He swallowed. He drank beer, put the glass and the sturgeon on the table, reached to a shelf for a Bursatto melon, got a knife from the rack, cut the melon open, and began spooning the seeds onto a plate.
“The precise moment,” he said. “Do you want some?”
“Certainly not,” I said coldly. The peach-colored meat was so juicy there was a little pool in each half, and a breeze from the open window carried the smell to me. I reached for one of the halves, got a spoon, scooped out a bite — and another …
Wolfe never talks business during meals, but this was not a meal. In the middle of his melon he remarked, “For us the past is impossible.”
I darted my tongue to catch a drop of juice. “Oh. It is?”
“Yes. It would take an army. The police and the FBI have already had four days for it. The source of the poison. Mrs. Kremp. Mrs. Rackell’s surmise of the motive. Mr. Heath is presumbably a Communist, but what about the others? Anyone might be a Communist, just as anyone might have a hidden carcinoma.”
He scooped a bite of melon and dealt with it. “What of the motives suggested by that fantastic female buffoon? Are any of them authentic, and if so which one or ones? That alone would need a regiment. As for the police and the FBI, we have nothing to bargain with. Are they all Communists? Were they all in on it? Must we expose not one murderer but five? All those questions and others would have to be answered. How long would it take?”
“A year ought to do it.”
“I doubt it. The past is hopeless. There’s too much of it.”
I raised my shoulders and let them drop. “Okay, you don’t have to rub it in. So we cross it off. Do I draw a check to Rackell for his three grand tonight or wait till morning?”