“Yes, sir.” Nothing could catch Purley off balance. “On your order?”
“No, charge him. Sullivan Act. He has no license for the gun we found on him.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “Ha, ha, and ha, ha. There, you got your laugh. A very fine gag. Ha.”
“You’re going down, Goodwin. I’ll be down to see you later.”
As I said, I knew him well. He meant it. I had his eyes. “This,” I said, “is way out of my reach. I’ve told you where and how and why I got that gun.” I pointed to the paper in Purley’s hand. “Read it. It’s all down, punctuated.”
“You had the gun in your holster and you have no license for it.”
“Nuts. But I get it. You’ve been hoping for years to hang something on Nero Wolfe, and to you I’m just a part of him, and you think here’s your chance. Of course it won’t stick. Wouldn’t you rather have something that will? Like resisting arrest and assaulting an officer? Glad to oblige. Watch it—”
Tipping forward, I started a left hook for his jaw, fast and vicious, then jerked it down and went back on my heels. It didn’t create a panic, but I had the satisfaction of seeing Cramer take a quick step back and Stebbins one forward. They bumped.
“There,” I said. “With both of you to swear to it, that ought to be good for at least two years. I’ll throw the typewriter at you if you’ll promise to catch it.”
“Cut the clowning,” Purley growled.