“If you’re not in a hurry, Mr. Cohen,” muttered Wolfe, who had left the interview to me.
Lon dropped the coat and sat down. “I have nineteen years, Mr. Wolfe. Before I retire.”
“I won’t detain you that long.” Wolfe sighed. “I am no longer a detective, but I’m a primate and therefore curious. The function of a newspaperman is to satisfy curiosity. Who killed Mr. Getz?”
Lon’s brows went up. “Archie Goodwin? It was his gun.”
“Nonsense. I’m quite serious. Also I’m discreet. I am excluded from the customary sources of information by the jackassery of Mr. Cramer. I—”
“May I print that?”
“No. None of this. Nor shall I quote you. This is a private conversation. I would like to know what your colleagues are saying but not printing. Who killed Mr. Getz? Miss Lowell? If so, why?”
Lon pulled his lower lip down and let it up again. “You mean we’re just talking.”
“Yes.”
“This might possibly lead to another talk that could be printed.”