“Mion?” Cramer wasn’t interested. “Not one of mine.”
“It soon will be. Alberto Mion, the famous opera singer. Four months ago, on April nineteenth. In his studio on East End Avenue. Shot—”
“Oh.” Cramer nodded. “Yeah, I remember. But you’re stretching it a little. It was suicide.”
“No. It was first-degree murder.”
Cramer regarded him for three breaths. Then, in no hurry, he got a cigar from his pocket, inspected it, and stuck it in his mouth. In a moment he took it out again.
“I have never known it to fail,” he remarked, “that you can be counted on for a headache. Who says it was murder?”
“I have reached that conclusion.”
“Then that’s settled.” Cramer’s sarcasm was usually a little heavy. “Have you bothered any about evidence?”
“I have none.”
“Good. Evidence just clutters a murder up.” Cramer stuck the cigar back in his mouth and exploded, “When did you start keeping your sentences so goddam short? Go ahead and talk!”