“I know you are. I don’t blame you. This case has been tedious and disagreeable from the beginning. Something seems to have happened to Saul. We have a job ahead of us. It will end, I think, as disagreeably as it began, but we shall do it in style if we can, and with finality — ah! There, I hope, is Saul now.”
The doorbell had rung. But again, as on the evening before, it wasn’t Saul. This time it was Inspector Cramer.
Fritz ushered him in and he lumbered across. He looked as if he was about due for dry dock, with puffs under his eyes, his graying hair straggly, and his shoulders not as erect and military as an inspector’s ought to be. Wolfe greeted him:
“Good morning, sir. Sit down. Will you have some beer?”
He took the dunce’s chair, indulged in a deep breath, took a cigar from his pocket, scowled at it and put it back again. He took another breath and told both of us:
“When I get into such shape that I don’t want a cigar I’m in a hell of a fix.” He looked at me. “What did you do to Frisbie, anyway?”
“Not a thing. Nothing that I remember.”
“Well, he does. I think you’re done for. I think he’s going to plaster a charge of treason on you.”
I grinned. “That hadn’t occurred to me. I guess that’s what it was, treason. What do they do, hang me?”
Cramer shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. What happens to you is the least of my worries. God, I wish I felt like lighting a cigar.” He took one from his pocket again, looked it over, and this time kept it in his hand. He passed me up. “Excuse me, Wolfe, I guess I didn’t mention I don’t want any beer. I suppose you think I came here to start a fracas.”