I couldn’t very well say to Nero Wolfe and me, so I went official on her. “I’m asking the questions, Miss Duday. As I said, this is only preliminary, so I’ll cover the rest of you on the routine.” I focused on Daphne. “Miss O’Neil, how did you spend your time last night between ten-thirty and two o’clock? You understand that—”
There was the sound of a door opening behind me, the one by which I had entered, and I turned my head to see. Three men were filing in, one of whom, the one in front, I knew only too well. Seeing me, he stopped, gawked, and said from from his heart, “Well, by God!”
There has never been a time when the sight of Lieutenant Rowcliff of Manhattan Homicide has done me good. Circumstances under which the sight of Rowcliff would do me good are not remotely imaginable. But if I had been keeping a list of the moments for him not to appear, that one would have been at the top, and there he was.
“You’re under arrest,” he said, nearly choking on it.
I controlled the impulse I always have when he comes in view, and which I will not describe. “In writing?” I inquired.
“I don’t need any writing. I’m taking—” He checked himself, advanced to my elbow, and looked at the Softdown quintet. “Which of you is Jay L. Brucker?”
“I am.”
“I’m Lieutenant George Rowcliff of the Police Department. Downstairs this man said he was a policeman. Did he—”
“Isn’t he?” Brucker demanded.
“No. Did he—”