Wolfe sighed. “That, of course, is what constrains us. That’s what forces us to assume that it was not an accident, but murder. But for that I might be able to persuade myself to call it closed, in spite of my deception of Mr. Archer.” He sighed again. “As it is, we must either validate the assumption or refute it, and heaven knows how I’m going to manage it. The telephone upstairs has been restored. I wanted to test it, and thought I might as well do so with a call to Mr. Lowenfeld of the police laboratory. He was obliging but didn’t help much. He said that if a car is going slightly downhill at twenty-five miles an hour, and its left front hits a man who is standing erect, and its wheels pass over him, it is probable that the impact will leave dents or other visible marks on the front of the car, but not certain. I told him that the problem was to determine whether the man was upright or recumbent when the car hit him, and he said the absence of marks on the front of the car would be suggestive but not conclusive. He also asked why I was still interested in Louis Rony’s death. If policemen were women they couldn’t be more gossipy. By evening the story will be around that I’m about ready to expose that reptile Paul Emerson as a murderer. I only wish it were true.” Wolfe glanced up at the clock. “By the way, I also phoned Doctor Vollmer, and he should be here soon.”
So I was wrong in supposing that nothing had been done toward making good on his promise. “Your trip to the country did you good,” I declared. “You’re full of energy. Did you notice that the Gazette printed Kane’s statement in full?”
“Yes. And I noticed a defect that escaped me when Mr. Sperling read it. His taking my car, the car of a fellow guest whom he had barely met, was handled too casually. Reading it, it’s a false note. I told Mr. Sperling it was well drafted, but that part wasn’t. A better explanation could have been devised and put in a brief sentence. I could have—”
The phone ringing stopped him. I reached for my instrument and told the transmitter, “Nero Wolfe’s office.”
“May I speak to Mr. Wolfe, please?”
There was a faint tingle toward the bottom of my spine. The voice hadn’t changed a particle in thirteen months.
“Your name, please?” I asked, hoping my voice was the same too.
“Tell him a personal matter.”
I covered the transmitter with a palm and told Wolfe, “X.”
He frowned. “What?”