“Could you see how badly he was smashed, in the dark?”
“I could feel it. Anyhow it wasn’t pitch dark — I could see some.”
“I suppose you could see a bone, since bones are white. I understand that a humerus — the bone of the upper arm — had torn through the flesh and the clothing and was extruding several inches. Which arm was it?”
That was a pure lie. He understood no such thing, and it wasn’t true.
“My God, I don’t know,” Kane protested. “I wasn’t making notes of things like that.”
“I suppose not,” Wolfe admitted. “But you saw, or felt, the bone sticking out?”
“I — perhaps I did — I don’t know.”
Wolfe gave that up. “When you dragged him across to the shrub, what did you take hold of? What part of him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Nonsense. You didn’t drag him a yard or two, it was fifty feet or more. You couldn’t possibly forget. Did you take him by the feet? The head? The coat collar? An arm?”