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Authors: A Family Affair
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vase, opening the mail, and so forth. Then I went to the shelf where we keep the
Times
and the
Gazette
for two weeks, got them for the last four days, and took them to my desk. Of course I had read the accounts of the murder of Harvey H. Bassett, but now it was more than just news. The body had been found in a parked Dodge Coronet on West Ninety-third Street near Riverside Drive late Friday night by a cop on his rounds. Only one bullet, a .38, which had entered at exactly the right spot to go through his pump and keep going, clear through. It had been found stuck in the right front door, so the trigger had been pulled by the driver of the car, unless Bassett had pulled it himself, but by Monday’s
Times
that was out. It was murder.
I was on Tuesday’s
Gazette
when the sound came of the elevator descending. My watch said 11:01. Right on schedule. I swiveled and as Wolfe entered said brightly,“Good morning. I’m having a look at the reports on Harvey H. Bassett. If you’re interested, I’m through with the
Times
.”
He put a raceme of orchids which I didn’t bother to identify in the vase on his desk, and sat. “You’re spleeny. You shouldn’t be. After that night and yesterday, you might sleep until noon, and there was no urgency. As for Mr. Bassett, I keep my copies of the
Times
in my room for a month, as you know, and I took—”
The doorbell. I went to the hall for a look and stepped back in. “I don’t think you’ve ever met him. Assistant District Attorney Coggin. Daniel F. Coggin. Friendly type with a knife up his sleeve. Handshaker.”
“Bring him,” he said, and reached for the pile of mail.
So when I ushered the member of the bar in after giving him as good a hand as he gave and taking his coat and hat, Wolfe had a circular in one hand and an unfolded letter in the other, and it wouldn’t have been polite to put him to the trouble of putting one of them down, so Coggin didn’t. Evidently, though he hadn’t met him, he knew about his kinks. He just said heartily, “I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Wolfe, so I welcome this opportunity.” He sat, in the red leather chair, and sent his eyes around. “Nice room. A
good
room. That’s a beautiful rug.”
“A gift from the Shah of Iran,” Wolfe said.
Coggin must have known it was a barefaced lie, but he said, “I wish he’d give me one. Beautiful.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re a busy man, and I’ll be as brief as possible. The District Attorney is wondering why you and Mr. Goodwin were—well, couldn’t be found yesterday, though that isn’t how he put it—when you knew you were wanted and needed. And your telephone wasn’t answered. Nor your doorbell.”
“We had errands to do and did them. No one was here but Mr. Brenner, my cook, and when we are out he prefers not to answer bells.”
Coggin smiled. “
He
prefers?”
Wolfe smiled back, but his smile shows only at one corner of his mouth, and it takes good eyes to see it. “Good cooks must be humored, Mr. Coggin.”
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Wolfe. I haven’t got a cook, can’t afford it. Now. If you’re wondering why I came instead of sending for you, we discussed it at the office. What you said to Inspector Cramer yesterday. Considering your record and your customary—uh—reactions. It was decided to have your license as a private investigator revoked at once, but I thought that was too drastic and suggested that upon reflection you might have realized that you had been—uh—impetuous. I have in my pocket warrants for your arrest, you and Mr. Goodwin, as material witnesses, but I don’t
want
to serve them. I would rather not. I even came alone, I insisted on that. I can understand, I
do
understand, why you reacted as you did to Inspector Cramer, but you and Goodwin can’t withhold information regarding the murder of a man in your house—a man you had known for years and had talked with many times. I don’t
want
you and
Times
and the
Gazette
for two weeks, got them for the last four days, and took them to my desk. Of course I had read the accounts of the murder of Harvey H. Bassett, but now it was more than just news. The body had been found in a parked Dodge Coronet on West Ninety-third Street near Riverside Drive late Friday night by a cop on his rounds. Only one bullet, a .38, which had entered at exactly the right spot to go through his pump and keep going, clear through. It had been found stuck in the right front door, so the trigger had been pulled by the driver of the car, unless Bassett had pulled it himself, but by Monday’s
Times
that was out. It was murder.
I was on Tuesday’s
Gazette
when the sound came of the elevator descending. My watch said 11:01. Right on schedule. I swiveled and as Wolfe entered said brightly,“Good morning. I’m having a look at the reports on Harvey H. Bassett. If you’re interested, I’m through with the
Times
.”
He put a raceme of orchids which I didn’t bother to identify in the vase on his desk, and sat. “You’re spleeny. You shouldn’t be. After that night and yesterday, you might sleep until noon, and there was no urgency. As for Mr. Bassett, I keep my copies of the
Times
in my room for a month, as you know, and I took—”
The doorbell. I went to the hall for a look and stepped back in. “I don’t think you’ve ever met him. Assistant District Attorney Coggin. Daniel F. Coggin. Friendly type with a knife up his sleeve. Handshaker.”
“Bring him,” he said, and reached for the pile of mail.
So when I ushered the member of the bar in after giving him as good a hand as he gave and taking his coat and hat, Wolfe had a circular in one hand and an unfolded letter in the other, and it wouldn’t have been polite to put him to the trouble of putting one of them down, so Coggin didn’t. Evidently, though he hadn’t met him, he knew about his kinks. He just said heartily, “I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Wolfe, so I welcome this opportunity.” He sat, in the red leather chair, and sent his eyes around. “Nice room. A
good
room. That’s a beautiful rug.”
“A gift from the Shah of Iran,” Wolfe said.
Coggin must have known it was a barefaced lie, but he said, “I wish he’d give me one. Beautiful.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re a busy man, and I’ll be as brief as possible. The District Attorney is wondering why you and Mr. Goodwin were—well, couldn’t be found yesterday, though that isn’t how he put it—when you knew you were wanted and needed. And your telephone wasn’t answered. Nor your doorbell.”
“We had errands to do and did them. No one was here but Mr. Brenner, my cook, and when we are out he prefers not to answer bells.”
Coggin smiled. “
He
prefers?”
Wolfe smiled back, but his smile shows only at one corner of his mouth, and it takes good eyes to see it. “Good cooks must be humored, Mr. Coggin.”
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Wolfe. I haven’t got a cook, can’t afford it. Now. If you’re wondering why I came instead of sending for you, we discussed it at the office. What you said to Inspector Cramer yesterday. Considering your record and your customary—uh—reactions. It was decided to have your license as a private investigator revoked at once, but I thought that was too drastic and suggested that upon reflection you might have realized that you had been—uh—impetuous. I have in my pocket warrants for your arrest, you and Mr. Goodwin, as material witnesses, but I don’t
want
to serve them. I would rather not. I even came alone, I insisted on that. I can understand, I
do
understand, why you reacted as you did to Inspector Cramer, but you and Goodwin can’t withhold information regarding the murder of a man in your house—a man you had known for years and had talked with many times. I don’t
want
you and
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