Hewitt nodded. “I think I will. I’ve been tempted to, but I was apprehensive about it, such deadly stuff.”
Wolfe shrugged. “Anything you use is dangerous. You can’t kill bugs and lice and eggs and spores with incense. And the cost of installation is a small item, unless you include a sealed chamber, which I would certainly advise—”
“Excuse me,” Cramer said sarcastically.
Wolfe turned. “Oh, yes, you wanted to speak to me.” He sidled around the end of a bench, sat down on a packing box, gradually giving it his weight, and kept himself upright with nothing to lean against, holding the osmundine fork perpendicular, with the handle-end resting on the floor, like Old King Cole with his scepter. He simpered at the Inspector, if an elephant can simper.
“Well, sir?”
Cramer shook his head. “I want you and Goodwin and Miss Tracy. So does the District Attorney. At his office.”
“You don’t mean that, Mr. Cramer.”
“And why the hell — why don’t I mean it?”
“Because you know I rarely leave my home. Because you know that citizens are not obligated to regulate their movements by the caprice of the District Attorney or to dart around frantically at your whim. We’ve had this out before. Have you an order from a court?”
“No.”