“It’s my routine — in a case like this. Your office is not just an office. It’s the place where more fancy tricks have been played than any other spot in New York. When a woman is murdered there, soon after a talk with Goodwin for which we have no word but his, I say sealing it is routine.”
Wolfe’s head came forward an inch, his chin out. “No, Mr. Cramer. I’ll tell you what it is. It is the malefic spite of a sullen little soul and a crabbed and envious mind. It is the childish rancor of a primacy too often challenged and offended. It is the feeble wriggle—”
The door came open to let Mrs. Orwin in.
V
With Mrs. Carlisle the husband had come along. With Mrs. Orwin it was the son. His expression and manner were so different I would hardly have known him. Upstairs his tone had been mean and his face had been mean. Now his narrow little eyes were doing their damnedest to look frank and cordial and one of the boys. He leaned across the table at Cramer, extending a hand.
“Inspector Cramer? I’ve been hearing about you for years! I’m Eugene Orwin.” He glanced to his right. “I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin — earlier today, before this terrible thing happened. It is terrible.”
“Yes,” Cramer agreed. “Sit down.”
“I will in a moment. I do better with words standing up. I would like to make a statement on behalf of my mother and myself, and I hope you’ll permit it. I’m a member of the bar. My mother is not feeling well. At the request of your men she went in with me to identify the body of Miss Brown, and it was a bad shock, and we’ve been detained now more than two hours.”
His mother’s appearance corroborated him. Sitting with her head propped on a hand and her eyes closed, obviously she didn’t care as much about the impression they made on the inspector as her son did. It was doubtful whether she was paying any attention to what her son was saying.
“A statement would be welcome,” Cramer told him, “if it’s relevant.”