“There certainly isn’t.” Orrie raised his glass. “Here’s to crime, Mr. Wolfe. There’s no problem.” He drank.
Wolfe poured beer. “Well,” he said, “now you know what this is like. The contingency I have described may never arise, but it had to be foreseen. With that understood we can proceed. Unless we have some luck this could drag on for weeks. Mr. Sperling’s adroit stroke in persuading a man of standing to sign that confounded statement, not merely a chauffeur or other domestic employee, has made it excessively difficult. There is one possibility which I shall have explored by a specialist — none of you is equipped for it — but meanwhile we must see what we can find. Archie, tell Fred about the people who work there. All of them.”
I did so, typing the names for him. If my weekend at Stony Acres had been purely social I wouldn’t have been able to give him a complete list, from the butler to the third assistant gardener, but during the examinations Monday night and Tuesday morning I had got well informed. As I briefed Fred on them he made notes on the typed list.
“Anyone special?” Fred asked Wolfe.
“No. Don’t go to the house. Start at Chappaqua, in the village, wherever you can pick up a connection. We know that someone in that house drugged a drink intended for Mr. Rony on Saturday evening, and we are assuming that someone wanted him to die enough to help it along. When an emotion as violent as that is loose in a group of people there are often indications of it that are heard or seen by servants. That’s all I can tell you.”
“What will I be in Chappaqua for?”
“Whatever you like. Have something break on your car, something that takes time, and have it towed to the local garage. Is there a garage in Chappaqua, Archie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That will do.” Wolfe drank the last of his beer and used his handkerchief on his lips. “Now Saul. You met young Sperling today.”
“Yes, sir. Archie introduced us.”