Cramer’s eyes narrowed at me. “When you get home, ask Wolfe.”
I laughed. “Oh, come, Inspector. Come, come. The trouble with you is you don’t see Wolfe much except when he’s got the sawdust in the ring and ready to crack the whip. You ought to see him the way I do sometimes. You think he knows everything. I could tell you at least three things he never will know.”
Cramer socked his teeth into his cigar. “I think he knows where that red box is, and he’s probably got it. I think that in the interest of a client, not to mention his own, he’s holding back evidence in a murder case. And do you know what he expects to do? He expects to wait until May seventh to spring it, the day Helen Frost will be twenty-one. How do you think I like that? How do you think they like it at the D.A.’s office?”
I slapped a yawn. “Excuse it, I only had six hours’ sleep. I’ll swear I don’t know what I can say to convince you. Why don’t you run up and have a talk with Wolfe?”
“What for? I can see it. I sit down and explain to him why I think he’s a liar. He says ‘indeed’ and shuts his eyes and opens them again when he gets ready to ring for beer. He ought to start a brewery. Some great men, when they die, leave their brains to a scientific laboratory. Wolfe ought to leave his stomach.”
“Okay.” I got up. “If you’re so sore at him that you even resent his quenching his thirst occasionally every few minutes, I can’t expect you to listen to reason. I can only repeat you’re all wet. Wolfe himself says that if he had the red box he could finish up the case” — I snapped my fingers — “like that.”
“I don’t believe it. Give him my messages, will you?”
“Right. Best regards.”
“Go to hell.”
I didn’t let the elevator take me that far, but got off at the main floor. At the triangle I found the roadster and maneuvered it into Centre Street.