“Mr. Llewellyn Frost.”
“That one, eh?” Cramer grunted. “To keep somebody clear?”
“No. To solve the murder.”
“You don’t say. How long did it take you?”
Wolfe got himself forward to pour beer, and drank. Cramer was going on: “What got Lew Frost so worked up about it? I don’t get it. It wasn’t him that the Lauck girl was after, it was that Frenchman, Perren Gebert. Why is Lew Frost so anxious to spend good dough for a hunk of truth and justice?”
“I couldn’t say.” Wolfe wiped his lips. “As a matter of fact, there is nothing whatever I can tell you. I haven’t the faintest notion—”
“You mean to say you went clear to 52nd Street just for the exercise?”
“No. God forbid. But I have no scrap of information, or surmise, for you regarding Miss Lauck’s death.”
“Well.” Cramer rubbed a palm on his knee. “Of course, I know that the fact you’ve got nothing for me doesn’t prove you have nothing for yourself. You going on with it?”
“I am.”