I said, "Also, Larry, you fell on the grenade. It exploded underneath you. I know, because I was almost on top of you, and it blew you clear off the floor of the gallery. Did you have a bulletproof vest on?"
He cleared his throat. "Well, as a matter of—"
"Cut it out, Larry! What's the answer?"
He took off his glasses and rubbed his watery eyes. He grumbled, "Don't you read the papers? It went off a yard away."
"Larry," I said gently, "I was there."
He slumped back in his chair, staring at me. Larry Connaught was a small man, but he never looked smaller than he did in that big chair, looking at me as though I were Mr. Nemesis himself.
Then he laughed. He surprised me; he sounded almost happy. He said, "Well, hell, Dick—I had to tell somebody about it sooner or later. Why not you?"
I can't tell you all of what he said. I'll tell most of it—but not the part that matters.
I'll never tell that part to anybody.