“I am,” said Stevens, gazing at Webster Kane with cold hate.
“You goddam rat,” rumbled Harvey, also at Kane.
The economist was returning their gaze, now at Stevens, now at Harvey, stunned and incredulous. His first confession had required words, written down and signed, but this one didn’t. That stunned look was his second confession, and everybody there, looking at him, could see it was the real thing.
He wasn’t the only stunned one.
“Web!” roared Sperling. “For God’s sake — Web! ”
“You’re in for it, Mr. Kane,” Wolfe said icily. “You’ve got no one left. You’re done as Kane, with the Communist brand showing at last. You’re done as Reynolds, with your comrades spitting you out as only they can spit. You’re done even as a two-legged animal, with a murder to answer for. The last was my job — the rest was only incidental — and thank heaven it’s over, for it wasn’t easy. He’s yours, Mr. Archer.”
I wasn’t needed to watch a possible outburst, since both Ben Dykes and Purley Stebbins were there and had closed in, and I had an errand to attend to. I pulled my phone over to me and dialed the Gazette, and got Lon Cohen.
“Archie?” He sounded desperate. “Twelve minutes to go! Well?”
“Okay, son,” I said patronizingly. “Shoot it.”
“As is? Webster Kane? Pinched?”