The Twelve Crimes of Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page B

of the
old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street it was eight minutes to eight.
    As
usual in my absence, the chain-bolt was on, and I had to ring for Fritz to let
me in. I asked him if Wolfe was back, and he said yes, he was at dinner. As I
put my hat on the shelf and my coat on a hanger I asked if there was any left
for me, and he said plenty, and moved aside for me to precede him down the hall
to the door of the dining room. Fritz has fine manners.
    Wolfe,
in his oversized chair at the end of the table, told me good evening, not snapping
or barking. I returned it, got seated at my place, picked up my napkin, and
apologized for being late. Fritz came, from the kitchen, with a warm plate, a
platter of braised boned ducklings, and a dish of potatoes baked with mushrooms
and cheese. I took enough. Wolfe asked if it was still snowing and I said yes.
After a good mouthful had been disposed of, I spoke.
    “As
you know, I approve of your rule not to discuss business during a meal, but I’ve
got something on my chest and it’s not business. It’s personal.”
    He
grunted. “The death of Mr. Bottweill was reported on the radio at seven o’clock.
You were there.”
    “Yeah.
I was there. I was kneeling by him while he died.” I replenished my mouth. Damn
the radio. I hadn’t intended to mention the murder until I had dealt with the
main issue from my standpoint. When there was room enough for my tongue to work
I went on, “I’ll report on that in full if you want it, but I doubt if there’s
a job in it. Mrs. Perry Porter Jerome is the only suspect with enough jack to
pay your fee, and she has already notified Purley Stebbins that she won’t be
abused. Besides, when they find Santa Claus that may settle it. What I want to report
on happened before Bottweill died. That marriage license I showed you is for
the birds. Miss Dickey has called it off. I am out two bucks. She told me she
had decided to marry Bottweill.”
    He
was sopping a crust in the sauce on his plate. “Indeed,” he said.
    “Yes,
sir. It was a jolt, but I would have recovered, in time. Then ten minutes later
Bottweill was dead. Where does that leave me? Sitting around up there through
the routine, I considered it. Perhaps I could get her back now, but no thank
you. That license has been destroyed. I get another one, another two bucks, and
then she tells me she has decided to marry Joe Doakes. I’m going to forget her.
I’m going to blot her out.”
    I
resumed on the duckling. Wolfe was busy chewing. When he could he said, “For
me, of course, this is satisfactory.”
    “I
know it is. Do you want to hear about Bottweill?”
    “After
dinner.”
    “Okay.
How did you make out with Thompson?”
    But
that didn’t appeal to him as a dinner topic either. In fact, nothing did.
Usually he likes table talk, about anything from refrigerators to Republicans,
but apparently the trip to Long Island and back, with all its dangers, had
tired him out. It suited me all right, since I had had a noisy afternoon too
and could stand a little silence. When we had both done well with the duckling
and potatoes and salad and baked pears and cheese and coffee, he pushed back
his chair.
    “There’s
a book,” he said, “that I want to look at. It’s up in your room— Here
and Now, by Herbert Block. Will you bring it down, please?”
    Though
it meant climbing two flights with a full stomach, I was glad to oblige, out of
appreciation for his calm acceptance of my announcement of my shattered hopes.
He could have been very vocal. So I mounted the stairs cheerfully, went to my
room, and crossed to the shelves where I keep a few books. There were only a
couple of dozen of them, and I knew where each one was, but Here and Now wasn’t there. Where it should have been was a gap. I
looked around, saw a book on the dresser, and stepped to it. It was Here and Now, and lying on top of it was a pair of white cotton
gloves.
    I
gawked.
    IV
    I
would like to say that I caught on