“Not well at all,” I declared. “Somebody has killed Louis Rony, I think by driving a car over him, but that will take more looking. It’s behind a bush about twenty yards from the driveway, at a point about two-thirds of the distance from the house to the public road. It’s a rotten break in every way, because Gwenn had decided to toss him out.”
Wolfe was growling. “Who found it?”
“I did.”
“Who knows about it?”
“No one. Now you.”
Wolfe got up, fast. “Where’s my hat?” He looked around. “Oh, downstairs. Where are Mr. and Mrs. Sperling? We’ll tell them there is nothing more for us to do here and we’re going home — but not in a flurry — merely that it’s late and we can go now — come on!”
“Flurry hell. You know damn well we’re stuck.”
He stood and glared at me. When that didn’t seem to be improving the situation any he let himself go back onto the chair, felt the book under his fanny, got up and grabbed it — and for a second I thought he was going to throw it at something, maybe even me. For him to throw a book, loving them as he did, would have been a real novelty. He controlled himself in time, tossed the book onto a handy table, got seated again, and rasped at me, “Confound it, sit down! Must I stretch my neck off?”
I didn’t blame him a particle. I would have been having a tantrum myself if I hadn’t been too busy.