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

peculiar request, but he was a
peculiar man. Since Mr. Goodwin had chores to do, and I will not ride in
taxicabs if there is any alternative, I had engaged a car at Baxter’s, and the chauffeur
recommended a shop on Eighth Avenue between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth Streets.
We stopped there and I bought the gloves.”
    Cramer’s
eyes were such narrow slits that none of the blue-gray showed. He wasn’t buying
any part of it, which was unjustified, since some of it was true.
    Wolfe
went on. “At the lunch table I gave the gloves to Mr. Bottweill, and he
explained, somewhat vaguely, what he wanted them for. I gathered that he had
taken pity on some vagabond he had seen on a park bench, and had hired him to
serve refreshments at his office party, costumed as Santa Claus, and had
decided that the only way to make his hands presentable was to have him wear
gloves. You shake your head, Mr. Cramer?”
    “You’re
damn right I do. You would have reported that. No reason on earth not to. Go
ahead and finish.”
    “I’ll
finish this first. I didn’t report it because I thought you would find the
murderer without it. It was practically certain that the vagabond had merely
skedaddled out of fright, since he couldn’t possibly have known of the jar of
poison in the workshop, not to mention other considerations. And as you know, I
have a strong aversion to involvement in matters where I have no concern or
interest. You can of course check this—with the staff at Rusterman’s, my
presence there with Mr. Bottweill, and with the chauffeur, my conferring with
him about the gloves and our stopping at the shop to buy them.”
    “You’re
reporting it now.”
    “I
am indeed.” Wolfe was unruffled. “Because I understood from Mr. Goodwin that
you were extending and intensifying your search for the man who was there as
Santa Claus, and with your army and your resources it probably wouldn’t take
you long when the holiday had ended to learn where the gloves were bought and
get a description of the man who bought them. My physique is not unique, but it
is—uncommon, and the only question was how long it would take you to get to me,
and then I would be under inquisition. Obviously I had to report the episode to
you and suffer your rebuke for not reporting it earlier, but I wanted to make
it as tolerable as possible. I had one big advantage: I knew that the man who
acted Santa Claus was almost certainly not the murderer, and I decided to use
it. I needed first to have a talk with one of those people, and I did so, with
Miss Quon, who came here last evening.”
    “Why
Miss Quon?”
    Wolfe
turned a hand over. “When I have finished you can decide whether such details
are important. With her I discussed her associates at that place and their
relationships, and I became satisfied that Bottweill had in fact decided to
marry her. That was all. You can also decide later whether it is worthwhile to
ask her to corroborate that, and I have no doubt she will.”
    He
was looking at Cherry, of course, for any sign of danger. She started to blurt
it out once, and might again. But, meeting his gaze, she didn’t move a muscle.
    Wolfe
returned to Cramer. “This morning I acted. Mr. Goodwin was absent, at the
District Attorney’s office, so I called in Mr. Panzer. After spending an hour
with me here he went to do some errands. The first one was to learn whether
Bottweill’s wastebasket had been emptied since his conversation with Miss
Dickey in his office Thursday evening. As you know, Mr. Panzer is highly
competent. Through Miss Quon he got the name and address of the cleaning woman,
found her and talked with her, and was told that the wastebasket had been
emptied at about six o’clock Thursday afternoon and not since then. Meanwhile I—”
    “Cherry
took it—the pieces,” Margot said.
    Wolfe
ignored her. “Meanwhile I was phoning everyone concerned—Mrs. Jerome and her
son, Miss Dickey, Miss Quon, Mr. Hatch, and Mr. Kiernan—and inviting