“Okay?” I prodded him.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’ll think it over.”
Cynthia emitted a little snort.
Demarest regarded Bernard with exasperation. “As usual. You’ll think it over. What is there to think about?”
“There’s this business to think about,” Bernard declared. “It’s bad enough already, with a murdered man found here in the office. We would practically be admitting our connection with it, wouldn’t we, the five of us going to discuss it with a detective?”
“I’ve hired the detective personally,” Cynthia snapped.
“I know you have, Cynthia.” His tone implied that he was imploring her to make allowances for the air spaces in his skull. “But damn it, we have to consider the business, don’t we? It may be inadvisable. I don’t know.”
“How long would you need to think?” I asked pleasantly. “It’s five o’clock now, so there isn’t a lot of time. Say an hour and a half? By six-thirty?”
“I suppose so.” He sounded uncertain. He looked around at us as if he were a woodchuck in a hole and we were terriers digging to get him. “I’ll let you know. Where’ll you be?”
“That depends,” I replied for us. “There are two more to invite — Miss Zarella and Mr. Roper. It might help if you would get them in here. Would that require thinking over too?”