Wolfe grunted. “I accept that as proven. You both want to get married. Why don’t you?”
“Because we can’t,” Peggy said. “We simply can’t. It’s on account — you may remember reading about my husband’s death in April, four months ago? Alberto Mion, the opera singer?”
“Vaguely. You’d better refresh my memory.”
“Well, he died — he killed himself.” There was no sign of a smile now. “Fred — Mr. Weppler and I found him. It was seven o’clock, a Tuesday evening in April, at our apartment on East End Avenue. Just that afternoon Fred and I had found out that we loved each other, and—”
“Peggy!” Weppler called sharply.
Her eyes darted to him and back to Wolfe. “Perhaps I should ask you, Mr. Wolfe. He thinks we should tell you just enough so you understand the problem, and I think you can’t understand it unless we tell you everything. What do you think?”
“I can’t say until I hear it. Go ahead. If I have questions, we’ll see.”
She nodded. “I imagine you’ll have plenty of questions. Have you ever been in love but would have died rather than let anyone see it?”
“Never,” Wolfe said emphatically. I kept my face straight.
“Well, I was, and I admit it. But no one knew it, not even him. Did you, Fred?”