Over My Dead Body

"Yes, sir. It was me. He got obnoxious here in this office and I plugged him. I tell it because you may dig up someone who saw him soon after, and I don't want to be accused of withholding evidence."

Cramer's chin slowly sunk to his breastbone. It looked like a slow-motion of Jack Dempsey preparing to wade in. Then, also slowly, he put the tip of a forefinger to his nose and rubbed up and down, gently and rhythmically, meanwhile surveying me through narrowed lids. It was quite a while before he said thoughtfully:

"You wouldn't stab a guy."

"No, sir," I agreed brightly, "it wouldn't be in character-"

"Shut up. But what if you and Tormic went there and found him there going through things. You got mad and socked him. Tormic got mad and stuck a knife in him. You sent for Durkin and made him a gift of the knife and he left with it. You phoned here and I was here."

"It sounds pretty plausible," I conceded, "but you're confronted with the question of motive again. What was it that infuriated Tormic to the point of croaking him? Another trouble is that Fred Durkin was here in the office when I plugged him." I shook my head. "That theory is full of holes. I'm in favour of crossing it off-"

The phone interrupted me. It was a call for Cramer. I gave him room to take it at my desk. He talked for a full ten minutes, everything from non-committal grunts to elaborate detailed instructions, and when it was finished returned to his chair.

He regarded me with a cold eye. "You know, son," he said finally, "you have one or two good qualities. In a way I even like you. In another way I could stand and watch your hide peeling off and not shed any tears. You have undoubtedly got the goddamdest nerve of anybody I know except maybe Nero Wolfe. Tormic is down at headquarters, with that lawyer you got for her, refusing to answer questions. I've got half a notion to try that old gag on her. I think I'll phone Rowcliff to tell her that you have admitted that Faber was on his feet when you and she got there, and you knocked him down."

"Go ahead," I urged him. "It will be interesting to see how it works out. But as far as my nerve is concerned, I never have had, do not now have, and never will have, enough nerve to risk one teeny-weeny chance of sitting in the frying-chair."

"Yesterday afternoon you fled the scene of a murder with the weapon used for the crime."

"Not knowingly. To begin with, I didn't fled, I merely went. And I did not know that culdymore was in my pocket."