“Where in the country?”
Maddox’s chin went up. “That’s sheer impudence.”
Wolfe waved it away. “At any rate, it’s futile. I beg your pardon, not for impudence but for stupidity. Force of habit impelled it. In this intricate maze I must leave the conventional procedures, such as inquiry into alibis, to the police. Since you’re not stumped, Mr. Horan, will you answer my questions?”
“No. On principle. You have no warrant to ask them.”
“But you expect me to answer yours?”
“No, not mine, because I have no warrant either. But Mr. Maddox has, as executor of the estate. You’ll answer him.”
“We’ll see.” Wolfe was judicious. He addressed Maddox. “As I understand it, sir, you are not demanding that I return the money Mrs. Fromm paid me.”
“That depends. Tell me under what arrangement and for what purpose it was paid, and I’ll consider the matter. I will not have the death of a valued client exploited and sensationalized by a private detective for his personal or professional profit.”
“A worthy and wholesome attitude,” Wolfe conceded. “I could remark that I would be hard put to make the affair more sensational than it already is, but even so your attitude is admirable. Only here’s the rub: I’ll tell you nothing whatever of the conversation I had yesterday with Mrs. Fromm.”
“Then you’re withholding evidence!”