“Well — you see, they’re up against it. They’re used to working with clues, and while they found plenty of clues to show what happened, like the marks on the bridle path and leading to the thicket, there aren’t any that help to identify the murderer. Absolutely none whatever. So they had to fall back on motive, and right away they found a man with the best motive in the world.”
Talbott tapped himself on the necktie. “Me. But then they found that his man — me — that I couldn’t possibly have done it because I was somewhere else. They found I had an alibi that was—”
“Phony!” From Wayne Safford.
“Made to order.” From Broadyke.
“The dumbheads!” From Pohl. “If they had brains enough to give that switchboard girl—”
“Please!” Wolfe shut them up. “Go ahead, Mr. Talbott. Your alibi — but first the motive. What is the best motive in the world?”
Vic looked surprised. “It’s been printed over and over again.”
“I know. But I don’t want journalistic conjectures when I’ve got you — unless you’re sensitive about it.”
Talbott’s smile had some bitterness in it. “If I was,” he declared, “I’ve sure been cured this past week. I guess ten million people have read that I’m deeply in love with Dorothy Keyes or some variation of that. All right, I am! Want a shot — want a picture of me saying it?” He turned to face his fiancée. “I love you, Dorothy, better than all the world, deeply, madly, with all my heart.” He returned to Wolfe. “There’s your motive.”
“Vic, darling,” Dorothy told his profile, “you’re a perfect fool, and you’re perfectly fascinating. I really am glad you’ve got a good alibi.”