Broadyke gestured with a hand. More than his baritone was cultivated; he was cultivated all over. He was somewhat younger than Pohl, and ten times as elegant. His manner gave the impression that he was finding it difficult just to be himself because (a) he was in the office of a private detective, which was vulgar, (b) he had come there with persons with whom one doesn’t ordinarily associate, which was embarrassing, and (c) the subject for discussion was his connection with a murder, which was preposterous.
He was going on. “Mr. Pohl suggested that we consult you and engage your services. As one who will gladly pay my share of the bill, permit me to say that what I want is the removal of that unjust suspicion. If you can achieve that only by finding the criminal and evidence against him, very well. If the guilty man proves to be Victor Talbott, again very well.”
“There’s no if about it!” Pohl blurted. “Talbott did it, and the job is to pin it on him!”
“With me helping, Ferdy, don’t forget,” Dorothy Keyes told him softly.
“Aw, can it!”
Eyes turned to the speaker, whose only contribution up to that point had been the remark, “They’re off again.” Heads had to turn too because he was seated to the rear of the swing of the arc. The high pitch of his voice was a good match for his name, Wayne Safford, but not for his broad husky build and the strong big bones of his face. According to the papers he was twenty-eight, but he looked a little older, about my age.
Wolfe nodded at him. “I quite agree, Mr. Safford.” Wolfe’s eyes swept the arc. “Mr. Pohl wants too much for his money. You can hire me to catch a fish, ladies and gentlemen, but you can’t tell me which fish. You can tell me what it is I’m after — a murderer — but you can’t tell me who it is unless you have evidence, and in that case why pay me? Have you got evidence?”
No one said anything.
“Have you got evidence, Mr. Pohl?”
“No.”