I started pulling on my gloves. I said to him friendly and brisk, “Thank you, my man. I assure you we appreciate this,” and went on to the elevator.
Chapter 18
At two o’clock that night — Sunday morning — I sat at my desk, in the office, and yawned. Wolfe, behind his own desk, was looking at a schedule I had typed out for him, keeping a carbon for myself, during one of the intervals in my report when he had called time out to do a little arranging in his mind. The schedule looked like this:
6:05 Mrs. Burton arrives home. Present in apartment: Burton, daughter, Bowen, maid, cook. 6:20 Bowen leaves. 6:25 Daughter leaves. 6:30 Dora Chapin arrives. 7:20 Dora leaves. 7:30 Paul Chapin arrives. 7:33 Burton is shot. 7:50 Fred Durkin phones.
I looked at my carbon and yawned. Fritz had kept some squirrel stew hot for me, and it had long since been put away, with a couple of rye highballs because the black sauce Fritz used for squirrel made milk taste like stale olive juice. After I had imparted a few of the prominent details without saying how I had got hold of them, Wolfe had explained to Hibbard that it is the same with detectives as with magicians, their primary and constant concern is to preserve the air of mystery which is attached to their profession, and Hibbard had gone up to bed. The development that had arrived over the telephone while he was taking his bath had changed his world. He had eaten no dinner to speak of, though the need to chaperon the gold leaf on his teeth had departed. He had insisted on phoning fifty or sixty people, beginning with his niece, and had been restrained only by some tall talk about his word of honor. In fact, that question seemed not entirely closed, for Wolfe had had Fritz cut the wire of the telephone which was in Hibbard’s room. Now he was up there, maybe asleep, maybe doping out a psychological detour around words of honor. I had gone on and given Wolfe the story, every crumb I had, and there had been discussions.
I threw the carbon onto the desk and did some more yawning. Finally Wolfe said:
“You understand, Archie. I think it would be possible for us to go ahead without assuming the drudgery of discovering the murderer of Dr. Burton. I would indeed regard that as obvious, if only men could be depended upon to base their decisions on reason. Alas, there are only three or four of us in the world, and even we will bear watching. And our weak spot is that we are committed not to refer our success to a fact, we must refer it to the vote of our group of clients. We must not only make things happen, we must make our clients vote that they have happened. That arrangement was unavoidable. It makes it necessary for us to learn who killed Dr. Burton, so that if the vote cannot be sufficiently swayed by reason it can be bullied by melodrama. You see that.”
I said, “I’m sleepy. When I have to wait until nearly midnight for my dinner and then it’s squirrel stew...”
Wolfe nodded. “Yes, I know. Under those circumstances I would be no better than a maniac.—Another thing. The worst aspect of this Burton development, from our standpoint, is what it does to the person of Mr. Chapin. He cannot come here to get his box — or for anything else. It will be necessary to make arrangements through Mr. Morley, and go to see him. What jail will they keep him in?”
“I suppose, Centre Street. There are three or four places they could stick him, but the Tombs is the most likely.”