“Fear, rage, mortification. He is old.”
“Nonsense. He will live to get his eye back, if for nothing else.” Wolfe shook his head. “As you said yesterday, Marko, you’re a Boniface, not a detective. Don’t crack a whip at me. What have you got, Archie?”
“No news.” I pulled my chair away from my desk and sat. “Are we still swallowing Pompa whole?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’re all lying about what they were there for, except Daniel Bahr, Eve’s husband, who merely says it was a family matter which he prefers not to discuss. They say they met to consider a jam Mortimer is in with a female by the name of—”
“No matter. Mrs. Whitten?”
“She’s in on the lie, of course. Probably she clucked them into it. During Landy’s life he was absolutely the rooster, and she merely came along with the flock, but when he died she took command and kept it. She is of the flock, by the flock, and for the flock, or at least she was until Whitten got his hooks in. Since her marriage she has unquestionably been for Whitten, though there has been no sign that she intended to swear off clucking — at least there wasn’t until a month ago, when she installed Whitten in the big corner office that had been Landy’s. Pompa never moved into it. She is fifty-four, fairly bright, watches her figure, and looks as healthy as she is.”
“Have you seen her?”
“How could I? She wouldn’t even talk to you on the phone.”
“The son, Mortimer. Is he really in a scrape? Does he urgently need money?”