“Let him. If he does, I won’t butt in. As far as I’m concerned, the only two people that get to see Chapin are his wife and his lawyer, and he’s got no lawyer and if you ask me not much wife.—Listen, now that you’ve asked me a favor and I’ve turned you down, how about doing one for me? Tell me what you want to see him for? Huh?”
I grinned. “You’d be surprised. I have to ask him what he wants us to do with what is left of Andrew Hibbard until he gets a chance to tend to it.”
Cramer stared at me. He snorted. “You wouldn’t kid me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Of course if he’s not talking he probably wouldn’t tell me, but I might find a way to turn him on. Look here, inspector, there must be some human quality in you somewhere. Today’s my birthday. Let me see him.”
“Not a chance.”
I got up. “How straight is it that he’s not talking?”
“That’s on the level. We can’t get a peep.”
I told him much obliged for all his many kindnesses, and left.
I got in the roadster and headed north. I wasn’t downcast. I hadn’t made any history, but I hadn’t expected to. Remembering the mask that Paul Chapin had been using for a face as I saw him sitting in the Burton foyer the night before, I wasn’t surprised that Cramer hadn’t found him much of a conversationalist, and I wouldn’t have expected to hear anything even if I had got to see him.
At Fourteenth Street I parked and went to a cigar store and phoned Wolfe. I told him, “Right again. They have to ask his wife whether he prefers white or dark meat, because he won’t even tell them that. He’s not interested in a lawyer. Cramer wouldn’t let me see him.”