She summoned enough politeness to look at it, turn it over in her hand, glance inside, and look at the backbone again. Wolfe was back at the papers he had taken from the file. She was obviously through with the book, so I got up and took it and returned it to the shelf.
Wolfe was saying, “Miss Hibbard. I know that what you want is action, and doubtless I have tried your patience. I am sorry. If I might ask you a few questions?”
“Certainly. It seems to me—”
“Of course. Pardon me. Only two questions, I think. First, do you know whether your uncle recently took out any life insurance?”
She nodded impatiently. “But, Mr. Wolfe, that has nothing to do with—”
He broke in to finish for her, “With the totalitarian evil of Paul Chapin. I know. Possibly not. Was it a large amount of insurance?”
“I think so. Yes. Very large.”
“Were you the beneficiary?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. He told me you spoke to him of insurance. Then, about a week ago, he told me he had rushed it through and they had distributed it among four companies. I didn’t pay much attention because my mind was on something else. I was angry with him and was trying to persuade him... I suppose my sister Ruth and I were the beneficiaries.”
“Not Paul Chapin?”