“We’re a pack of fools,” Miss Duday snapped. “He’s a reporter!”
Rowcliff raised his voice a notch. “He’s no reporter. His name is Archie Goodwin, and he’s the confidential assistant of Nero Wolfe, the private detective. Did he say he was a policeman?”
Three of them said yes. He shifted his fishy popeyes to me. “I’m taking you in the act of impersonating an officer of the law, which is a felony and justifies severity. Handcuff him and search him, Doyle.”
His two colleagues came toward me. I thrust my hands deep in my pants pockets, slumped, and slid forward in my chair, so that more than half of me was beneath the table. To frisk and cuff a 180-pound man relaxed in that position takes a determined attitude and plenty of muscle, and I was sure that the colleagues would halt at least to take a breath.
“You may remember,” I told Rowcliff, “that on April third, nineteen forty-nine, by order of Commissioner Skinner, you signed a written apology to Mr. Wolfe and me. This one will be only to me, if I decide to accept one instead of hanging it on you.”
“I’m taking you in the act.”
“You are not. These people are nervous. Both downstairs and up here I identified myself with just two words, my name and the word ‘detective,’ and I showed my license, which no one took the trouble to examine. I didn’t say I was a policeman. I am a detective, and I said so. I asked questions, and they answered. Apologize now and get it over with.”
“What were you asking questions about?”
“Matters connected with the death of Priscilla Eads.”
“About a homicide.”