The Wolf nodded and smiled pleasantly.
“An’ a boy to get busy with it.”
“Just so.”
Gazing across at the Wolf surrounded by a haze of tobacco smoke Fyles thought of a stone wall. But he felt it to be a rather fine stone wall, nothing crude or ugly. Somehow, he knew, he must get beyond it. The man’s attitude was unaltered from that at the time of his arrest.
Fyles suddenly sat forward in his chair.
“I don’t think it’s quite filtered through yet, Wolf,” he said, using his prisoner’s name for the first time. “If you go to the Court without proper defence you’ll hang—sure as hell. We’re talking man to man now. This is no third degree. I’m not trying to make you incriminate yourself. It’s the reverse. There’s not a soul within earshot of us to bear witness. So I want to tell you right here I don’t believe you shot Sinclair. And I think I know who did!”
The stone wall was passed in one clean leap. It was not that the Wolf moved a muscle of his body to indicate the home thrust. On the contrary, he sat without movement beyond the process of smoking heavily. But Fyles was watching his eyes. It was only momentary. It flashed and was gone. It was not fear. Just a quick, anxious question. That was all.
“And so do you,” Fyles added, after a pause.
But the stone wall was back in place again, and the policeman saw its setting up. The Wolf turned from the man who was honestly trying to befriend him.
The window came into his view. There was considerable movement going on beyond it. A double bobsleigh was moving over the snow, with several men in brown stable uniforms and woollen tuques in it. A bugle sounded. It was “officers’” call. A small squad of men in single file were passing along the sidewalk, armed with brooms and shovels.