“You what?
What the hell are you talking about?”
Wolfe turned to me.
“Tell them, Archie.”
I let them have my open countenance.
“This evening,” I said, and corrected it, “—last evening—Mr. Wolfe and I were in this office.
At two minutes before seven o’clock the phone rang, and it happened that we both took off our receivers.
A voice said,
‘Nero Wolfe!’
It sounded far off but very excited—it sounded—well, unnatural.
I said,
‘Yes, talking,’ and the voice said,
‘I’ve got him, come up here.
Fifty-fifth Street, this is Mike Walsh, I’ve got him covered, come up.’
The voice was cut off by the sound of an explosion, very loud, as if a gun had been shot close to the telephone.
I called Walsh’s name a few times, but there was no answer.
We sent a phone call to police headquarters right away.”
I looked around respectfully for approval.
Skinner looked concentrated, Hombert looked about ready to bust, and Cramer looked disgusted.
The inspector, I could see, didn’t have far to go to get good and sore.
He burst out at Wolfe,
“What else have you got?
First you tell me the man I’ve got the whole force looking for, thinking I’ve got a hot one, is one of your boy scouts acting as advance agent.
Now you tell me that the phone call we’re trying to trace about a shot being heard, and you can’t trace a local call anyway with these damn dials, now you tell me you made that too.”
He stuck his cigar in his mouth and bit it nearly in two.
“But Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe protested, “is it my fault if destiny likes this address?
Did we not notify you at once?
Did I not even restrain Mr. Goodwin from hastening to the scene, because I knew you would not want him to intrude?”
Cramer opened his mouth but was speechless.
Skinner said,
“You heard that shot on the phone at two minutes to seven. That checks.
It was five after when Stebbins found Clivers there.” He looked around sort of helpless, like a man who has picked up something he didn’t want. “That seems to clinch it.”
He growled at Wolfe,
“What makes you so relieved about not finding the gun and Stebbins not hearing the shot, if you heard it yourself?”
“In due time, Mr. Skinner.”
Wolfe’s forefinger was gently tapping on the arm of his chair, and I wondered what he was impatient about.
“If you don’t mind, let me get on.
The paper says that Mr. Stebbins felt Lord Clivers for a weapon.
Did he find one?”
“No,” Cramer grunted. “He got talkative enough to tell us that he always carries a pistol, but not with evening dress.”
“But since Lord Clivers had not left the enclosure, and since no weapon can be found, how could he possibly have been the murderer?”
“We’ll find it,” Cramer asserted gloomily. “There’s a million places in there to hide a gun, and we’ll have to get into those shafts somehow.
Or he might have thrown it over the fence. We’ll find it.
He did it, damn it.
You’ve ruined the only outside leads I had.”
Wolfe wagged his head at him.
“Cheer up, Mr. Cramer.
Tell me this, please.
Since Mr. Stebbins followed Mr. Walsh all afternoon, I presume you know their itinerary.
What was it?”