“Of course, Mr. Noonan, if that was a rhetorical—”
“Can it. I know damn well who you are. You’re a Broadway slickie that thinks you can come up to Westchester and tell us the rules. Get going! Come on. Move out.”
“I have Mr. Pitcairn’s permission—”
“You have like hell. He just phoned me. And you’re taking nothing from this cottage. You may have them buffaloed down in New York, and even the DA and the county boys, but I’m different. Do you want to go without help?”
Wolfe put his hands on the arms of his chair, got his bulk lifted, said, “Come, Archie,” got his hat and coat and cane, and made for the door. There he turned, said grimly, “I hope to see you again, Mr. Treble,” and was saved the awkwardness of reaching for the knob by my being there to open for him. Outside I got the flashlight from my hip pocket, switched it on, and led the way.
As we navigated the path for the fourth time there were seven or eight things I would have liked to say, but I swallowed them. Noonan and his bud were at our heels and, since Wolfe had evidently decided that we were outmatched, there was nothing for me to do but take it. When, after we were beyond the grove of evergreens, I swung the light up for a glance at the tennis court, there was a deep growl from Wolfe behind, so from there on I kept the light on the path.
We crunched across the gravel to where we had left the car. As I opened the rear door for Wolfe to get in, Noonan, right at my elbow, spoke.
“I’m being generous. I could phone the DA and get an okay to take you in as material witnesses, but you see I’m not. Our car’s in front. Stop at the entrance until we’re behind. We’re going to follow until you’re out of the county, and we won’t need you back here again tonight or any other time. Got it?”
No reply. I banged the door, opened the front one, slid in beside the wheel, and pushed the starter.
“Got it?” he barked.