Free The Twelve Crimes of Christmas by Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)

Cherry had vacated. “Be seated.”
    “Not
here. Alone.”
    Wolfe
shook his head. “It would be a waste of time. This way is better and quicker.
You know quite well, sir, it was a mistake to barge in here and roar at me that
you are running my house. Either go, with whomever you can lawfully take, or
sit down while I tell you who killed Kurt Bottweill.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “Your
chair.”
    Cramer’s
round red face had been redder than normal from the outside cold, and now was
redder still. He glanced around, compressed his lips until he didn’t have any,
and went to the red leather chair and sat.
    VIII
    Wolfe
sent his eyes around as I circled to my desk. Saul had got to a chair in the
rear after all, but Stebbins had too and was at his elbow. Margot had passed in
front of the Jeromes and Emil Hatch to get to the chair at the end nearest me,
and Cherry and Al Kiernan were at the other end, a little back of the others.
Hatch had finished his Korbeloff and put the glass on the floor, but Cherry and
the Jeromes were hanging on to their tall ones.
    Wolfe’s
eyes came to rest on Cramer and he spoke. “I must confess that I stretched it a
little. I can’t tell you, at the moment, who killed Bottweill; I have only a
supposition; but soon I can, and will. First some facts for you. I assume you
know that for the past two months Mr. Goodwin has been seeing something of Miss
Dickey. He says she dances well.”
    “Yeah.”
Cramer’s voice came over sandpaper of the roughest grit. “You can save that for
later. I want to know if you sent Panzer to meet—”
    Wolfe
cut him off. “You will. I’m headed for that. But you may prefer this firsthand.
Archie, if you please. What Miss Dickey asked you to do last Monday evening,
and what happened.”
    I
cleared my throat. “We were dancing at the Flamingo Club. She said Bottweill
had been telling her for a year that he would marry her next week, but next
week never came, and she was going to have a showdown with him. She asked me to
get a blank marriage license and fill it out for her and me and give it to her,
and she would show it to Bottweill and tell him now or never. I got the blank
on Tuesday, and filled it in, and Wednesday I gave it to her.”
    I
stopped. Wolfe prompted me. “And yesterday afternoon?”
    “She
told me that the license trick had worked perfectly. That was about a minute
before Bottweill entered the studio. I said in my statement to the District
Attorney that she told me Bottweill was going to marry her, but I didn’t
mention the license. It was immaterial.”
    “Did
she tell you what happened to the license?”
    So
we were emptying the bag. I nodded. “She said Bottweill had torn it up and put
the pieces in the wastebasket by the desk in his office. The night before.
Thursday evening.”
    “And
what did you do when you went to the office after Bottweill had died?”
    “I
dumped the wastebasket and put the stuff back in it, piece by piece. No part of
the license was there.”
    “You
made sure of that?”
    “Yes.”
    Wolfe
left me and asked Cramer, “Any questions?”
    “No.
He lied in his statement. I’ll attend to that later. What I want—”
    Margot
Dickey blurted, “Then Cherry took it!” She craned her neck to see across the
others. “You took it, you slut!”
    “I
did not.” The steel was in Cherry’s chirp again. Her eyes didn’t leave Wolfe,
and she told him, “I’m not going to wait any longer—”
    “Miss
Quon!” he snapped. “I’m doing this.” He returned to Cramer. “Now another fact.
Yesterday I had a luncheon appointment with Mr. Bottweill at Rusterman’s
restaurant. He had once dined at my table and wished to reciprocate. Shortly
before I left to keep the appointment he phoned to ask me to do him a favor. He
said he was extremely busy and might be a few minutes late, and he needed a
pair of white cotton gloves, medium size, for a man, and would I stop at some
shop on the way and get them. It struck me as a