“Where were you Wednesday afternoon from six-thirty to seven?”
“What has that — oh. The boy was — yes. That was day before yesterday.” She paused, not for long. “I was having cocktails at the Churchill with a friend.”
“The friend’s name, please?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“I know it is. Almost as ridiculous as that scratch on your cheek.”
“The friend’s name is Dennis Horan. A lawyer.”
Wolfe nodded. “Even so you are in for some disagreeable hours. I doubt if you have been willfully implicated in murder. I have had some experience watching faces, and I don’t think your shock on hearing of the boy’s death was feigned; but you’d better get your mind arranged. You’re going to get it. Not from me. I don’t ask why you tried this masquerade, because I’m not concerned, but the police will be insistent about it. I won’t attempt to hold you here for them; you may go. You will hear from them.”
Her eyes were brighter and her chin was higher. It doesn’t take gin long to get in a kick. “I don’t have to hear from them,” she said with assurance. “Why do I?”
“Because they’ll want to know why you came here.”
“I mean why do you have to tell them?”