“It was the same car. The one you were driving Tuesday when the boy spoke to you.”
She opened her mouth and closed it. Then she got words out. “I don’t believe it.”
“You will. The police will explain to you how they know it was the same car. There’s no question about it, Mrs. Fromm.”
“I mean the whole thing — you’re making it up. This is — worse than contemptible.”
Wolfe’s head moved. “Archie, get yesterday’s Times.”
I went for it to the shelf where the papers are kept until they’re a week old. Opening it to page eight and folding it, I crossed and handed it to Laura Fromm. Her hand was shaking a little as she took it, and to steady it while she read she called on the other hand to help hold it.
She took plenty of time for the reading. When her eyes lifted, Wolfe said, “There is nothing there to indicate that Peter Drossos was the boy you had accosted on Tuesday, but you don’t need to take my word for that. The police will tell you about it.”
Her eyes darted back and forth, from Wolfe to me and back again, and then settled on me. “I want — could I have some gin?”
She had let the newspaper drop to the floor. I picked it up and asked, “Straight?”
“That will do. Or a Gibson?”