There were noises, but no more words. That was enough to last a while, anyway. I hung up and turned to Wolfe. I suppose my face wasn’t very placid, but the expression on his didn’t change any as he looked at me. I said, “That was Fred Durkin. Paul Chapin has just shot Dr. Burton and killed him. At his apartment on Ninetieth Street. They caught him red-handed. Fred invites me up to see the show.”
Wolfe sighed. He murmured, “Nonsense.”
“Nonsense hell. Fred’s not a genius, but I never saw him mistake a pinochle game for a murder. He’s got good eyes. It looks like tailing Chapin wasn’t such a bad idea after all, since it got Fred there on the spot. We’ve got him—”
“Archie. Shut up.” Wolfe’s lips were pushing out and in as fast as I had ever seen them. After ten seconds he said, “Consider this, please. Durkin’s conversation was interrupted?”
“Yeah, he was pulled off.”
“By the police, of course. The police take Chapin for murdering Burton; he is convicted and executed, and where are we? What of our engagements? We are lost.”
I stared at him. “Good God. Damn that cripple—”
“Don’t damn him. Save him. Save him for us. The roadster is in front? Good. Go there at once, fast. You know what to do, get it, the whole thing. I need the scene, the minutes and seconds, the participants — I need the facts. I need enough of them to save Paul Chapin. Go and get them.”
I jumped.