Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 24 by Three Men Out Page B

as they were found, that all but one of them have erasers in their ends, and that an eraser is there on the desk, between the two groups of pencils. Is that correct?”
    “Right.” The dick sounded bored. I was getting it from the phone on the table over by the globe.
    “Take the eraser and insert it in the end of the pencil that hasn’t one in it. I want to know if the eraser was loose enough to slip out accidentally.”
    “Inspector, are you on? You said not to disturb—”
    “Go ahead,” Cramer growled. “I’m right here.”
    “Yes, sir. Hold it, please.”
    There was a long wait, and then he was back on. “The eraser couldn’t have slipped out accidentaly. Part of it is still clamped in the end of the pencil. It had to be pulled out, torn apart, and the torn surfaces are bright and fresh.I can pull one out of another pencil and tell you how much force it takes.”
    “No, thank you, that’s all I need. But to make certain, and for the record, I suggest that you send the pencil and eraser to the laboratory to check that the torn surfaces fit.”
    “Do I do that, Inspector?”
    “Yeah, you might as well. Mark them properly.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Cramer returned to the red leather chair, and I went to mine. He tilted the cigar upward from the corner of his mouth and demanded, “So what?”
    “You know quite well what,” Wolfe declared. “The eraser was yanked out and placed purposely, and was a part of the message. No doubt as a dot after the N to show it was an initial? And he was interrupted permanently before he could put one after the W?”
    “Sarcasm don’t change it any. It’s still NW.”
    “No. It isn’t. It never was.”
    “For me and the district attorney it is. I guess we’d better get on down to his office.”
    Wolfe upturned a palm. “There you are. You’re not hare-brained, but you are pigheaded. I warn you, sir, that if you proceed on the assumption that Mr. Heller’s message says NW, you are doomed; the best you can expect is to be tagged a jackass.”
    “I suppose you know what it does say.”
    “Yes.”
    “You do?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m waiting.”
    “You’ll continue to wait. If I thought I could earn this money”—Wolfe tapped his pocket—“by deciphering that message for you, that would be simple, but in your present state of mind you would only think I was contriving a humbug.”
    “Try me.”
    “No, sir.” Wolfe half closed his eyes. “An alternative. You can go on as you have started and see where it lands you, understanding that Mr. Goodwin and I will persistently deny any knowledge of the affair or those concerned in it except what has been given you, and I’ll pursue myown course; or you can bring the murderer here and let me at him—with you present.”
    “I’ll be glad to. Name him.”
    “When I find him. I need all six of them, to learn which one Heller’s message identifies. Since I can translate the message and you can’t, you need me more than I need you, but you can save me much time and trouble and expense.”
    Cramer’s level gaze had no trace whatever of affection or sympathy. “If you can translate that message and refuse to disclose it, you’re withholding evidence.”
    “Nonsense. A conjecture is not evidence. Heaven knows your conjecture that it says NW isn’t. Nor is mine, but it should lead to some if I do the leading.” Wolfe flung a hand impatiently, and his voice rose. “Confound it, am I suggesting a gambol for my refreshment? Do you think I welcome an invasion of my premises by platoons of policemen herding a drove of scared and suspected citizens?”
    “No. I know damn well you don’t.” Cramer took the cigar from his mouth and regarded it as if trying to decide exactly what it was. That accomplished, he glanced at Wolfe and then looked at me, by no means as a bosom friend.
    “I’ll use the phone,” he said, and got up and came to my desk.
4
    With three of the six scared citizens, it was a good thing that Wolfe