“Why, you bastard!” Mortimer blurted.
“Keep quiet, Mort,” Phoebe muttered at him.
“—that,” Wolfe continued, “this conjecture gets strong support from Mrs. Whitten’s untenable explanation of her injuries.” Wolfe upturned a palm. “That’s the kernel of it.” He spoke to Mrs. Whitten. “Why would you make up a story, good or bad? To conceal the identity of your assailant. Why would you want to protect one who had used a deadly weapon on you? Because it was one of these five people, a member of your family. But it must have been one of these five people who, if Mr. Pompa is innocent, killed Mr. Whitten. It fits neatly. It deserves inquiry; I propose to inquire; and if you won’t let me, then it will have to be the police.”
“This was inherent in the situation,” Bahr announced, as if that took the sting out of it.
“You’re accusing one of us of murder,” Jerome Landy told Wolfe.
“Not one, Mr. Landy. All of you. I’m not prepared yet to particularize.”
“That’s serious. Very serious.”
“It is indeed.”
“If you expect us to answer questions we have a right to have a lawyer present.”
“No. You have no right at all, except to get up and leave. I am not speaking for the people of the State of New York; I am merely a private detective who has you cornered. There are two ways out, and you are free to choose. But before you do so it is only fair to warn you that I have concealed weapons. I’ll show you one. I do not surmise that all of you lied to the police; I know it. You said that your clandestine meeting was for a discussion of a difficulty your brother Mortimer had encountered.”