“I’m told he’s fond of spicy fish.”
“I’m fond of spicy blondes, Mr. Queen,” snapped Dr. Voluta, “but I keep my appetite within bounds.”
“I thought you said there’s something wrong with the tuna.”
“Certainly there’s something wrong with it. I tasted it myself. But that’s not the point. The point is that if he’d followed my orders he wouldn’t have eaten any in the first place.”
They were in the butler’s pantry, and Dr. Voluta was looking irritably about for something to cover a plastic dish into which he had dumped the remains of the tuna.
“Then it’s your opinion, Doctor―?”
“I’ve given you my opinion. The can of tuna was spoiled. Didn’t you ever hear of spoiled canned goods, Mr. Queen?” He opened his medical bag, grabbed a surgical glove, and stretched it over the top of the dish.
“I’ve examined the empty tin, Dr. Voluta.” Ellery had fished it out of the tin can container, thankful that in Los Angeles you had to keep cans separate from garbage. “I see no sign of a bulge, do you?”
“You’re just assuming that’s the tin it came from,” the doctor said disagreeably. “How do you know?”
“The cook told me. It’s the only tuna she opened today. She opened it just before she went to bed. And I found the tin at the top of the waste can.”