I submit that as proof that Cramer had a right to be an inspector, because he was a born executive. As I understand it, a born executive is a guy who, when anything difficult or unexpected happens, yells for somebody to come and help him.
Chapter 19
Inspector Cramer said, “I’d like to have it in the form of a signed statement.” He chewed at his cigar. “It’s the wildest damned stuff I ever heard of. Do you mean to say that was all you had to go on?”
It was five minutes past six, and Wolfe had just come down from the plant rooms. The Frosts and Glenna McNair had long been gone. Calida Frost was gone too. The fuss was over. The chain was on the front door to make it easier for Fritz to keep reporters out. Two windows were wide open and had been for over two hours, but the smell of bitter almonds, from some that had spilled on the floor, was still in the air and seemed to be there to stay.
Wolfe, nodding, poured beer. “That was all, sir. As for signing a statement, I prefer not to. In fact, I refuse. Your noisy indignation this afternoon was outrageous; furthermore, it was silly. I resented it then; I still do.”
He drank. Cramer grunted. Wolfe went on, “God knows where Mr. McNair hid his confounded box. It appeared to me more than likely that it would never be found; and if it wasn’t it seemed fairly certain that the proof of Mrs. Frost’s guilt would at best be tedious and arduous, and at worst impossible. She had had all the luck and might go on having it. So I sent Saul Panzer to a craftsman to get a box constructed of red leather and made to appear old and worn. It was fairly certain that none of the Frosts had ever seen Mr. McNair’s box, so there was little danger of its authenticity being challenged. I calculated that the psychological effect on Mrs. Frost would be appreciable.”
“Yeah. You’re a great calculator.” Cramer chewed his cigar some more. “You took a big chance, and you kindly let me take it with you without explaining it beforehand, but I admit it was a good trick. That’s not the main point. The point is that you bought a bottle of oil of bitter almonds and put it in the box and handed it to her. That’s the farthest north, even for you. And I was here when it happened. I don’t dare put it on the record like that. I’m an inspector, and I don’t dare.”
“As you please, sir.” Wolfe’s shoulders lifted a quarter of an inch and fell again. “It was unfortunate that the outcome was fatal. I did it to impress her. I was thunderstruck, and helpless, when she — er — abused it. I used the poisonous oil instead of a substitute because I thought she might uncork the bottle, and the odor... That too was for the psychological effect—”
“Like hell it was. It was for exactly what she used it for. What are you trying to do, kid me?”
“No, not really. But you began speaking of a signed statement, and I don’t like that. I like to be frank. You know perfectly well I wouldn’t sign a statement.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “The fact is, you’re an ingrate. You wanted the case solved and the criminal punished, didn’t you? It is solved. The law is an envious monster, and you represent it. You can’t tolerate a decent and swift conclusion to a skirmish between an individual and what you call society, as long as you have it in your power to turn it into a ghastly and prolonged struggle; the victim must squirm like a worm in your fingers, not for ten minutes, but for ten months. Pfui! I don’t like the law. It was not I, but a great philosopher, who said that the law is an ass.”