Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07 by Over My Dead Body

Wolfe had sent me there on an errand with instructions to report back when the errand was finished. It was finished, and as you know, Mr. Wolfe doesn’t take an excuse. By the way, I left my car there, parked on 48th—”
    “Nuts. Why did you beat it?”
    “I’m telling you. I would have been kept there till midnight, and for nobody’s benefit, because there were a dozen people there who knew more than I did about the murder, and at least one of them a lot more.” I let my voice rise a little in indignation. “I helped out all I could, didn’t I? Didn’t I guard the front door until the radio and precinct guys—”
    I stopped short.
    “Uh-huh.” Cramer nodded grimly. “Just occurred to you, huh? Brain slowed up on you? I thought of that a long while ago, all by myself. What was it, Goodwin? What was it that happened between the time the precinct men arrived and the time you took your overcoat from the rack?”
    “Nothing happened.”
    “Yes, it did. I want to know what it was.”
    “Nothing, except that when a cop relieved me at the door there was nothing I could do to help, and you know damn well what Mr. Wolfe is like if I let anything interfere with his business.”
    He glared at me. Then he slid back to a more comfortable position in the big leather chair, looked at Wolfe, and slowly shook his head. “I’m tired out,” he said resentfully. “I was up most of last night on thatArlen case, and I was going to bed at eight o’clock, and now here’s this, and I find you’re in on it even before it happens, and you can guess how pure and simple that makes it seem like.”
    “I can assure you,” Wolfe said sympathetically, “that Mr. Goodwin’s errand was neither to prevent nor to provoke murder. We really didn’t know there was to be one.”
    “Oh, I know all about his errand. Driscoll’s diamonds. To hell with that. Let’s be reasonable. There was Goodwin, alone right at the front door for six or seven minutes after he came downstairs with Mrs. Miltan, before the radio men got there. Then they left him alone again until the precinct men arrived. He knew from the beginning what a murder investigation means for those on the premises when the squad gets on the job. If he wanted to get away and get to you to report, all he had to do was walk right out and get in his car and go. Instead of that, he waits until the precinct men come and one of them is stationed at the door, then he goes to the office and stands there and looks around, and all of a sudden he grabs his hat and coat, sneaks down to the basement, pulls a gun and scares the daylights out of a colored porter who—”
    “He had no daylights left in him.”
    “Shut up. Tells the porter to stay where he is, takes a ladder to the rear court and climbs the fence and talks about his wife’s cat and pretends to fall off, beats it through a kitchen and a restaurant on 49th Street, and jumps a taxi and tells the driver he likes to go fast. And he tells me nothing happened between the time the precinct men came and the time he reached for his coat! I ask you, what does that sound like?”
    “It sounds like a delayed cerebral process. I am accustomed to it. Unfortunately.”
    “It sounds bughouse. And Goodwin’s not bughouse.”
    “No, he isn’t. Not quite. Will you have some beer?”
    “No. Thank you.”
    Wolfe pushed the button, leaned back, and let the tips of his fingers meet at the apex of his middle mound. “Let’s cut across, Mr. Cramer,” he suggested helpfully. “You’re busy and you need sleep. Regarding the point you have broached, as to what happened up there between this time and that time, Archie says he didn’t want to be detained until midnight by the prolonged routine of your staff. I say delayed cerebration. If something significant really did happen it’s obvious that we don’t intend to tell you, at least not now, so let’s pass on that. Next, if you ask why we kept ourselves incommunicado until half past nine, my