“Yes.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Then I should think you would want to talk. Go ahead. I’ll drink some beer and eavesdrop. Of course at least one of you will be on guard, but the others can speak freely. You might say something useful.”
Carol Berk, now nearer me, let out a little snort. Fritz had brought a tray, and Wolfe opened a bottle, poured, waited for the foam to reach the right level, and drank. Nobody said a word.
Leddegard spoke. “It doesn’t seem to work. Did you expect it to?”
“We ought to make it work,” Fifi declared. “I think he’s damn considerate even if he is fat, and we should help.” Her head turned. “Carol, let’s talk.”
“Glad to,” Carol agreed. “You start. Shoot.”
“Well, how’s this? We all knew Arthur was practically a commissar, I always called him comrade, and we knew his aunt and uncle hated it, and he was afraid he might lose his job and have to go on relief but he was so damn brave and honest he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. We all knew that?”
“Of course.”
“Did you know this too? He told me — a week ago today, I think it was. His aunt put it to him, reform or out on the street, and he told her he was secretly working for the FBI, spying on the Commies, but he wasn’t. He thought the FBI was practically the Gestapo. I told him he shouldn’t—”