I said I would give him five minutes to tell me who had killed Mrs. Fromm. He said the way it was going it would take him five years and no guarantee. I asked him if that was based on the latest dispatches, and he said yes. I said that was all I wanted to know and therefore withdrew my offer of five minutes, but if and when he could make it five hours instead of five years I would appreciate it if he would communicate.
He asked, “Communicate what?”
I said, “That it’s nearly ripe. That’s all. So I can tell Mr. Wolfe to dive for cover.”
“He’s too damn fat to dive.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay, it’s a deal. You sure that’s all?”
“Absolutely.”
“I thought maybe you were going to ask for Rowcliff’s head with an apple in his mouth.”
I went home and told Wolfe, “Relax. The cops are playing eeny, meeny, miney, mo. They know more than we do, but they’re no closer to the answer.”
“How do you know?”