Gus was considering, rubbing the tips of his thumbs with his forefingers and scowling again. Finally he made a brusque gesture. “To hell with it,” he decided. “I was sore at you for crossing Andy, and you don’t owe him anything, and here look at me. There’s other jobs. He choked a girl once.”
“Mr. Pitcairn did?”
“Yes.”
“Choked her to death?”
“Oh, no, just choked her. Her name’s Florence Hefferan. Her folks used to live in a shack over on Greasy Hill, but now they’ve got a nice house and thirty acres down in the valley. I don’t think it was Florence that used the pliers on him, or if she did her old man made her. I know for a fact it took twenty-one thousand dollars to get that thirty acres, and also Florence was by no means broke when she beat it to New York. If it didn’t come from Pitcairn, then where? There are two versions about the choking. One is that he was nuts about her and he was jealous because he thought the baby she was going to have wasn’t his — that’s what Florence told her best friend, who is a friend of mine. The other is that he was sore because he was being forced to deliver some real dough — that came from Florence too, later, after she had gone to New York, I guess because she thought it sounded better. Anyhow I know he choked her enough to leave marks because I saw them.”
“Well.” Wolfe was looking as pleased as if someone had just presented him with thirty acres of orchids. “When did this happen?”
“About two years ago.”
“Do you know where Miss Hefferan is now?”
“Sure, I can get her address in New York.”
“Good.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “I said I wouldn’t insist on proof, and I won’t, but how much of this is fact and how much gossip?”