Your play with Gebert was a part of it too.
I haven't got an iota of proof of anything, but I'm telling you. And I warn you and I warn Wolfe: don't think I'm too dumb to find out eventually what was in that red box, because I'm not.”
I shook my head sadly.
“You're all wet, inspector.
Honest to God, you're dripping.
If you've quit looking for the red box let us know, and well take a shot at it.”
“I haven't given it up.
I'm making all the motions.
I don't say Wolfe is deliberately covering a murderer, he'd have to get more than his feet tangled before he'd be fool enough to do that, but I do say he's withholding valuable evidence that I want. I don't pretend to know why; I don't pretend to know one damn thing about this lousy case.
But I do think it's in the Frost family, because for one thing we haven't been able to uncover any other connection of McNair's that offers any line at all. We don't get anything from his sister in Scotland.
Nothing in McNair's papers.
Nothing from Paris.
No trail on the poison.
My only definite theory about the Frosts is something I dug up from an old family enemy, some old scandal about Edwin Frost disinheriting his wife because he didn't like her ideas about friendship with a Frenchman, and forcing her to sign away her dower rights by threatening to divorce her.
Well, Gebert's a Frenchman, but McNair wasn't, and then what?
It looks as if we're licked, huh?
Remember what I said Tuesday in Wolfe's office?
But Wolfe is absolutely not a damned fool, and he ought to know better than to try to sit on a lid which sooner or later can be pried off. Will you take him a message from me?”
“Sure.
Shall I write it down?”
“You won't need to.
Tell him this Gebert is going to have a shadow on him from now on until this case is solved.
Tell him that if the red box hasn't been found, or something else just as good, one of my best men will sail for France on the Normandie next Wednesday. And tell him that I know a few things already, for instance that in the past five years $60,000 of his client's money has been paid to this Gebert, and the Lord knows how much before that.”
“Sixty grand?” I raised the brows. “Of Helen Frost's money?”
“Yes.
I suppose that's news to you.”
“It certainly is.
Shucks, that much is gone where well never see it.
How did she give it to him, nickels and dimes?”
“Don't try to be funny.
I'm telling you this to tell Wolfe. Gebert opened a bank account in New York five years ago, and since then he has deposited a thousand dollar check every month, signed by Calida Frost.
You know banks well enough to be able to guess how easy it was to dig that up.”
“Yeah. Of course, you have influence with the police.
May I call your attention to the fact that Calida Frost is not our client?”
“Mother and daughter, what's the difference?
The income is the daughter's, but I suppose the mother gets half of it.
What's the difference?”
“There might be.
For instance, that young lady up in Rhode Island last year that killed her mother.
One was dead and the other one alive.
That was a slight difference.
What was the mother paying Gebert the money for?”
Cramer's eyes narrowed at me.
“When you get home, ask Wolfe.”
I laughed.
“Oh, come, Inspector.
Come, come.
The trouble with you is you don't see Wolfe much except when he's got the sawdust in the ring and ready to crack the whip. You ought to see him the way I do sometimes.
You think he knows everything.
I could tell you at least three things he never will know.” Cramer socked his teeth into his cigar.