Fred, standing on the sidewalk, shook his head. “You don’t need me. I got an errand.”
“They’ll want to ask you. Get in.”
“They can ask me later. I got a certain matter.”
I looked at him. There was an edge to his voice, and a glint in his eye, that showed me there was no use arguing.
“All right,” I said, “there’s one chance in a million you might find him there. If you do, don’t be a sap. Remember that any citizen who sees a crime committed, like for instance assault and battery, can legally make an arrest. You may not have seen it much, but you sure felt it.”
“Go float on a rock,” he said, and tramped off. I saw that Prescott was propped in his corner, and started the car.
On the way up to 35th Street, Prescott put his hand on my arm and said he had decided he had better go to a hospital. I didn’t bother to persuade him out of it, but just kept going. In front of Wolfe’s house, the two city employees in Cramer’s car were obviously expecting us. They helped me ease my cargo out to the sidewalk, paying no more attention to his protests than I did as we took him up the stoop and on inside. In the hall we were met not only by Wolfe and Cramer, but also by Doc Vollmer, whose office was up the street. Wolfe took command and gave the instructions. The doctor and one of the dicks walked upstairs while I ascended with Prescott in the elevator. I left him there with them in the south bedroom, the spare on the same floor as mine, and went back down to the office.
Wolfe and Cramer were sitting there. I made my report, though there wasn’t a lot to add to what I had told Wolfe on the phone. Wolfe held himself in, but I could tell by the look of his eyes that it was only the presence of company that restrained him from making pointed remarks about Fred Durkin. I gathered that the person who was really wanted to make it a good party was Mr. Eugene Davis. Cramer got his office on the phone, and from the orders he barked to some underling it was evident that Wolfe had told him all about the Davis-Dawson angle and that every cop on the force was already searching for the junior partner of the dear old firm.
Just as Cramer hung up, the doorbell started buzzing and didn’t stop. I beat it for the hall, bumped into Fritz, and told him I would tend to it. I swung the door wide, and after one glance stepped aside with a welcoming grin. The extra dick was standing on the second step, looking alert but uncertain, staring up. Confronting me was Eugene-Earl-Davis-Dawson, haggard, untidy, without a hat, and at his elbow, with a gun stuck against his ribs, was Fred Durkin.
“Well, well,” I observed approvingly.