To him Cramer’s tone was noticeably different. “This is Nero Wolfe,” he rasped. “Answer his questions. You hear, Busch?”
Busch said he did. Wolfe, who was frowning, studying him, spoke. “Nothing is to be gained, Mr. Busch, by my starting the usual rigmarole with you. I’ve read your statement, and I doubt if it would be worth while to try to pester you into a contradiction. But you had three conversations with Leo Heller, and in your statement they are not reported, merely summarized. I want the details of those conversations, as completely as your memory will furnish. Start with the first one, two months ago. Exactly what was said?”
Busch slowly shook his head. “Impossible, mister.”
“Word by word, no. Do your best.”
“Huh-uh.”
“You won’t try?”
“It’s this way. If I took you to the pier and ast you to try to jump across to Brooklyn, what would you do? You’d say it was impossible and why get your feet wet. That’s me.”
“I told you,” Cramer snapped, “to answer his questions.”
Busch extended a dramatic hand in appeal. “What do you want me to do, make it up?”
“I want you to do what you were told, to the best of your ability.”