The only person who didn’t come up on his feet was the physician with the pointed beard. Nikky flew to Tildy. Walch growled, “It’s about time,” at Yaker; Ruth shrank as far away from Yaker as she could.
Schneider roared, “Siddown. All of y’, siddown.” He swaggered to me with that familiar belligerence. “Comin’ in of y’r own accord ain’t goin’ t’do you a mite of good, Smart Stuff. We got a list of charges against you, would choke a whale.”
“I’ll cherish ’em to remind me of you.” I boosted Yaker at him. “Meantime, charge this lad. He’s the one you want.”
“Yeah?” Schneider squinted at Yaker. “Who’re you?”
Yaker shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“What?” Schneider bellowed so loudly the cop on duty in the Grand Jury room opened the door, saw there was no unseemly violence, and withdrew.
Yaker repeated. “I don’t know who I am.” His eyes roved from Marge to MacGregory, Tildy to Walch, came to rest on Ruth as if some vague stirring of recollection was beginning to assert itself. “I can’t seem to remember anything—”
Schneider’s face got hamburg-red. He stuck out his jaw at me. “Whatsa big gag, Smart Stuff?”
“I’ll tell you.” I patted Yaker’s shoulder. “You’ve been bulling ahead on the assumption Lanerd knifed Roffis and then killed himself to avoid disgrace. He didn’t. The killer was a gent who knew Lanerd, knew of his interest in Miss Millett, had his own reasons for wanting to break it up.”
Yaker listened as if I’d been giving a recipe for spaghetti sauce.