“No, take it here. He sounds smug.”
Cramer circled around the desk to Skinner’s elbow and got it, “Wolfe? Cramer speaking. What do you want?”
From there on it was mostly listening at his end. The others sat and watched his face, and so did I. When I saw its red slowly deepening, and his eyes getting narrower and narrower, I wanted to bounce out of my chair and beat it straight for Thirty-fifth Street, but thought it unwise to call attention to myself. I sat it out. When he finally hung up he stood with his jaw clamped and his nose twitching.
“That fat sonofabitch,” he said. He backed off a step. “He’s smug all right. He says he’s ready to earn the money Mrs. Fromm paid him. He wants Sergeant Stebbins and me. He wants the six people chiefly involved. He wants Goodwin and Panzer and Durkin. He wants three or four policewomen, not in uniform, between thirty-five and forty years old. He wants Goodwin immediately. He wants Egan. That’s all he wants.”
Cramer glared around at them. “He says we’ll be bringing the murderer away with us. The murderer, he says.”
“He’s a maniac,” Bowen said bitterly.
“How in the name of God?” Skinner demanded.
“It’s insufferable,” Bowen said. “Get him down here.”
“He won’t come.”
“Bring him!”