Mrs. Whitten moved, and for a second I thought she was turning to march out, but she was merely reaching for a hold on my sleeve. I took her arm and herded her left oblique. Being wounded, she rated the red leather chair, but it seemed inadvisable to ask Julie to move, so I took the witness to a yellow one with arms, not as roomy but just as comfortable. When she was in it I resumed my post at my desk with notebook and pen.
“I’m sorry,” Wolfe said, “if it makes a queasy atmosphere, you two here together, but Miss Alving left me no alternative.” He focused on Mrs. Whitten. “I was having a little trouble with Miss Alving. I wanted her to talk about certain aspects of the assault she made on you last evening, but she wouldn’t have it — and I don’t blame her — because she didn’t know how badly you were hurt. There was only one way to handle it — let her see for herself.”
I had to hand it to him. He not only wasn’t taking too big a risk, he was taking none at all, since they weren’t on speaking terms.
“How did you find out it was her?” Mrs. Whitten demanded. Her voice was harsh and high-pitched.
“Oh, that was simple. I’ll tell you presently. But first we should understand one another. I appreciate your reason for not wanting it bruited, and sympathize with it, but here in private there should be candor. You positively recognized her?”
“Certainly I did.”
“Beyond possibility of doubt?”
“Certainly. I saw her face when I got turned and that was when she tore loose and ran. And she spoke to me.”
“What did she say?”
“I’m not sure of the words, but it was something like “I’ll kill you too.’ That’s what I thought it was, but later I thought it must be wrong because I thought Pompa had killed my husband and I didn’t realize she could have done it. But now that my daughter remembers about the open door, and I remember it too, I see that must have been it — what she said.”