I knew they must have something else; it was too pat.
“I didn’t know him. But he seems to have enjoyed what the psyko sharps would call a very satisfactory sex life. Two or three of ’em, probably. I never heard of a man who was enjoying life that way committing suicide. Look at it another way, a lad who hunted grizzlies and liked to fight swordfish doesn’t seem like the fella to dig a blade in another man’s back.”
“The knife.” Tim looked distressed. “The steak knife, Gil. I didn’ want to mention it on the phone—”
“You found it?”
Hacklin nodded ponderously. “Wrapped in a bath towel. In the bottom of the towel hamper in his bathroom. Coupla feet from the body.”
I attempted irony. “Ties the ball of wax up nice and neat. No need to hold Auguste, hah?”
Schneider came toward me with that same slow, surly approach Hacklin had tried on me earlier. “We figure the murder took place right after dinner. While Auguste was in the next room. Until somebody proves different, we’ll put it down Auguste was paid to keep his mouth shut. Paid with that compact. What you got to say about that, Smart Stuff?”
“Pick a four-letter word,” I answered. “I could use any of ’em. I don’t believe Dow Lanerd committed suicide.”
“The gun, Gil.” Tim was really suffering, trying to get me to understand how thoroughly they had the case corked up. “They sent the gun down to the lab with the knife. They can compare the bullet an’ give the right mitt of the body a paraffin test; that’ll cinch it.”
Paraffin! The word socked me straight in the teeth! That might be the answer, or part of it. Wax. Sure.