I slid out of the booth and dodged through the traffic back across the room. In that short time the mob surrounding the glade had doubled in size. A glance showed me that the cop and the guard had got reinforcements and Anne and Fred Updegraff were not in sight, and Wolfe and Hewitt had retreated to the other side of the rose garden next door. W. G. Dill was with them. Wolfe glared at me as I approached. He was still hanging onto those measly plants and was speechless with rage.
“... feel a sort of responsibility,” Hewitt was saying. “I am Honorary Chairman of the Committee. I don’t like to shirk responsibility, but what can I do — just look at them—”
“That policeman,” Dill said. “Imbecile. Wouldn’t let me in my own exhibit. Broke my shoulder blade. It feels like it.” He worked his shoulder up and down, grimacing. “There’s the doctor — no—”
“A doctor won’t help any. He’s dead.”
They looked at me. Dill stopped working his shoulder. “Dead? Dead!” He darted off and burrowed into the crowd.
“You said he had an attack,” Hewitt regarded me accusingly. “How can he be dead? What did he die of?”
“He ceased breathing.”
“Archie,” Wolfe said in his most crushing tone. “Stop that. I asked you an hour ago to take these plants. Take them, and take me home.”
“Yes, sir.” I took the plants. “But I can’t leave yet. I’m looking—”
“Good heavens,” Hewitt said. “What a calamity... poor Dill... I must see... excuse me...” He marched off towards the main stair.