Joseph G. had advanced a step and then stiffened. Sybil had left the cushions to sit up straight.
“Such facts,” Wolfe went on, “would of course never properly get to a jury trying a man for the murder of Miss Lauer, but they would be of valid concern to the unofficial explorers of probabilities, and the public would like to know about them. They would like to know whether Miss Florence Hefferan still feels any discomfort from the severe choking she got, and whether the marks have entirely disappeared from her throat. They would want to see pictures of her in newspapers, the more the better. They would—”
“You filthy fat louse!” Sybil cried.
Wolfe shook his head at her. “Not I, Miss Pitcairn. This is the inexorable miasma of murder.”
“By God,” Pitcairn said harshly. He was shaking with fury and trying not to. “I wish I had shot you there today. I wish I had.”
“But you didn’t,” Wolfe said curtly, “and here I am. You will have no secrets left, none of you. If Miss Hefferan has run through the money you paid her and needs more, there will be generous bidders for the story of her life in installments. You see the possibilities. There will even be interest in such details as your daughter’s incorrigible talent for picking quarrels, and your son’s nomadic collegiate career. Did he leave Yale and Williams and Cornell because the curriculum didn’t suit him, or because—”
Without the slightest warning Donald abruptly changed moods. After bouncing up to offer to get Wolfe a drink he had returned to his chair and seemed to be put, but now he came out of it fast and made for Wolfe. I had to step some to head him off. He came against me, recoiled, and started a right for the neighborhood of my jaw. The quicker it was settled the better, so instead of trying anything fancy I knocked his fist down with my left, and with my right slammed the gun fiat against his kidney good and hard. He wobbled, then bent, and doubled up to sit on the floor. I disregarded him to face the others, not at all sure of their limitations.
“Stop!” a voice came from somewhere. “Stop it!”
Their eyes left the casualty to turn to the voice. A woman had come from behind some drapes at the side of a wide arch at the far end of the room, and was approaching with slow careful steps. Sybil let out a cry and rushed to her. Joseph G. went too. They got to the newcomer and each took an arm, both talking at once, one scolding and the other remonstrating. They wanted to know how she got downstairs. They wanted to turn her around, but nothing doing. She kept coming, them with her, until she was only a step away from her son, who was still sitting on the floor. She looked down at him and then turned to me.
“How much did you hurt him?”