“Ah!” Vedder cried. “She was also strangled! I remember!”
“Right.”
Vedder made fists of his hands, rested them on the table, and leaned forward. His eyes had flashed again and then gone dead. “You know,” he said tensely, “that’s the worst of all, strangling — especially a woman.” His fists opened, the fingers spread apart, and he gazed at them. “Imagine strangling a beautiful woman!”
“Did you know Doris Hatten?”
“Othello,” Vedder said in a deep resonant tone. His eyes lifted to Cramer, and his voice lifted too. “No, I didn’t know her; I only read about her.” He shuddered all over and then, abruptly, he was out of his chair and on his feet. “Damn it all,” he protested shrilly, “I only came here to look at orchids! God!”
He ran his fingers through his hair, turned, and made for the door. Levy looked at Cramer with his brows raised, and Cramer shook his head impatiently.
I muttered at Wolfe, “He hammed it, maybe?”
Wolfe wasn’t interested.
The next one in was Bill McNab, garden editor of the Gazette. I knew him a little, but not well, most of my newspaper friends not being on garden desks. He looked unhappier than any of the others, even Mrs. Orwin, as he walked across to the table, to the end where Wolfe sat.
“I can’t tell you how much I regret this, Mr. Wolfe,” he said miserably.