“Arthur Kommers.”
“No.” Three out-of-town babies, three noes in a row, and I hoped Wolfe was proud of his long-distance phoning.
“Sidney Lang.”
“Yes.”
“Archibald Mollison.”
“Yes.”
It was even again, seven and seven, and just one more to go, but I knew what it would be before I called it. It was George Pratt, the Tammany bird who had tried to get Inspector Cramer worried about his four grand. I said it:
“George R. Pratt.”
“No.”
I counted them over to make sure, and turned to Wolfe: “Seven yeses and eight noes.”