Wolfe did not have the best chair this time, probably because it had already been taken by Cleveland Archer when he got there. But the one he had would do, and on a little table at his elbow was a tray with a glass and two bottles of beer. Sperling was standing, but after I had pulled up a chair and joined them he sat down too. Archer, who had a table in front of him with some papers on it, was good enough to remember that he had met me before, since of course there was always a chance that I might buy a plot in Westchester and establish a voting residence there.
Wolfe said Archer had some questions to ask me.
Archer, not at all belligerent, nodded at me. “Yes, I’ve got to be sure the record is straight. Sunday night you and Rony were waylaid on Hotchkiss Road.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but I was anxious to cooperate, so I said that was right.
“It’s a coincidence, you see,” Archer explained. “Sunday night he got blackjacked and robbed, and Monday night he got run over and killed. A sort of epidemic of violence. It makes me want to ask, was there any connection?”
“If you’re asking me, none that I know of.”
“Maybe not. But there were circumstances — I won’t say suspicious, but peculiar. You gave a false name and address when you reported it at the State Police barracks.”
“I gave the name Goodwin.”
“Don’t quibble,” Wolfe muttered, pouring beer.
“I suppose you know,” I told Archer, “that I was sent up here by Mr. Wolfe, who employs me, and that Mr. Sperling and I arranged what my name and occupation would be to his family and guests. Rony was present while I was reporting at the barracks, and I didn’t think I ought to confuse him by changing names on him when he was still dim.”