Cramer nodded emphatically. “I’ll say it would. Last year a worker in a dye factory spilled a couple of ounces on his pants, not directly on his skin, and he was dead in an hour. The man I had tailing Gebert handled him when he ran up to him after he fell, and got a little on his hands and some strong fumes, and he’s in a hospital now with a blue face and purple lips and purple fingernails. The doctor says he’ll pull through. Lew Frost got a little of it too, but not bad. Gebert must have turned his head when he felt it spilling and smelled it, because he got a little on his face and maybe even a couple of drops in his eyes. You should have seen him an hour after it happened.”
“I think not.” Wolfe was pouring beer. “For me to look at him could have done him no good, and certainly me none.” He drank, and felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and had none, and I got him one from the drawer. He leaned back and looked sympathetically at the inspector. “I trust, Mr. Cramer, that the routine progresses satisfactorily.”
“Smart again. Huh?” Cramer puffed. “I’ll call the turn again in a minute. But I’ll try to satisfy you. The routine progresses exactly as it should, but it don’t get anywhere. That ought to make you smack your lips. You tipped me off Wednesday to stick to the Frost family — all right, any of them could have done it. If it was either of the young ones they did it together, because they went together to the chapel. They would have had barely enough time to do the taping and pouring, because they got there only a minute or two after Gebert did. It could have been done in two minutes; I’ve tested it. The uncle and the mother went separately, and either of them would have had plenty of time. They’ve accounted for it, of course, but not in a way you can check it up to the minute. On opportunity none of them is absolutely out.”
The inspector puffed some more. “One thing, you might think we could find some passerby who saw someone making motions with the top of that car, but it could have been done sitting inside with the door closed and wouldn’t have attracted much attention, and it was night. We’ve had no luck on that so far. We found the empty bottles in the car, in the dashboard compartment — ordinary two-ounce vials, stocked by every drug store, no labels. Of course there were no fingerprints on them or on the sauce dish, and as for finding out where they came from, you might as well try to trace a red-headed paper match. We’re checking up on sources of nitrobenzene, but I agree with you that whoever is handling this business isn’t leaving a trail like that.
“I’ll tell you.” Cramer puffed again. “I don’t think we can do it. We can keep on trying, but I don’t believe we can. There’s too much luck and dirty cleverness against us. It’ll be months before I get in my car again without looking up at the top. We’ve got to get at it through motive, or I swear I’m beginning to believe we won’t get it at all. I know that’s what you’ve wanted too, that’s why you said the red box would do it. But where the hell is it? If we can’t find it we’ll have to get at the motive without it. So far it’s a blank, not only with the Frosts, but with everyone else we’ve investigated. Granted that Dudley Frost is short as trustee of the estate, which he may or may not be, what good does it do him to croak McNair and Gebert? With Lew and the girl, there’s not even a hair of a motive. With Mrs. Frost, we know she’s been paying Gebert a lot of jack for a long time. She says she was paying off an old debt, and he’s dead and he wouldn’t tell us anyhow. It was probably blackmail for something that happened years ago, but what was it that happened, and why did she have to kill him right now, and where did McNair fit in? McNair was the first to go.”
Cramer reached to knock ashes into the tray, sat back in his chair, and grunted. “There,” he said bitterly. “There’s one or two questions for you. I’m back to where I was last Tuesday, when I came here and told you I was licked, only there’s been two more people killed. Didn’t I tell you this one was yours? It’s not my type. Down at the D.A.’s office an hour ago they wanted to put a ring in your nose, and what I told Frisbie would have fried an egg. You’re the worst thorn in the flesh I know of, but you are also half as smart as you think you are, and that puts you head and shoulders above everybody since Julius Caesar. Do you know why I’ve changed my tune since yesterday? Because Gebert’s been killed and you’re still keeping your client. If you had run out on the case this morning, I would have been ready and eager to put three rings in your nose. But now I believe you. I don’t think you’ve the red box—”
The interruption was Fritz — his knock on the office door, his entry, his approach within two paces of Wolfe’s desk, his ceremonial bow:
“Mr. Morgan to see you, sir.”
Wolfe nodded and the creases of his cheeks unfolded a little; I hadn’t seen that since I had jerked him back from the relapse. He murmured, “It’s all right, Fritz, we have no secrets from Mr. Cramer. Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”