yeah,” I agreed, putting my brief-case on a chair. “I understand the tenant has given it up, so maybe you could rent it.” I got the rubber gloves from the suitcase and handed him a pair. He started putting them on.

“It's too bad,” he said, “you didn't keep that membership card Sunday night when you had your hands on it. It would have saved trouble. That's what we want, is it?” “It's our favourite.” I began on the second glove. “We would buy anything that looks interesting, but we'd love a souvenir of the American Communist Party. The best bet is a safe of some kind, but we won't hop around.” I motioned to the left. “You take that side.” It's a pleasure to work with Saul because I can concentrate completely on my part and pay no attention to him. We both like a searching job, when it's not the kind where you have to turn couches upside down or use a magnifying glass, because when you're through you've got a plain final answer, yes or no. For that room, on which we spent a good hour, it was no. Not only was there no membership certificate, there was nothing at all that was worth taking home to Wolfe. The only thing resembling a safe was a lock bound box, which one of the keys fitted, in a drawer of the desk, and all it contained was a bottle of fine liqueur Scotch, McCrae's, half full. Apparently that was the one item he didn't care to share with the cleaning woman. We left the most tedious part, flipping through the books, to the last, and did it together. There was nothing in any of them but pages.

“This bird trusted nobody,” Saul complained.