Wolfe kept on about the gun for a good ten minutes — how often had she seen it, had she ever picked it up, and so forth, with special emphasis on Sunday morning, when she and Hildebrand had opened the drawer and looked at it. On that detail she corroborated Hildebrand as I had heard him tell it to Cramer. Finally she balked. She said they weren’t getting anywhere, and she certainly wasn’t going to stay for dinner if afterward it was only going to be more of the same.
Wolfe nodded in agreement. “You’re quite right,” he told her. “We’ve gone as far as we can, you and I. We need all of them. It’s time for you to call Mr. Koven and tell him so. Tell him to be here at eight-thirty with Mrs. Koven, Mr. Jordan, and Mr. Hildebrand.”
She was staring at him. “Are you trying to be funny?” she demanded.
He skipped it. “I don’t know,” he said, “whether you can handle it properly; if not, I’ll talk to him. The validity of my claim, and of his, depends primarily on who killed Mr. Getz. I now know who killed him. I’ll have to tell the police but first I want to settle the matter of my claim with Mr. Koven. Tell him that. Tell him that if I have to inform the police before I have a talk with him and the others there will be no compromise on my claim, and I’ll collect it.”
“This is a bluff.”
“Then call it.”
“I’m going to.” She left the chair and got the coat around her. Her eyes blazed at him. “I’m not such a sap!” She started for the door.
“Get Inspector Cramer, Archie!” Wolfe snapped. He called, “They’ll be there by the time you are!”
I lifted the phone and dialed. She was out in the hall, but I heard neither footsteps nor the door opening.
“Hello,” I told the transmitter, loud enough. “Manhattan Homicide West? Inspector Cramer, please. This is—”