“I said,” I told him icily, “all set. For what, God knows.”
“Now Archie,” he murmured, pulling moss apart. “It’s barely possible that I’m nervous. This thing is ticklish. If it doesn’t work we may never get him. By the way — get Mr. Cramer on the phone.”
When I did so, using the phone there on the bench, Wolfe put on a show. After telling me he was nervous because it was so ticklish, he bulled it like this with Cramer:
“Good morning, sir. About that affair downtown. I promised to phone you my opinion today. It was premeditated murder. That’s all I can tell you now, but developments may be expected shortly. No, sir, you will do nothing of the sort. You’ll only be making a fool of yourself. How can you, until I’ve explained it to you? If you come here now, you will not be admitted. I expect to phone you later in the day to tell you who the murderer is and where to go for him. Certainly not! No, sir.”
He replaced the receiver. “Pfui,” he muttered, and went back to the sphagnum.
“Cramer will be a little petulant if it doesn’t work,” I observed.
His shoulders lifted, just perceptibly, and dropped again. “Now it will have to work. What time is it?”
“Eight after eleven.”
“Get down to the alcove. Lieutenant Lawson might be early.”
I departed.