“Last July,” Gus said, “that Noonan beat up a friend of mine, for nothing.”
Wolfe nodded. “There you are. A typical uniformed blackguard. I take it, Mr. Treble, that you share my opinion that Mr. Krasicki didn’t kill that woman. And I heard you tell those men that you didn’t, so I won’t pester you about it. But though you answered freely and fully all questions concerning yourself, you were manifestly more circumspect regarding others. I understand that. You have a job here and your words were being recorded. But it won’t do for me. I want to get Mr. Krasicki out of jail, and I can do so only by furnishing a replacement for him. If you want to help you can, but not unless you forget your job, discard prudence, and tell me all you know about these people. Well, sir?”
Gus was scowling, which made him look old enough to vote. In the artificial light he looked paler than he had outdoors in the morning, and his rainbow shirt looked brighter.
“It’s a good job,” he muttered, “and I love it.”
“Yes,” Wolfe agreed sympathetically, “Mr. Krasicki told me you were competent, intelligent, and exceptionally talented.”
“He did?”
“Yes, sir. He did.”
“Goddam it.” Gus’s scowl got blacker. “What do you want to know?”
“About these people. First, Miss Lauer. I gathered that you were not yourself attracted by her.”
“Me? Not that baby. You heard what I told them. She was out for a sucker.”