Next morning at eleven o’clock, when Wolfe came down to the office after his two-hour morning session up in the plant rooms, I made my report. He took it, as usual, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, with no visible sign of consciousness. The final chapter was the details given me by Martha Poor, with whom I had managed to have a talk around midnight by pressing Cramer on the client angle and wearing him down. I gave it to Wolfe.
“They came here yesterday in their own car. When they left here, a little before five, they drove to Madison Square Garden and got a program of the afternoon rodeo performance, the reason for that being he had needed to explain his absence from the office and not wanting Blaney to know that he was coming to see you, he had said he was going to the rodeo and wanted to be able to answer questions if he was asked about it. Then they drove up to Westchester. Conroy Blaney has a place up there, a shack in the hills where he lives and spends his evenings and week ends thinking up novelties, and they had a date to see him there and discuss things. Mrs. Poor had persuaded Poor to go, thinking they might reach an agreement, but Poor hadn’t wanted to, and on the way up he balked, so they stopped at a place near Scarsdale, Monty’s Tavern, to debate. Poor won the debate. He wouldn’t go. She left him at the tavern and went on to Blaney’s place alone. The date was for six-fifteen and she got there right on the dot. Are you awake?”
He grunted.
I went on, “Blaney wasn’t there. He lives alone, and the doors were locked. She waited around and got cold. At ten minutes to seven she beat it back to the tavern. She and Poor ate dinner there, then drove back to town, put the car in the garage, and went home. Poor had had no cigar after dinner because they hadn’t had his brand at the tavern and he wouldn’t smoke anything else. He has been smoking Alta Vistas for years, ten to fifteen a day. So he hung up his hat and opened a fresh box. She didn’t see him do it because she was in the bathroom. She heard the sound of the explosion, not very loud, and ran out and there he was. She phoned downstairs, and the elevator man and hall man came and phoned for a doctor and the police. Still awake?”
He grunted again.
“Okay. That’s it. When I returned to the living room everyone had left, including Poor’s leftovers. Some friend had come to spend the night, and of course there was a cop out in the hall. When I got home you were in bed, snoring.”
He had long ago quit bothering to deny that he snored. Now he didn’t bother about anything, but just sat there. I resumed with the plant records. Noon came and went, and still he was making no visible effort to earn five thousand dollars, or even five hundred.
Finally he heaved a sigh, almost opened his eyes, and told me, “You say the face was unrecognizable.”
“Yes, sir. As I described it.”
“From something concealed in a cigar. Next to incredible. Phone Mr. Cramer. Tell him it is important that the identity of the corpse be established beyond question. Also that I want to see a photograph of Mr. Poor while still intact.”
I goggled at him. “For God’s sake, what do you think? That she doesn’t know her own husband? She came home with him. Now really. The old insurance gag? Your mind’s in a rut. I will not phone Mr. Cramer merely to put myself on the receiving end of a horse laugh.”
“Be quiet. Let me alone. Phone Mr. Cramer.”
And that was all. Apparently he thought he had earned his fee. No instructions to go get Helen Vardis or Joe Groll or Blaney or even Martha Poor. When I phoned Cramer he didn’t laugh, but that was only because he had stopped laughing at Nero Wolfe some time back. I gritted my teeth and went on with the plant records.
At lunch he discussed Yugoslav politics. That was all right, because he never talked business at the table, but when, back in the office, he went through the elaborate operations of getting himself settled with the atlas, I decided to apply spurs and sink them deep.
I arose and confronted him and announced, “I resign.”
He muttered testily without looking up, “Nonsense. Do your work.”
“No, sir. I’m going upstairs to pack. If you’re too lazy to wiggle a finger, very well, that’s not news. But you could at least send me to the public library to look up the genealogy—”
“Confound it!” He glared at me. “I engaged to give that information to the police and have done so. Also to take any further action that might seem to me advisable. I have done that.”
“Do you mean you’re through with the case?”
“Certainly not. I haven’t even started, because there’s nothing to start on. Mr. Cramer may do the job himself, or he may not. I hope he does. If you don’t want to work, go to a movie.”
I went upstairs to my room and tried to read a book, knowing it wouldn’t work because I can never settle down when a murder case is on. So I returned to the office and rattled papers, but even that didn’t faze him. At four o’clock, when he went up to the plant rooms, I went to the corner and got afternoon papers, but there was nothing in them but the usual crap. When he came down again at six it was more of the same, and I went out for a walk to keep from throwing a chair at him, and stayed until dinnertime. After dinner I went to a movie, and when I got home a little after eleven and found him sitting drinking beer and reading a magazine, I went upstairs to bed without saying good night.
Next morning, Thursday, there wasn’t a peep out of him before nine o’clock, the time he went up to the damn orchids. When Fritz came down with the breakfast tray from Wolfe’s room, with nothing left on the dishes to wash off, I asked him, “How’s the pet mammoth?”
“Very difficult,” Fritz said in a satisfied tone. “Refrogné. Always in the morning. Healthy.”
I read the papers and had more coffee.
When Wolfe came down to the office at eleven I greeted him with a friendly suggestion. “Look,” I said, “you’re an expert on murder. But this Poor murder bores you because you’ve already collected your fee. So how about this?” I spread the morning Gazette on his desk and indicated. “Absolutely Grade A. Man’s naked body found in an old orchard off a lonely lane four miles from White Plains, head crushed to a pancake, apparently by a car running square over him. It offers many advantages to a great detective like you. It might be Hitler, since his body has never been found. It is in a convenient neighborhood, easily reached by trains, bus, or auto, electric lights and city gas. The man has been dead at least thirty-six hours, counting from now, so it has the antique quality you like, with the clues all—”
In another minute I would have had him sputtering with fury, but the doorbell rang. “Study it,” I told him, and went to the hall and the front and, following routine, fingered the curtain edge aside for a look through the glass panel.
After one brief glance I went back to the office and told Wolfe casually, “It’s only Cramer. To hell with him. Since he’s working on the Poor case and you’re not interested—”
“Archie. Confound you. Bring him in.”
The bell was ringing again, and that irritates me, so I went and got him. He was wearing his raincoat and his determined look. I relieved him of the former in the hall and let him take the latter on into the office. When I joined them Cramer was lowering himself into the red leather chair and telling Wolfe, “I dropped in on my way uptown because I thought it was only fair since you gave me that information. I think I’m going to arrest your client on a charge of murder.”
I sat down and felt at home.