Dalrymple was leering at me. "How about one man and—suicide?"
I swore at myself inwardly for giving him the opening. But he turned back to his symbols and said, "By sheer blundering chance you hit it, though. It was two men and attempted murder."
Donovan wasn't having much to say. Dalrymple threw down the pencil. "I'll be going now. I have more important things to do."
"Can you give us the names of the two men?" I asked, and again swore at myself for being over-eager.
Dalrymple gave me a long, disgusted clinical look. "I can, but I won't. It would take another hour to round out the equation and I don't feel like doing all your work for you. If you can't take what I've given you and tie up the case, then you'd better both resign."
He got up and started to leave. At the door, he turned. "I live at the Crestwood Hotel if you want to get in touch with me again." He sneered. "Maybe you'll need help some day in tying your shoes."
He left. Neither Donovan nor I made any attempt to stop him. After a long minute Donovan said, "We can't let him go. He's involved in that killing. He's got to be. How else would he know?"
"Are you sure he's involved?"
Donovan didn't answer. He picked up the pencil and snapped it in two with a savage gesture. "The sneering little son-of-a—"
"Besides, we've got no proof he was right in anything he said."