Not Quite Dead Enough (The Rex Stout Library)

“Okay.” I turned to Cramer. “Tell Stebbins to phone Fritz to dust and air the office and to get things in and have dinner at eight, as before-let’s see-pan-broiled young turkey and what goes with it. And beer. Three cases of beer.”

Purley uttered a grunt of indignation, but Cramer made it an order by nodding at him, and he left the room.

“Also,” I told Cramer cheerfully, “before I pull the zipper I want a passport from you. I’ve got-”

“Save it,” he rasped. “It’s your turn now. If I like it well enough-”

“Nothing doing.” I shook my head firmly. “You’re not going to like it at all. Short of murder there’s practically nothing you couldn’t wrap around me if you felt like it. So I’ve got terms for you too. You can have the satisfaction of salting me away for ten years-five anyhow. Or you can have the facts. But you’re not going to get both satisfaction and facts. Now say you lock me up and Mr. Wolfe totters home without me. How long do you think it would take you to find out how a lock of my hair got under that scarf? And so forth. If you want the facts, give me a passport. In advance. And get set to restrain yourself, because I freely admit that in my enthusiasm I-”

“In your what?”

“Enthusiasm. Zeal.”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, sir. I admit that I acted somewhat arbitrarily and when I tell you about it you will be inclined to take offense. In fact-”

“Don’t talk so damn much. What do you want?”

“Fresh air. Short of murder, I’m clear. Not a signed statement, just verbal will do.”

“Go to hell.”

“Suit yourself.” I shrugged. “You can’t possibly tag me for murder. I know the facts and you don’t. It would take you three thousand years to find out about that lock of hair, let alone-”

“Shut up!”

I did so. Cramer glowered at me, and I gazed at him composedly but inflexibly. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes closed.

“Okay,” he said. “Short of murder you’re clear. Shoot.”

I stood up. “May I use your phone, please?”