Gus looked bewildered. “You mean about her and Dini?”
“Her and anyone or anything. The worse the better. Is she a kleptomaniac or a drug addict? Does she gamble or seduce other women’s husbands or cheat at cards?”
“Not that I know of.” Gus took a minute to concentrate. “She fights a lot. Will that help?”
“I doubt it. With what weapons?”
“I don’t mean weapons; she just fights — with family, friends, anyone. She always knows best. She fights a lot with her brother. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a good thing somebody knows best, because God knows he don’t.”
“Why, does he have complexes too?”
Gus snorted. “He sure has got something. The family says he’s sensitive — that’s what they tell each other, and their friends, and him. Hell, so am I sensitive, but I don’t go around talking it up. He has a mood every hour on the hour, daily including Sundays and holidays. He never does a damn thing, even pick flowers. He’s a four-college man — he got booted out of Yale, then Wilhams, then Cornell, and then something out in Ohio.”
“What for?” Wolfe demanded. “That might help.”
“No idea.”
“Confound it,” Wolfe complained, “have you no curiosity? A good damning fact about the son might be even more useful than one about the daughter. Haven’t you got one?”