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.
IV
Wolfe grunted. He leaned back in his chair, got his fingertips touching in the locality of his belly button, and said offensively, “Nonsense. You can’t arrest my client on any charge whatever. My client is dead. By the way, is he? Has the corpse been properly identified?”
Cramer nodded. “Certainly. With a face like that it’s routine. Barber, dentist, and doctor — they’re the experts. Why, what did you think it was, an insurance fake?”
“I didn’t think. Then you can’t arrest my client.”
“Goodwin says Mrs. Poor is your client.”