“It’s not that, Mr. Koven, not at all. I only doubt if it’s worth it to you, considering the size of my minimum fee, to hire me for anything so trivial as finding a stolen gun, or even discovering the thief. I should think—”
“No!” Wolfe bellowed.
I switched it off. I was flustered. “Excuse it,” I said. “The wrong one.”
“Must I do it myself?” Wolfe asked sarcastically.
I muttered something, turning the wheel to rewind. I removed it, pawed among the cartons, picked one, took out the wheel, put it on, and turned the switch. This time the voice that came on was not Wolfe’s but Koven’s — loud and clear.
“This time you can’t cook up a fancy lie with Goodwin. There are witnesses.”
Then Wolfe’s: “We won’t get anywhere that way, Mr. Koven. We’re all tangled up, and it will take more than blather to get us loose. You don’t want to pay me a million dollars. I don’t want to lose my license. The police don’t want to add another unsolved murder to the long list. The central and dominant factor is the violent death of Mr. Getz, and I propose to deal with that at length. If we can get that settled—”
Koven’s: “You told Miss Lowell you know who killed him. If so, why don’t you tell the police? That ought to settle it.”
Wolfe: “You don’t mean that, Mr. Koven—”
Koven: “You’re damn right I mean it!”