There was one little cheep from him. Shortly after nine the house phone buzzed. He asked if any of the boys had called and I said no, and he said that when they did I was to call them off. I asked if that included Fred, and he said yes, all of them. I asked if there were fresh instructions, and he said no, just tell them to quit.
That was all for then. I spent two hours with the morning mail and the accumulation in my drawer. At 11:02 he entered, told me good morning as he always did no matter how much we had talked on the phone, got installed behind his desk, and inquired grumpily, “Is there anything you must ask me?”
“Nothing I can’t hold, no, sir.”
“Then I don’t want to be interrupted. By anyone.”
“Yes, sir. Are you in pain?”
“Yes. I know who killed Mr. Rony, and how and why.”
“You do. Does it hurt?”
“Yes.” He sighed deep. “It’s the very devil. When you know all you need to know about a murderer, what is ordinarily the easiest thing to prove?”
“That’s a cinch. Motive.”
He nodded. “But not here. I doubt if it can be done. You have known me, in the past, to devise a stratagem that entailed a hazard. Haven’t you?”