If Dudley Frost is short a million or so as trustee, what good does it do him to bump off McNair?”
“I couldn't say.
Will you have some beer?”
“No thanks.”
Cramer got his cigar lit and his teeth sunk in it.
He puffed it just short of a conflagration.
“Well, we may get somewhere on that.” He thumbed at the papers again. “Next is an item that you ought to find interesting.
It happens that McNair's lawyer is a guy that can be approached, within reason, and after your tip last night I was after him early this morning.
He gave me that dope on Dudley Frost, and he admitted McNair made a will yesterday.
In fact, after I explained to him how serious murder is, he let me see it and copy it.
McNair gave it to you straight.
He named you all right.”
“Without my consent.” Wolfe was pouring beer. “Mr. McNair was not my client.”
Cramer grunted.
“He is now.
You wouldn't turn down a dead man, would you?
He left a few little bequests, and the residuary estate to a sister, Isabel McNair, living in Scotland in a place called Camfirth.
There's a mention of private instructions which he had given his sister regarding the estate.” Gramer turned a sheet over.
“Then you begin to come in.
Paragraph six names you as executor, without remuneration. The next paragraph reads:
7.
To Nero Wolfe, of 918 West 35th Street, New York City, I bequeath my red leather box and its contents.
I have informed him where it is to be found, and the contents are to be considered as his sole property, to be used by him at his will and his discretion.
I direct that any bill he may render, for a reasonable amount, for services performed by him in this connection, shall be considered a just and proper debt of my estate, which shall be promptly paid.
“Well.” Cramer coughed up smoke. “He's your client now.
Or he will be as soon as this is probated.”
Wolfe shook his head.
“I did not consent.
I offer two comments: first, note the appalling caution of the Scotch.
When Mr. McNair wrote that he was in a frenzy of desperation, he was engaging me for a job so vital to him that it had to be done right or his spirit could not rest, and yet he inserted, for a reasonable amount.” Wolfe sighed. “Obviously, that too was necessary for the repose of his spirit. Second, he has left me a pig in a poke.
Where is the red leather box?”
Cramer looked straight at him and said quietly,
“I wonder.” Wolfe opened his eyes for suspicion. “What do you mean, sir, by that tone? You wonder what?” “I wonder where the red box is.” Cramer upturned a palm.
“Why shouldn't I?
It's a hundred to one that what's in it will solve this case.”
He looked around, and back at Wolfe.
“I don't suppose there's any chance it could be right here in this office this minute, for instance in the safe or in one of the drawers of Goodwin's desk.” He turned to me. “Mind looking, son?”
I grinned at him.
“I don't have to.
I've got it in my shoe.”
Wolfe said, “Mr. Cramer. I told you last evening how far Mr. McNair got with his tale.
Do you mean to say that you have the effrontery to suspect-”
“Now listen.” Cramer got louder and firmer. “Don't dump that on me.
If I had any effrontery I wouldn't bother to bring it here with me, I'd just borrow some.
I've seen your indignant innocence too often.
I remind you of the recent occasion when I ventured to suggest that that Fox woman might be hiding in your house.
I also remind you that McNair said yesterday in his will-here, I'll read it-I have informed him where it is to be found.
Get it?
Past tense.
Sure, I know, you've told me everything McNair said yesterday afternoon, but where did he get that past tense idea before he saw you yesterday?