“I’ll see if he’s available. Your name?”
“He wouldn’t know my name. I want to see him — it’s about his advertisement in the Times this morning. I want to make an appointment with him.”
I kept it casual. “I handle his appointments. May I have your name, please?”
“I’d rather — when I come. Could I come at twelve o’clock?”
“Hold the wire a minute.” I consulted my desk calendar, turning to a page for next week. “Yes, that’ll be all right if you’re punctual. You have the address?”
She said she did. I hung up and turned to report to Wolfe. “A character who probably wants to look at the orchids. I’ll handle it as usual.”
He resumed to Cramer. “I certainly agree that the evidence that the boy and Matthew Birch were killed by the same car is a noteworthy complication, but actually that should make it simpler for you. Even though the license plate is useless, surely you can trace the car itself.”
Cramer’s expression had reverted to the cold stare he had started with. “I have never had any notion,” he stated, “that you are a crude liar. I have never seen you crude.” He arose. In Wolfe’s presence he always made a point of getting upright from a chair with the leverage of his leg muscles only, because Wolfe used hands and arms. “No,” he said, “not crude,” and turned and marched out.
I went to the hall to see the door close behind him and then returned to the office and my desk.
“The letter to Mr. Jordan,” Wolfe instructed me.